Page 9 of You, Me, and Lucky Number 13

Because I’m a petty asshole, and I wanted to fuck with Chad, my long-time rival’s head. Not that I feel inclined to share that with Randy.

“Can’t I refresh my brand?”

“Sure.” Randy nods. “But why go with the most superstitious number in Britain’s racing history? There’s a reason no one has used the number thirteen since the seventies.”

This again. “I’m not superstitious. I thought you knew that about me.” I don’t give two shits if the rest of the world fears a number. I don’t.

“Yet, ever since you’ve had that number painted on your car, you haven’t placed first on the podium.”

“A minor setback. One I will remedy soon enough once I adjust a few things.”

Randy sighs, clearly frustrated with my lack of concern on the matter. Truth be told, I should beveryconcerned. The prelims are over. I’ve been driving like shit. My focus is shot, and my reflexes are off. I’m not performing like I should despite changing up my routine and even going as far as changing my car number.

Nothing seems to work.

I take another sip of the champagne, the taste a bitter reminder of my shortcomings. I’m a trainwreck, and I know it. The more I push it aside and channel all my focus onto the race, the worse I get. A new season is supposed to be a time for fresh starts, a chance to turn over a new leaf. But this year, I’m drowning in the same old patterns of self-sabotage.

Randy, seemingly picking up that I’m no longer interested in this conversation, stands and flips me off. “You’re shitty company tonight.”

I’m shitty company every night. He shouldn’t feel special.

I didn’t want to have this celebratory party in the first place, but as usual my team wouldn’t hear of it. Second place is still a win, though clearly, from Randy’s comments, it’s not good enough. Maybe he’s right, maybe I have been cursed.

The music throbs a relentless beat that vibrates through my bones. I’m standing by the bar, the champagne long forgotten,nursing a glass of whiskey, my gaze fixed on the swirling amber liquid, lost in thought. I can’t stand the noise, the chatter, the constant influx of people vying for my attention. I am a solitary creature, happiest in the silence of my own company.

“Well, hello there, handsome,” a voice chirps, interrupting my reverie. I don’t bother to turn to see the woman attempting to hit on me. I know the routine. I’ve been the object of unwanted attention since I was a teenager, just a trophy to be claimed.

I take a slow sip of my drink, continuing to ignore her presence beside me. I’m not here to socialize, and I sure as hell am not interested in dating. I have one obsession, and it’s way more demanding than any woman could ever be: racing.

“You ignoring me?” she asks, her voice laced with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. I finally turn, my gaze meeting hers with an icy indifference.

She’s tall, blonde, and pretty in a way that meant she’d spent a small fortune to perfect her look.

“I’m not interested,” I say, my voice devoid of warmth.

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that,” she says as she leans closer. Her perfume, a saccharine concoction of vanilla and something floral, invades my senses. “You’re Cole Lawson, right? I recognize you. You’re a legend.”

I couldn’t help but scoff. Legend? More like a cautionary tale. A reminder that even the best can fall.

“Listen, sweetheart,” I say, my voice low and menacing, “I’m not in the mood. I came here for a drink, not a conversation. So why don’t you do us both a favor and go find someone else.”

Her smile falters, a flicker of surprise crossing her features. She didn’t expect that kind of reaction, not from the famous Cole Lawson. They all want to be close to me, to bask in the reflected glory of my fame.

“You’re a real charmer.” Her voice is laced with a hint of anger.

I simply shrug and turn away, my gaze once again focused on my drink. I can’t be bothered to explain my disinterest in the game of social interaction. I don’t need this. I don’t want this. I’d be happy if I never had to do this dog and pony show again. I have my car, my team, and the track. That is all I need.

I’m not looking for a girlfriend. I not looking for friends. I am, however, looking for answers. Answers to the questions that continue to haunt me, answers that might explain my perpetual failure. And I know, deep down, that I won’t find them amongst these shallow distractions, in this sea of superficiality.

I finish my drink, my gaze lingering on the woman for a moment longer before I turn and walk away. I don’t have time for this shit. It has already been an exhausting day, and I have no more fucks to give about anyone’s feelings but my own. Besides, everyone at this party claims to be a racing legend. It shouldn’t take her long to find someone else to entertain her for the evening.

As I navigate the crowded room, I keep my gaze downcast so I don’t draw any more unwanted attention when my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out and immediately recognize the number—Bal Harbour County Jail. When I was younger, I called home many times from that number after being caught street racing.

“What?” I answer, unsure who would be calling me from jail. I don’t speak to many people, but I definitely don’t maintain friendships from my hometown—my father made sure of that.

But the voice on the other line is one I immediately recognize. “Gah. You’re such a prick.”

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