Page 1 of All That Glitters
1
Ashton
Racing…
…flows through my veins.
…is everything I am.
…is my birthright.
…is my first and only love.
…almost killed me.
Every inch of my skin crawls with the need to get back on the track, to get my hands back around the wheel, to feel the rush of adrenaline as my foot presses the pedal to the floor as I lead a pack of world-class drivers around turns, over esses and down straights.
I was also terrified.
The months of recovery were worse than anything I’d ever been through save for the wreck itself. The doctors said it would take six to eight months before I’d walk without a cane, before I’d be able to move around on my own without some kind of aid.
I achieved more than they expected in three months. I exceeded every physical test in five months and was nearly back to my normal exercise routine.
They didn’t know me. They didn’t know what I was capable of. They didn’t know what drove me, what pushed me to defy every obstacle.
I dared anyone to contradict me. I dared anyone to deny me my anger, my ambition, my drive to get back what’s mine, even if they didn’t know the kind of pain that dogs every move I make.
I’d finally been cleared to climb into the car. At least, physically.
And I’d heard more than once that I needed more talk therapy, that my emotions and my mind weren’t under control enough to handle stressful situations.
My therapist didn’t agree and wouldn’t sign off. She said I needed to reconcile everything that had changed with my body, mind, and emotions. She didn’t want me back in a race car for at least a year. A part of me knew that I didn’t belong in one yet, that my head was still too fucked up, but I found someone who, for a pretty stiff price, would sign the forms I needed.
Leonardo Glitterati, my father, would present a whole other hurdle for me to jump over.
In the world of racing, I was his son in name only. He treated me like anyone else in his employ, sometimes harder, harsher, but never favored, never as the heir to the empire.
I had yet to pass his tests. He hadn’t decided if I was mentally ready to get back to business. He also thought I was too hot headed, too driven by anger and revenge to get his car back into victory lane.
The truth was, I had those same thoughts, too, but from a different perspective.
“Ashton.”
Here goes nothing.
I entered his office as casually as I could, doing my best to ignore the pain and stiffness with those first steps.
He sat behind the large, wooden desk that had been in our family for generations. The origins of it and how it came to be included with our possessions was a tale long forgotten.
“Sit.”
I was used to the gruff, all-business tone and it no longer bothered me. It never changed. No matter if he was pleased with something I’d done or not.
The chair across the desk was uncomfortable and I shifted just once, then focused on the rain coming down so hard outside that I couldn’t see through it.
Winter rain wasn’t unusual in Florida, but it was often bone chillingly cold, especially this close to the ocean.
He continued writing in a deep brown leather notebook for a moment longer and when he spoke, he didn’t look up.
