Page 3 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“Ahhh . . . Did you forget about your scheduled track time this morning? Team testing for final adjustments? Or maybe you forgot about the race tomorrow altogether? After last night, I’d want to forget all about being here in Alabama too.”
His last comment jogs a memory. Images flash: loud music; huge VIP bar tab; race bunnies sliding up, wanting a piece of me. Everyone wanting a piece of me.
Push. Push. Push. Everyone pushing.
Snap.
Smitty restraining me—biceps locked under my arms in a vise grip, pulling my shoulders back. But why? How? What the hell happened? All I remember is him dropping me off back here. The hotel. My home for the week.
“Just having a good time,” I say with a sneer. Covering up for the blank spots in my memory. “What the fuck do you care?”
He’s on me in a flash. Forearm pressed into my chest, my shoulders backed up against the wall. He’s quick. Guess I’ve never tested this side of him before.
Our eyes hold—father to son, mentor to protégé, boss to employee, man to man—and for one split second I see the hurt in his eyes that I want to ignore.
“Why do I care? WHY do I care?” he growls, voice escalating on each word and forearm pressing harder against my chest. “Let me count the ways. Showing up late to training at home is one thing, Zander. Thumbing your nose to your sponsors by standing them up at the dinner they throw in your honor as you sat in the bar next door and laughed so loud they know it’s you? Inexcusable. The endless stream of questionable women. Sweet Jesus, Zander . . . I was all for getting laid when I was your age, but even I had some standards.”
I roll my eyes. Snort in disbelief. Does he think I’m buying his holier-than-thou bullshit right now when I’ve heard the old stories? Like he didn’t play the field in his day.
“You think this is funny?” he shouts with another hard shove to my chest. “My idea of funny isn’t missing testing the day before a race when you’re in the goddamn driver’s seat to take another championship. Just blowing it off without a word. Letting your team down. Your crew. The hundred or so fans you had sitting in a VIP tent two hours ago waiting to meet their idol, and guess what? He didn’t show because he was too goddamn busy getting shitfaced on cheap whiskey like a drunk. So you tell me, Golden Boy . . . how is that funny?”
“Get. Off. Me.” I grit the words out even as I welcome the biting pressure of his forearm on my chest.
He steps back, but his hands take a little longer to let go from where they’re fisted in my shirt. But I still don’t move. His glare pins me motionless. There’s disappointment there. Concern. And a shitload of anger.
I cling to the anger he’s giving off, can relate to it, but for completely different reasons from the ones he has. The irony. He’s pissed because he expects more from his son, and I’m furious because I expect more from my dad.
“You’ve been late, showed up to the track hungover, and have chewed out your crew and treated them like shit for no reason. You’ve blown off Rylee, been an asshole to me, and pulled away from your brothers. You’ve fucked up royally and you’re asking me why I care? I think you need to ask yourself that question, son.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Bet your ass it’s my business. Everything about you is my business and you’re out of control.” He talks right over me. The resentment I can hear in his tone causes my chest to constrict. “You’ve stepped way over the line.”
“Like you are right now by getting in my business? Get the fuck out.” I spit the words out, not caring that my anger is misplaced or that I can’t take them back.
He takes a step toward me, head angled, jaw clenched, hands fisted. The proverbial gloves are off. “You hurting, son? Want to lash out at someone for something you don’t want to talk about? Trying to throw all your hard work away with your bullshit stunts? It’s best you remember who you’re talking to,” he says between gritted teeth, referring to the abusive childhood he survived before being saved and adopted. The implication being that he understands what’s going on in my head. “I know rage like you feel, Zander. I know hate that burns in your gut and turns your heart black. But it fixes nothing. Nothing. I’ve tried to be patient. Tried to be here for you. Asked you to talk to me, let me be there for you in whatever you’re going through, and you’ve refused. Now I’m watching you sabotage everything good you’ve got going for you, and you want me to stand by and let it happen? Are you out of your mind?” He takes a moment to catch his breath while I seethe over his words. Over my inability to get past this and just ask him the questions I need to ask.
Because hurt not only clouds your judgment, but can also blind you from the real reason you’re mad.
“I’ve kept the press away. Held back Rylee from interfering. Given you enough rope to hang yourself and now . . . now I can’t help you. Congrats, there’s no more rope left. You’ve lost your sponsorship.”
What? The silence in the room screams around me. It’s so loud I let it drown out what he just said. Don’t want to believe it.
It’s his fault. That’s all I can focus on. All I can rationalize. He didn’t prevent it. He didn’t fix this. He probably did it on purpose because he wants to control me. Control everything about me.
Including my past.
God, I need a drink. A whole goddamn bottle to make this just go away. To make sense of all the bullshit I’m selling myself when it sounds ridiculous just thinking it.
“You’re lying!” My voice is completely opposite to his. Loud. Screaming. Enraged. And my head’s so fucked-up that it hurts and craves the pain all at the same time.
“I’d never lie to you, Zander.” Calm. Even. Dead serious.
And those words—the ones I know to be a lie—are like a match to the embers that have been smoldering over the past few weeks.
“That’s bullshit and you know it!” I shout. Become unhinged, fists itching to punch something, and I’m sure ruining the drywall of this fancy hotel wouldn’t win me any favors. My body shakes with the anger. The rage inside me takes over. “You lied—”
“And you don’t think you’re out of control?” Colton says, taking an aggressive step into me. Taunting me in my irrational state. “Since when is it okay to even think about taking a swing at your old man?”
