Page 5 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
“You’ve left me no choice.” When he looks back up, his expression is blank, shoulders squared, eyes hard. “You’re fired.”
“Come again?” He wouldn’t dare. I’m leading the points. I’m the reigning champion. There’s a reason they call me Indy’s Golden Boy.
But as the silence stretches out and nothing about his posture changes, the lump in my throat gets bigger and it becomes harder to swallow.
“You heard me.”
My laugh is loud enough to sound condescending. Part of me is in disbelief, but he wants to be a prick and go this route? Fine. I’ll show him I don’t need him or his lies. I don’t need anything from him.
It’s not like I’ve never been on my own before.
Blood. Scissors. Band-Aids.
But first, self-preservation. The hurt radiates through me. The stain on my soul darker than ever before.
“Fine. Got it.” I shake my head, our eyes locked, with his saying, Let me help you and mine telling him, I don’t need your lies. Confusion turns to anger. “I don’t need you anyway.”
“Good luck with that, son—Zander,” he corrects himself quickly. The sting at the sound of my name on his lips is more than obvious. “And don’t bother trying to approach any other teams. One, it’s midseason and two, they won’t hire you anyway.”
“You can’t do that.” Anger turns to rage. He wouldn’t threaten other teams to not hire me.
“Watch me.” That cocky-bastard flash of a grin that unnerves his competitors is directed my way. He takes a step closer. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you have. No one would cross that line even for a sure thing like you. Oh, wait. . . . You’re not exactly a sure thing anymore when you’re losing sponsors, blowing off testing, and there’s concern whether you’ll even show for race day. It’s not like you’ve been exactly discreet with your bullshit.” He takes another step, a mocking laugh falling from his mouth. “Take it from a team owner. You’ve become a risk. A liability. And no one wants a loose cannon on their team regardless of how good of a driver you are.”
Rage turns into a ball of disbelieving fury; I want to lash out at him with everything I have, regardless of the damage it causes. Self-preservation at its finest.
“Fuck you, Colton.” His name is a sneer loaded with disrespect. I co
me out swinging with words I can’t take back. Needing to save face when everything about me is being questioned. “It’s always about the team with you, isn’t it? The next victory. The next paycheck. Fuck the racers, right? Screw them and any shit they have going on—lie to them if need be—so long as they perform for you. Isn’t that right, boss?”
“Sticks and stones,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows. The taunt of a smile. The ice in his voice. “You think that’s going to get your job back? Think again.”
“Fuck. You.” I’m overheated, but my body breaks out in goose bumps, because the chilling look in his eyes tells me this isn’t a joke at all. Not some psychobabble bullshit he’s using to try to get me to talk like he has in the past.
He chuckles long and low again and the sound grates on my nerves as I try to wrap my head around everything that’s happening: the dreams, the picture, Colton’s no-bullshit punches.
“It’s not just me you’re hurting, but everyone else that depends on you. I’m leaving your car without a driver. Won’t fill your spot. If I worried only about money, that wouldn’t be the case, now, would it? What I’m worried about is you. You’re out of control and pushing the limits, and I can’t stand by to watch you crash and burn without stepping in. I’m sorry it has to come to this, but I don’t mind being the asshole if it’s going to save you. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again in a second.”
We stand in silence, hearts torn apart, and so much of our connection shredded on the floor between us. For the first time since he’s walked in here, I notice how tired he looks. Concern etches the lines of his face. And the need to say any more, damage us more, dies on my lips despite the discord still echoing within me.
With a nod of his head, he turns and walks toward the door. My eyes follow him despite the desperation for him to be gone so I don’t have to see the defeat in his posture. He grabs the handle and hangs his head. “Take the time, Zee. Fix what you need to fix. Deal with whatever shit you need to deal with. Let someone in instead of shutting everyone out. It doesn’t have to be me. Or Rylee. Or anyone we know, but let them in; you’ll be a better man because of it. Sometimes it takes a new ear, a fresh voice, to put things in perspective for you. Shit, take a drive, a trip—I don’t care—but use the time to make you right. Don’t come back until you are. I don’t know what’s going on and I wish like hell you’d talk to me about it, but I understand better than most that sometimes you can’t. My only advice is not to let the dark eat you whole. You deserve better than that.” He clears his throat from the emotion clogging it, and I hate everything about this conversation more because of that disconcerting sound. “Regardless of what you think, you are my son and it doesn’t matter how bad you fuck up—I’ll always love you.”
The door opens. Closes. The dust dances again. The silence suffocates me.
I fight the urge to go after him. I resist unleashing more of my anger and the need to yell and shout and trash the room to get it all out. None of it will fix a goddamn thing.
Grabbing the bottle of Jameson, I lift it to my lips until I remember it’s empty. The crash of the glass shattering as it hits the wall across from me is deafening.
Shaking my head, I fall back on the bed. Try to make sense of what just happened. What I’ve let happen. What I didn’t stop.
To my mom back then and to my family now.
The loudest thing I hear is the rejection from the man I’ve looked up to, idolized, who helped me heal. The man who just walked out of this room and hurt me more than he’ll ever know.
Can you blame him, Zander?
I close my eyes and rub my hands over my face. My buzz is gone. The haze removed. Everything important taken away from me with the slam of the door: my family, my ride, my anchors. And the sting is real.
But so is the anger. The inability to rationalize. To accept. To ask the things I need to ask.
