Page 10 of I'm Sorry

I search his mini-fridge for a bottle of water, grabbing two, and sit down on the tiny couch. These trailers are nice, but designers didn’t make them for proper relaxation. I don’t know how the two most important people in my life spend so much damn time in boxes like these. If I’m honest, it makes me claustrophobic.

Trace’s bare feet scuffle across the hardwood. Shirtless, he wears only a pair of thick, gray sweatpants, wet, shaggy blonde hair hanging to his shoulders.

“You look like a porn star,” I gripe, voice tight with the pent up energy this trailer is creating. You can take the guy out of the gang, but you can’t take the gang out of the guy. After everything I’ve been through living with my brother in West City and being a Devil, tight spaces will always raise my hackles and have me watching my back.

“I fuck like one, too.”

“Apparently, your hand does as well. Those moans were something else.” Knowing I snagged a bottle of water for him, he slips it from my grip and twists the cap off, guzzling down half of it in one gulp. When he drops into the makeshift recliner across from me, he screws the cap back on and sets the bottle on the floor by his feet.

He shrugs. “Had to get the shit out of my system. I told you, at the track, I don’t drink.”

“Aren’t there some track girls around here or something that you could find to do that for you?” That’s going to be a negative. Trace isn’t one to sleep around. The way his expression grows guarded and dark and he shifts in his seat as if under a microscope has me wanting to ask more, but I put that topic on a shelf for now. I know I won’t get much out of him regarding it. “Want to tell me what’s goin’ on?”

“Same old shit different day.” He reclines back, having shaken off whatever had him stirring.

“Your dad?” The silence surrounding us tells me everything I need to know. His father is such a prick. Most of the time, I wish I could put a hit out on him. There are a few people I know that would be more than happy to do that for me. Trace wouldn’t want that, though. As much as he hates his father, he doesn’t want him dead. Blood and all that.

Minutes of pure silence pass us by, Trace’s anger toward the situation simmering. He brings a hand behind his neck and runs his fingers through his hair, the other plucking at the string in the waistband of his pants.

“If I don’t win the race tomorrow, he’s pulling his support. No more transport, no more mechanics… no more team.” I hold in the gasp that wants to escape me at the utter bullshit that just came out of his mouth. Pure anguish fills my best friend’s features. He places his palm to his pec, just over his heart, and rubs as if his chest is bothering him. I imagine it is. Racing is Trace’s life. “Says I’m not performing, not taking it seriously. That he has some French guy ready to take my place on the team.”

“He’s a piece of shit, Trace. You don’t need him.”

“The fuck I don’t. I don’t have that kind of money lying around. He owns my ass,” he tells me, dejected and clearly suffering. He’s doing his best to hold it together, but I know he wants to drink to escape. His hands are fidgeting, tugging at his sweats, running through his hair. I get up from the couch and pick up his water bottle to hand to him. Without looking at me, he takes it and crinkles it in his grip.

“Ask Marcus. He has a spot on his team.” Daggers shoot my way at the mention of Nox’s team.

“Fuck off, Bennett,” he growls.

CHAPTERSEVEN

LENNOX

Somethingabout the anguish in Trace’s eyes tonight has me standing over the tiny sink in my trailer and watching out the window at his rig. In fact, I’m not just staring at his trailer, but I’m peeping in the damn windows, drawn to his sadness. It makes no sense at all, but I can’t seem to stop myself. He and Benny have been sitting in the makeshift living room for a while now, hashing out what happened between us, and by the looks of the conversation, and the way his hands are all twitchy, I imagine they’re talking about other things that aren’t easy to deal with. I wonder what those could be to make him look so bent out of shape. My heart hurts for the asshole when it shouldn’t. He’s never been nice to me, barely respectful, yet I can’t seem to look away.

Surely his turmoil isn’t because he feels I wasn’t properly handling my bike on the track.

I shake my head to dispel the thoughts of that man. He should not be on my mind.

I force my gaze from the window when someone knocks on my door. Not expecting company, I check the time on the range behind me. It’s almost dinnertime, and that’s probably my dad coming in to check on me. He always likes to follow up and we watch over footage of my practice, then we stake out my opponents when I have a race coming up.

My tummy growls with hunger as I open the door. Right on time, apparently. He knows my schedule well. That’s one thing I have to give Daddy. He may not always have been there, but when he is, he’s dedicated.

He greets me with a smile, holding three large plastic containers full of salads topped with grilled chicken. “Hey, kiddo. How are you? That was one hell of a practice.” I back out of the way, extending my arm to keep the door held open until he breaches my trailer.

“Thanks, Daddy. I felt good about it. Have you got the footage for us to review?” He nods sharply, looking around my small space for a place to put the food. I have my laptop out, working on finals, so my table is full. I move quickly to get around him and pack some stuff up. “Sorry, I lost track of time.”

“I’m never going to argue over your studies, Lennox. You know they are just as important as racing.” When I’ve vacated the table top and taken a seat on the padded gray bench, Daddy sets the salads down and pulls the small but stout recliner over to meet the table. Daddy isn’t a huge man, but the condensed furniture makes him look absolutely ginormous. “Anyway, I have the footage and some pointers, but if you keep riding like that, you won’t need me much longer.”

My cheeks pink with the compliment. Daddy never pushed us to take part in his sport, but when he found out I genuinely wanted to, he was more than happy to support me. He’s a great trainer and team owner. Everyone who races for him loves him.

I dig through the bag to find the salad with cucumbers. I’m the only one that eats them. They give Benny heartburn and Daddy doesn’t like the taste. “I’m pretty sure I will always need you. There is always more to learn and work on.”

“That’s my girl. But I mean it, Speedy. You’re looking damn good out there. Makes me proud.” When I dig into my salad, I smile at my dad, thankful for the praise. I need it after Trace’s outburst. Not that I really believed I’d ridden poorly, but there’s always that niggle of doubt. After a few moments of us chowing down, Daddy looks around. “Wait, no Benny?”

My eyes land on his lonesome salad. “He’ll eat later. Right now, he’s actually with Trace. He felt he needed someone to talk to.”

“He was wound for sound today, huh?” I nod, keeping the movement going longer than needed, lost for words. I’m not sure what to say to Daddy if he wants to have a conversation about Trace, because my thoughts are too jumbled when it comes to him.

---