Page 4 of Drive To Survive

“Thanks, man,” Tate growled, hoisting me upright and planting my feet on the floor.

“Okay, party’s over, ladies,” Jared said, windmilling his arms. “Time to go.”

I scrubbed a hand over my face and cranked my eyes open in time to watch Jared chase a bunch of half-naked women from my bedroom. Once he’d cleared the place, he spun around to face me, his cheeks mottled with fury. “What the fuck is this?”

I grinned and hitched a shoulder. “Fun central, until you two turned up and ruined it.”

Still drunk, I reached for a half-empty bottle of scotch sitting on my nightstand. It’d barely touched my lips before Tate swiped it away.

“You’ve had enough, Nico. And so have we.”

“What do you care?” Near blind from my personal pity party, I almost missed the glimmer of warning in his eyes.

After my accident, I’d been determined to beat the odds, to prove the doctors wrong. I followed every single instruction to the letter, went through hours and hours of painful physiotherapy to repair the shattered bones in my legs and ankles, and rigidly carried out the exercise routine my physicians recommended. Yet in the end, it’d all been for nothing. I couldn’t flex my left foot more than a couple inches, and the right one only slightly more. I was in constant pain, especially if I pushed myself too hard, but the physical agony paled in comparison to the mental torture of knowing I’d never race again.

Goddamn fate, snatching away the only thing—save my parents—that I’d ever loved. Would’ve been kinder if I’d died. Even death was preferable to the empty, nonexistent husk of a man I’d become.

“Oh, we care,” Jared said, anger simmering just below the surface. “Too fucking much. We care a hell of a lot more than you deserve.”

“Go on. Kick a man while he’s down.” I snickered. “You won’t, though, will you, Jared? You won’t because you’re a fucking coward.”

I watched his hand make a fist, and I wanted him to hit me. If he did, I might be able to feel again. There was nothing cowardly about Jared Kane. I just saw a button and pressed it.

“Jesus, Nico.” This from Tate, disappointment lowering his chin to his chest. He shook his head.

I lurched to my feet, shoving at Jared’s chest, goading him. He didn’t shift an inch, his pupils dilating until only a ring of brown remained visible around the outer edge. We stood nose to nose, both breathing noisily and waiting for the other to make a move.

Jared leaned in, his face mere inches from my own. “You want me to hit you, motherfucker? Huh? You want me to give you a broken nose to go along with your broken life? Just say the word, asshole.”

“Guys.” Tate edged closer, ready to step in if fists started flying.

Planting my feet wide, I curled my lip. “Fuck you, Jared. And you, too, Tate.” I hobbled over to my dresser. My ankles were often stiffer in the mornings until a bit of movement loosened them up. I tapped a cigarette from a half-finished pack, another bad habit I’d taken up after the crash. I stuck the tip in my mouth and lit it, blowing a plume of smoke into the air. “What’re you doing here, anyway, Kane? Shouldn’t you be with Paisley.”

Jared’s girlfriend, Paisley, was pregnant with their first child. He should be at home taking care of her, not here being a pain in my arse.

“I asked him to come with me.” Tate scowled. “And he agreed because he’s a good friend. As am I. We’re both more than you deserve, Nico, but if you think we’re going to let you drink, smoke, or fuck yourself to death, you’re sorely mistaken.”

My jaw flexed. I took another drag of the cigarette, then limped out onto the balcony overlooking the swimming pool. The wind bit into my flesh and goosebumps skittered down my bare arms. I’d always thought of London as home, but since my accident, the cold made my ankles so fucking sore. Maybe I should move somewhere warm. California, or Florida. Formula One wasn’t a big sport in America, although it was growing in popularity. But over there, no one would know who I was. I could lick my wounds in peace, and I’d be a twelve hour flight away from these pushy bastards.

I loathed that my once stringently obedient body should now disobey my will with such ease. My dad had instilled in me from a very early age that if you wanted something badly enough, nothing could stand in your way. He made me believe that sheer willpower accompanied by a shit-ton of hard work was enough to accomplish anything I set my mind to. And until this fucking accident, his beliefs had held true.

I’d started karting at the age of four, even helping my dad to build the karts from scratch and then fixing their buckled parts every time I had a mishap.

Which I did. Often.

Racing had been my life for almost twenty-five years.

Hence my rather spectacular fall off the rails in the eighteen months since my accident. I managed to hold it together whenever my parents visited, but other than that I was a fucking mess. Fast approaching thirty, and with no interest in anything outside of racing, I’d drifted into a hamster wheel of a life that consisted of drinking, fucking, more drinking, and more fucking. Women passed through my life in a faceless blur, and I couldn’t recall any of their names even if I had a gun held to my head.

Tate appeared off to my right. He leaned his elbows on the railing, his gaze fixed on the row of trees at the back of my garden.

“Jared and I have a proposition for you,” he said, still staring ahead. “One you’d be mad to turn down. It was Jared’s idea, and I happen to think it has merit. You’re headed for the bottom of the barrel, Nico, and if you don’t grab onto this lifeline, you’re done. We’re done. It’s over.”

Knee-deep in silence, I puffed on my cigarette, blowing smoke rings into the air. Tate didn’t say a word. Not a fucking word.

Clever bastard. He knew me too well.

I held out for about thirty seconds, then sighed. “What idea?”

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