Page 92 of Truck You

We had our first snowfall last night. It wasn’t much, just a light dusting, but the temperature dropped twenty degrees with it. We hit single digits for the first time this season. Something that doesn’t happen often in early November.

I hope it’s not a sign we’re in for a harsh winter. I love the snow, but I hate the cold. Does that make me an oxymoron? Can’t have snow in the heat. But if we could, I’d want to live with it every day.

Some of my best childhood memories involve building snow forts with my brothers and then following it up with epic snowball fights. Warren always made the best forts. He was born with a brain for design and structure. I guess that’s why he’s so successful at designing cars.

But Chase and Ash were the most fun. We’d play until we could no longer feel our hands or our feet. Our faces would be red and chapped and our lungs would burn so badly from breathing the cold air.

Grams would always have hot chocolate with whipped cream waiting for us when we came inside. We’d huddle by a fire in the family room, our hands and feet itching like crazy as they warmed back up. I hated that feeling, but it was so worth it to play in the snow.

I glance over my shoulder at where Sophia is working. She’s got a few oil changes lined up today. Nothing she can’t handle, but I still want to rush to her side and act as her assistant. She’d probably rip my head off if I tried.

It’s been almost two weeks since her accident, and her hand and arm are healing nicely. Her stitches fell out on their own. Her shoulder still has some discoloration from where it bruised, but she swears it doesn’t hurt.

She sees me watching her and her eyes narrow. Probably because she can read my overly protective mind. But I just toss her a wink and stick to my side of the garage. I know she can handle herself. I can’t help it that every fiber of my being screams at me to protect her—to keep her safe. It’s a primal urge that I have to work overtime to keep in check.

We’ve been busier than normal for this time of year. As the holidays near, folks around here tend to hold off on car repairs and maintenance. They need to save for Christmas, which means come January, we typically have a rush of work that should have been done a month ago.

That’s why my racing has been so critical to keeping our business in the black. My sponsors pay well even at the level that I’m currently racing. They’re not just paying me to drive cars. They’re paying for our brand, too.

Liam is right. We build damn good racecars. We shouldn’t be selling them to other teams. We should build a team around our brand, not just around me.

Besides, I’m not sure how much longer I want to race professionally. I love racing. It’s in my blood. But my head hasn’t been right since the accident. Oddly enough, I think I’m okay with that. I think I’d be pretty damn good at managing a team. Maybe even training new drivers and helping the next generation find their path.

It’s something that’s been on my mind for a while now. I just have to find the courage to talk to my family about it. I know they’ll support whatever decision I make. But it’s just a scary change.

The back door to the garage slams, and I whip my head around. Christian strolls in with his head down and his shoulders slumped. He always looks pissed at the world, but this morning he looks more dejected than usual.

I check the time. It’s a little after eleven. He’s never one to arrive to work at eight like Liam wants, but he’s never this late either.

“Hey, man. You feeling okay?” I ask, knowing that could be a trigger question.

His eyes snap to mine, and I fight the way my body tenses. His eyes are bloodshot. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and his skin is pale. Even behind his scruffy beard, I can see his sunken cheeks. I’ve only ever seen him look this bad when he’s using.

Christian has struggled with sobriety most of his teenage and adult life. He’s been in and out of rehab more times than any of us care to count. The last time he started using, we almost lost him. He’d been on a three-day bender after having gone eight months sober. He took a hit of heroin that nearly took him from us.

That was fourteen months ago. If he’s using again, Liam might kill him.

My expression must give me away. He shakes his head and waves me off.

“It’s not what you think.” His voice is rough and groggy as if he just woke up.

“And what am I thinking?”

He grumbles something I can’t make out and heads toward the bike he’s working on. I watch him carefully. His hands are steady, and he’s not stumbling. That’s a good sign, but I’m still worried.

I wipe my hands clean and walk over to him. Once I’m next to him, I look him in the eye. He looks like shit and smells like he drank way too much last night. Christian can still drink alcohol in moderation without relapsing. But from the way he smells, moderation went out the window last night.

“Where were you last night?” I ask, keeping my voice firm and devoid of emotion. We learned a long time ago that Christian responds best to directness rather than tiptoeing around his issue or getting overly emotional.

He lets out a deep sigh but doesn’t look at me. “I was at Posey’s Lounge. Had a few drinks, then came home.”

“How many is a few?”

His eyes snap to mine, and all I see is rage. My interrogation is pissing him off.Good.He needs to get angry. It forces him to feel rather than hide behind his addiction.

“Three,” he barks through gritted teeth. “Three fucking drinks. Okay?”

I square my shoulders and force myself to remain calm. Losing my temper with him won’t do any good. “You don’t smell like youonlyhad three. You reek, Christian.”

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