Page 18 of Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

“Thanks, Dad. Love you too.”

“I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He hangs up.

I can’t wait for my usual Sucky Sunday Special of feeling like shit after talking to my parents. The moment I hang up, I book it back to my private McCoy suite, needing a little help in the form of a pill before I call my mum.

The last person I want to see at a moment of weakness has her arse planted on one of my couches.

God, Elena can’t go, I don’t know, fix a PR crisis? I run an agitated palm through my curls.

“Hey, that was fast. I expected Liam to babysit you for at least an hour longer. I almost beat my highest score.” Elena flashes me a hesitant smile as she shows me some interior design creation from a game on her iPad. She created a huge living room with beachy decor, similar to my parents’ mansion back in London. The memory of what I’m missing out on causes a pain of something strong to shoot straight through my heart.

I hate Elena’s stupid, timid smile. I hate how I want to see more of it to ease the rush of emotions inside of me. My uncontrollable reaction toward her results in anger replacing anxiety. Like a tsunami, I’m on an irreversible path of destruction. “McCoy doesn’t pay Liam to take care of me, they pay you. Maybe you should concentrate on your job instead of messing around with a stupid game. If this is what you do during your free time, maybe you’re not worth the extra pay after all.”

“You don’t need to act like an asshole.” Her left eye twitches. It’s rather endearing, which adds to my frustration.

“Acting insinuates this isn’t my normal behavior. That’s where you’re wrong. This is me, and maybe you need to start wrapping your pretty little head around that. I’m not here to be your friend, love.” Something about fighting with Elena invigorates me. It’s fucked up, but the rage toward her feels better than the anxiety threatening my control.

Her left eye wages a war to remain open. “If you’re having a shitty day, don’t take it out on me. I’m only here to help you.”

“You’re only here to make money. The sacrificial martyr routine is a bit stale, especially for someone walking away with a padded bank account after all this.”

Something like guilt flashes in her eyes before she recovers. “Not everything is about money.”

“Yet you’ll be the first one to collect a monthly check from my struggles.”

She lets out a resigned sigh. “I don’t know what made you this angry. There’s nothing wrong with being anxious and irritable, but you need to get a hold of yourself. I can help you if you let me.”

“You can’t fix everything.”

“I’m not going away. So, if I can’t fix it, I’ll find someone who can.”

That’s my worry. I can’t have her getting close to me, trying to make me better. To make me want to be better.

Hope is for idiots with their futures ahead of them.

Hope is for those who wish under stars, or in a church, or in a desperate moment of need.

The hopeless don’t get those types of moments. We get a biological clock ticking above our heads, reminding us how shitty the world is.

Spoiler warning: we all die in the end. Except some of us end up there quicker than others.

I enter my room without looking back at her. The thud of the door closing fills me with dread. Alone again with my thoughts, self-hate, and never-ending worries. A dream team of the worst kind.

My breathing grows erratic as I consider the consequences of my actions. Fighting with Elena adds to my emptiness, black and endless. Sucking up her happiness fucks me up even more. I pace the small space, attempting to ease my racing heart, but failing.

My thoughts race in my head, my brain switching from one issue to the other with no reprieve. Thoughts of disappointing my dad, worrying my mum, and forcing Elena away push my mind past its breaking point. Forced breaths leave my lips as I attempt some deep breathing. All my strategies to relax fail me. The cold gray walls feel as though they’re closing in, giving me little space to breathe. Anxiety is a nasty wanker like that. It rips away my sense of an escape, growing larger by the day.

I grab my trusty pill bottle from my gym bag with shaky hands. Nothing can chase away my fears quite like my medicine. I’ve tried to take them less. I really have. Moments like these test my mental strength, and I can’t call Mum when I’m two seconds away from flipping my shit.

Relief floods my bloodstream twenty minutes later, easing my regret as I dial my mum.

I crave the numbness a Xan provides. My coping skills are shit, but name something about me that isn’t. I won’t hold my breath because they’ll be listing my flaws for a long-arse time.

6

Jax

Music blasts through the hotel suite, waking me up. I growl as I throw off my covers and check the time on my phone. Five fucking a.m. A solid half hour before I need to wake up for the race.