Page 18 of Rowdy Boy
“Do you need to answer that?” Tori asks, sliding her hand down my arm and bringing me back to Earth. I don’t have a chance to reply before the phone stops, then abruptly starts vibrating again.
I puff out my cheeks and blow out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, it’s my dad. I better see what he wants,” I tell her before I flip open the phone.
“Hello?”
“Sonny. Took you long enough.”
Fuck. I’m not mentally equipped to deal with this shit right now. Joe’s caught me with my guard down once again. Between my little chat with Mike and feeling giddy about driving around town with the sun on my face, it was turning into a decent day. I swear to God, the man can sense when I’m even the tiniest bit happy.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry about that. I was just leaving Clinton’s.”
He tsks into the phone. I only need one guess to identify the cause of his disgust. Julian started working at Whitely Enterprises as soon as he turned sixteen. Joe hates that I have absolutely no interest in the family business.
“You need to be at The Grille for dinner tonight. Your brothers and Ashleigh will be there, along with several of my colleagues. Dress accordingly. The reservation’s at seven.”
I glance at the clock; it’s already almost six. Tori was only scheduled until five, but she wanted to stay behind and chat with her friend Lia, and I didn’t think we were in any rush.
I don’t bother informing him that an hour isn’t enough notice. Or that I’m not dressed appropriately for dinner. He won’t care that I have other plans. Or that the last thing I want to do is fake smile at his work goons and pretend to get along with my brothers and Julian’s fiancée.
I don’t bother because it won’t matter. It never does with him.
“I’ll be there,” I reply without emotion before clamping my phone shut and chucking it into the floorboard. I smash my fist into the steering wheel, accidentally honking the horn and making Tori yelp. It’s not until I hear her little exclamation of fear that I remember she’s sitting beside me.
Great. Fucking great. Now I’m raging and embarrassed that she’s seeing me like this.
“Jake…” She pauses. I don’t know if she’s waiting for me to fill in the blanks, but I won’t be able to hold my shit together if I open my mouth just yet. I need a minute to come down from the adrenaline spike of being steamrolled by Joe.
When I don’t say anything, she continues. “I’m sure Rhett can come pick me up if you have to go.”
I drape myself over the steering wheel before turning to peek at her under my arm. She’s looking at me with a mix of concern and pity, and I honestly want none of it. I’ve gotta get my shit together and be across town in an hour. That means I’ve got about thirty minutes to do something to take my mind off whatever shit show I’ll have to participate in tonight.
Fuck it.
Thirty minutes is plenty of time to swap out this festering fear for an adrenaline high.
“Double-check your seatbelt, baby. We’re going for that drive.”
Five minutes later, I’m accelerating onto Route 8 with my foot pressing the gas pedal into the floor. The wind thrashes through the car, and Tori’s hair whips around her in a cyclone of blond tendrils. She squeals in delight as we pick up more speed.
“You like that, baby?” I scream to be heard over the wind. I glance down at the speedometer—seventy-five miles per hour.
It feels like we’re flying. It feels like I’m free.
Tori laughs again, and the sound of it lights up all the darkest parts of me. My very real fear and anxiety regarding my dad, the hopelessness I feel when I think about making it through the next ten months under his roof. That all dissipates when she laughs. Her lightness reminds me that not every day is dark. Now is not forever. It won’t always feel like this.
I look over in time to see her raise both arms up, tilt her head back, and let out another shriek of glee. She’s a ray of fucking sunshine.
I glance at the speedometer again—we’re closing in on ninety now. I know we can do better.
I accelerate into the left lane to pass every car obeying the law, then soar back across the highway just in time to see the yellow sign.
Bullseye.
Most people only know about the dip if they hit it fast enough to feel it or if they ignore the warning sign along Route 8 and seek it out. They try to fill it in every few years, but somehow it always sinks back into place.
“Hang on, baby!” I holler as I slam my right foot down and feel the gas pedal go parallel with the floor. The Jeep jolts forward, then two seconds later, we’re careening into the dip.
As soon as the back tires hit that sweet spot, we’re up. We’re air bound for a second, then another. Holy shit. The feeling is as exhilarating as it is terrifying. I grip the wheel tighter with both hands, but steering wheels don’t actually work that well when all four wheels are off the pavement.