Page 49 of Beneath the Hood

Walking to the kitchen, I make a snack, my eyes darting around the room and into the hallway with every addition to my plate, my ears straining to hear footsteps.

There’s nothing but silence.

Sitting down at the table, I spread peanut butter on a rice cake, taking small bites, trying to prolong the moment, hoping my dad will come to find me. That heisactually here for me, and it isn’t just a coincidence that the first night he’s home in forever is the night I left without a security detail.

But thirty minutes later and there’s still not a sound.

I head back to my room, taking the long way, stopping in front of the double oak doors that lead to his home office. Disappointment drops like a lead weight in my chest as I hear his muffled voice and smell the faint scent of cigars. I knock anyway, the metal door handle cold against my palm as I crack it open and peek inside.

He’s standing behind his desk, a snuffed-out cigar in the ashtray to his right, tumbler of whiskey to his left, his suit jacket off and shirt slightly rumpled as he stares down at a pile of papers. “Stan, that’s fine, but I won’t have them producing shit when we’re sinking thirty million into it.”

His eyes glance up at me and widen. He puts a hand to his chest, blowing out a breath and shaking his head. Like he’s relieved to see me home in one piece.

“I’m sorry,” I mouth as I slouch against the doorframe. Hope swells inside of me that he’ll hang up the phone to talk. His eyes soften and he holds up a finger, gesturing to the couch on the far wall, like he expects me to wait. Reality crashes back in, reminding me that I always come second to his career.

Smiling softly, I shake my head no and give a half-hearted wave as I head to my room.

I don’t want to be his afterthought.

Slipping out of my clothes and into my silk robe, I head straight to my en suite so I can start my nighttime routine.Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata—Third Movementplays softly through the speakers on the wall, the way it does every night.

Three pumps of cleanser on the center of my Clarisonic, thirty seconds for each side. Then I drop my robe and step on the scale, closing my eyes and slowly counting to twenty-five. Preparing myself.

Like I always do.

Because even though I was successful in my attempt at being sporadic, even though I didn’t have a panic attack from stepping outside of my comfort zone—it’s the end of the night, and I’m still alone.

And it’s the routines that keep me sane.

26

Jackson

An entire lineup of cars were dropped off early this morning for a new production centered around street racing, which means I’ve been buried under metal bodies, turning them into stunning beauties.

This is it.

An entire movie showcasing my work. It’s what I’ve been waiting for, and it’s why I agreed to take this position in the first place.

Unfortunately, the new workload means I’ve been heading into Donahue Motors before Blakely shows and not coming up for air until after she’s gone. Between that and her busy schedule, we haven’t had time to steal a glance, let alone talk.

The first two nights after our date, I tried to call her. I figured if we couldn’t hang out, we could at least have a few minutes on the phone, but I’m learning quickly when Blakely says every second of her life is scheduled, she isn’t exaggerating.

So, we’ve been relegated to texts, but even those are few and far between.

I’ve been telling myself it’s a good thing to have some space. At the beach, I was swept away so quickly, the experience between us so intense, I forgot we were supposed to be taking things slow—the way she wants to, and the way I know we should.

Ever since I’ve given in, there’s a desperation clawing its way through my insides, trying to make its way to her, not liking the restraints now that it’s had a taste of freedom. But there’s nothing I can do to change things, so instead of sitting at home and pining over yet another woman who’s out of reach, I’ve been going to the beach every night and reflecting. Trying to work on myself so I can get back to who I’m supposed to be.

The son my mom deserves.

The man Blakely needs.

Somewhere along the way, I’ve lost it. Can barely remember what it’s like to crack a joke or to truly enjoy everything life has to offer—things that used to be my defining characteristics.

Instead, I’ve let myself wallow in this pit of misery and loneliness, running away from Sugarlake and trying to figure out why no one wants me, not realizing that I’ve forgotten how to want myself.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been lost.

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