Page 3 of All That Glitters
“Before Friday.”
“Before Friday,” I agreed.
“Good. Now… Have you heard from your mother?”
When my father talked of my mother, his eyes softened, darkened, and he became a different man. When it came to my mother, I became his son, not the championship driver that brought the company renewed respect and put us back on the map after years of obscurity.
“No. Is everything alright?”
“She’s planning her annual dinner to celebrate the new season. When she calls, say yes. And be happy about it.”
Normally, I liked that dinner. I enjoyed getting together with everyone before the start of the new racing season. Most of us grew up racing around the country together. Some of us were in stock cars now, some were open wheel, and the rest of us were involved in endurance racing with sports cars. It was fun to see the guys and shoot the shit.
I wasn’t in the mood this year.
“Don’t upset her, Ashton.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He knew that. He knew I loved my mother. She was one of the best friends I’d ever had. She was the one I could talk to about anything, share anything with.
Okay, so maybe not everything, or just anything. She didn’t know about the rage that permeated every pore. She also didn’t know about the fear that made me shake and break out in a full-body sweat when I thought about getting into a race car.
No one knew.
No one would ever know.
If anyone found out, not only would I be out of my seat this season, but every season for the foreseeable future. And I’d definitely be out of Glitterati Racing.
Nope. No one would ever know.
I couldn’t lose my ride. I couldn’t lose my career. I couldn’t lose anything else.
My unshakeable confidence, my daredevil side was more than enough to sacrifice.
“Thank you. You can go.”
I nodded, but again he didn’t see it. He’d lowered his eyes back to the notebook, dismissing me.
Once outside the office, I breathed easier and my shoulders sagged. For a moment, I leaned against the wall, closing my eyes, only to open them immediately.
I was exhausted. My sleep was screwed up and had been since I stopped all my meds. Besides, they hadn’t kept the nightmares at bay. They hadn’t stopped me seeing the wreck in flashbacks and slow motion behind my eyelids.
And my father wanted me to reach out to the asshole responsible.
Hale Troye should’ve been punted from the sport.
How was I supposed to move on? How was I supposed to remain calm? How was I supposed to not want to turn him into the nearest wall and flip him over it? How was I supposed to forgive him for the physical and mental anguish, the goddamn fear that lived with me every single second?
How?
I pushed myself off the wall. With a measured gait and aching with every step, I made my way to the end of the hallway, avoiding the eyes of my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father as they followed me from their portraits hanging along the walls. I avoided looking at the trophy cases. I avoided looking at everything but the far wall.
I took the stairs to the ground floor. The movement helped to work the stiffness out of my legs to the point I could almost forget the broken bones, the pins and plates and rods, and all the therapy.
Almost.
I remembered that one of my doctors told me that I’d feel the weather in my bones and I wondered if everything I currently felt was what he’d meant.
