Page 20 of Boy Issues

Donovan pulled into a spot near the entrance, but left the engine idling with the air conditioning going. The temps were even worse this far from LA and the coastal breezes that would sometimes save the city from being roasted. But the desert and valleys? Not so much.

Donovan rested his elbow on the center console, then dropped his head into his hand. He massaged his temples with thumb and forefinger, the fake headache he’d used to skip out on work becoming an annoying reality.

Soon, his disgust with his family and hatred of his job would eat him alive. Destroy him from the inside out. He’d known that for years, had shoved the inevitability of his fate from his mind. But somehow, Silver had changed everything.

A stranger—a complete stranger—who didn’t give a shit about his wealth, had tried to help. Had shown him concern. Not just the first night when he’d assisted him with his car, but the night before.

Oh sure, Silver hadn’t offered him the world, but he’d still shown care. Even when Donovan had been a sarcastic asshole, he’d stayed resolute. Never once had he yelled at him or called him names. He’d stated his case then when Donovan had essentially told him to fuck off, Silver had merely walked away.

Donovan gritted his teeth, the tension making the muscles in his jaw sore. That’s what was driving him crazy. Silver had walked away.

Donovan hadn’t wanted him to walk away.

He woke up his cell that was attached to the hands-free device, then went to Google Search. After trying Silver’s full name—Cruz had been an easy mind association with cruising—he hadn’t had any luck.

Highland Park.

The area wasn’t too large, but large enough. More residential than commercial. He looked up auto shops just off the 110, dredging up as many clues in his head as he could from what little Silver had shared. He automatically eliminated the chain stores, tire shops and ones with gas pumps.

One address stood out in particular and aligned with what Silver had described. Chico’s. That was it. Donovan looked the place up, and sure enough, the review sites indicated it was closed.

Donovan almost choked on his tongue at the loud rapping on his driver’s side window. He let out a relieved groan at the sight of Bunny, the track manager. They went way back, ever since Donovan had first gotten his license and wanted to drive recklessly. Back then, it had been desert racing in the Mojave.

It was Bunny who’d guided and refined Donovan’s technique, had given him the skills he’d need to keep from driving off a cliff or rolling his wheels his first time out. He owed the guy a lot—probably his damn life, if he was being real.

How things had changed.

Now Bunny was the big boss and managing the track.

Donovan shut off his engine then climbed out, the hot air hitting him like a slap after exiting the air-conditioned car. He’d discarded the tie the moment he’d gotten in his car, but it was time to lose the jacket as well.

“Aww, come on.” Bunny laughed, his big belly shaking under the T-shirt that was perhaps one size too small. “Not gonna ride in the Armani today?”

“Good to see you too.”

Donovan grinned as he removed his cufflinks then rolled up his sleeves. In truth, he really was glad to see Bunny. Fucking ecstatic even. Bunny, the guys in the pit, the fucking pit boss—the goddamn maintenance crew—every single damn one of those men and women reminded him why it was good to be alive whenever he was at the track. These were genuine people, didn’t give a fuck about putting on a show and pretending to be something they weren’t.

Like Silver.

“Fuck.”

“Forget something? If you need a helmet, I’m sure there’s one here you can borrow.”

“Uh, no. I’ve got some other clothes and my helmet in the trunk.”

Clearly, he was going to have to take his fascination with Silver a couple steps further and at least try to get the man out of his system. Otherwise, he’d never be able to concentrate on anything.

After gathering his gear bag from the trunk, he followed Bunny into the locker area, his friend rambling on about the latest amateur racing gossip. Once Donovan’s architectural design hopes had been trampled, he’d briefly considered taking up pro racing. Then his mother had passed, and everything had changed. He didn’t begrudge her final wishes—he assumed she’d been looking out for him in case his father and brother squeezed him out—but who knew how different things might’ve been had he not been tethered to Fonterra and Associates at such a young age.

“Why don’t you go in and get changed. I’ve got a couple guys doing laps who should be finished in thirty or so.” Bunny glanced over his shoulder as he walked away. “If you want to try out that new Viper I was telling you about last time, it’s all tricked out. Or, you can stick with your Porsche.”

Donovan had an unusual arrangement with Bunny that allowed him to keep a car at the track for impromptu moments such as these. He paid Bunny a thousand dollar per month ‘storage’ fee to make sure he had a vehicle available at all times. Lately, he’d needed to avail himself quite often of the sweet release that racing the white Porsche offered him.

However, Donovan considered Bunny’s offer. He couldn’t deny the appeal of letting loose, going completely wild. He didn’t usually mess with muscle cars, not really his thing, but the idea was tempting.

“Yes, the Viper would be perfect, Bunny. Thanks.”

He gave Donovan a thumbs up then shuffled with pep out of the room. It was the Bunny version of trotting.

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