Page 11 of Endurance

No matter how valid his words were, I reacted without thinking. Stepping toward him, I lunged at him and swung what I thought was a well-aimed punch.

It wasn't.

Completely missing my mark, my foot caught the edge of the step leading to the boardwalk. I stumbled forward and tried to regain my footing, but the effort was in vain. I twisted, grappling for something to hang on to, only to find fistfuls of air. Falling backward, everything in my line of sight passed in a blur as I went down. I heard the startled cries of the people around me.

Then, everything went dark.

* * *

Six hours later,I leaned my head back against the couch in my less-than-tidy living room in Beverly Grove. Milo had just dropped me off, but not before giving me a lecture about pulling my shit together.

Much like the months following the crash, today was a complete haze. Details about how I got into a bar fight were a blur in my memory. I knew what happened, yet I didn't. It was as if the essential scenes in my mind were veiled behind a thin gray curtain, where only distorted shapes and shadows could be seen. The combination of oxy and too much booze can do that. Synergism was what Milo had called it. One minute I was sitting at the bar, then the next minute, my drunk ass was in a jail cell.

According to Milo, my attempt at punching a man who'd been goading me had failed. When I pulled back to take a swing at him, I'd fallen over, smacked my head, and taken out a little girl in the process. She'd been walking on the boardwalk with her mom, and neither of them even saw it coming. I'd been too drunk and high to pay much attention to anything, let alone notice innocent bystanders. All I cared about was bloodying a man's face. As a result, a young girl ended up in the hospital with a broken arm and a bunch of cuts and scrapes that needed stitching—and I ended up behind bars.

Thankfully, Johnny knew to call Milo right away. My agent showed up at the holding center soon after, and I was lucky to have only spent a few hours in the slammer. Still, the damage was done. Milo had made it clear that the parents of the little girl would most likely sue me. There was no going back from tonight, just like there was no going back to before the crash.

Consequences. There are always consequences.

No matter which way I looked at it, my life was screwed.

I stood up and went to the living room credenza, where I kept my liquor stash. I was still more than just a little buzzed from earlier but not drunk enough to fall asleep—and I was fucking exhausted. I hadn't had a good night's sleep in what felt like forever. Every time I tried to rest, my mind would start to race. I was consumed with too much regret. If I had any hopes of sleeping tonight, I learned months ago that a nightcap or two was the only sure way. It would mean no dreams, no sounds of crunching metal, no ache in my hip. Jack Daniels was the only thing that seemed to quiet the noise and dull the pain. If I happened to combine it with a bit of oxycodone now and then, so be it. I knew I was on a collision course with no off-ramp. Yet, I couldn't find the energy to care in the least bit.

Bottle of Jack in hand, I went back to the couch and set it down on the coffee table. I eyed up the bottle of deep amber liquor, standing proud next to the prescription oxycodone. There were only two pills left in the little orange bottle, and I knew Dr. Haskell wouldn't prescribe more—especially after Milo told him what happened tonight.

I shifted my gaze to the clear plastic envelope sitting beside the bottle of amber-colored whiskey. It contained the personal effects returned to me by the police after Milo sprung me from my cell. The sight of it disgusted me, knowing that I—Sloan Atwood, race car driver extraordinaire—had been reduced to drug and alcohol-induced violence. That wasn't me—or at least, it wasn't who Iwas. I shook my head, knowing the old Sloan Atwood died on the track over a year ago. I'd never be the same again.

I poured a shot, then threw it back. I barely felt the burn as it went down, yet I still poured another and knocked that one back as well. Slamming the shot glass on the table, tiny droplets of brown liquid splattered over the surface. Finally feeling tired enough to go to sleep, I dragged myself out of the armchair and stumbled my way up the stairs. With any luck, I'd be pulled into a dreamless sleep within minutes.

Stripping out of my shirt and pants, I crawled into bed naked. I didn't bother to set the alarm. After all, it wasn't like I had anything to do in the morning.

I fought off the sensation of the room spinning, closed my eyes, and welcomed the weight of sleep. My alcohol-clouded mind thought about the past year, the physical rehab, and time spent going to countless doctor appointments. Every minute had been filled with a hollow emptiness. I had nothing anymore.

Without racing, I was no one.

4

Sloan

Waking up after drinking too much was always a challenge. The pounding in my head was killing me. I peered at the clock to see it wasn’t even eight o’clock in the morning yet. I didn’t want to be awake. I’d been dreaming, and for once, it wasn’t a nightmare. Mr. Sandman was kind last night, bringing me visions of a beautiful rainbow mermaid. I rolled over onto my stomach and groaned, determined to go back to sleep, and wondered why I’d woken up so damn early.

The answer to my unspoken question came in the form of a loud, intrusive knock on the front door. Then the doorbell rang, the sound piercing through my sensitive eardrums and causing my head to pound even harder. I opened my eyes again and squinted against the bright sunshine coming in through the balcony’s glass doors off my bedroom. I silently cursed myself for forgetting to close the curtains before going to bed.

Another knock sounded on the door—this one louder than the last.

What. The. Fuck.

Dragging myself out of bed, I pulled on a pair of gray sweatpants and headed downstairs to see who the unwelcome guest was. I assumed it was a salesman or someone pushing religious literature. I was in no mood to listen to a vacuum sales pitch or hear why I needed salvation.

I yanked open the front door, my body tense from being pulled unwillingly from the comfort of my bed. I was ready to give an earful to whomever was standing on the other side but stopped short when I saw it was a beautiful blonde. Her bright green eyes were wide with surprise—probably from the way I practically ripped the door from the hinges when I opened it.

I was about to lash out but stopped short when I noticed her hair was pulled to the side in a loose braid. Multi-colored strands had been braided through it—rainbow strands. As if my dreams had come to fruition, I gaped at her in disbelief. She was my rainbow mermaid.

“It’s you. What are you doing here?” I asked, unable to stop looking at the colorful braid cascading over her shoulder and breasts—and what a fine set of breasts they were. I couldn’t help but notice the way they accentuated the tempting curves of her waist. What can I say? I was a man, and I loved tits, and when they were right in front of me, I was definitely going to look.

Clearing her throat, she angled her delicate face to the side.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, seeming confused.

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