Page 7 of Wrecked (Dirty Air 3)

My phone buzzing interrupts my thoughts. I move to grab it from the corner of my bed. An unknown number flashes across the screen, and I answer without hesitation. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Elena Gonzalez?” A male’s voice greets me.

“This is she.” My voice cracks.

“Great. My name is Connor McCoy. I was given your contact information because you worked for Peter McCoy last year. I’m not sure if you’re up to speed with everything, but he had to take a permanent leave of absence, so I took over his position. I know the season is about to begin, but I need your help with a PR project.”

“What type of project?” It takes everything in me to control my voice, not wanting it to reek of desperation.

McCoy only has two racers. Elías, who is new to the team after Liam left last season, and the other…well…I know enough.

“We want to hire you for a private job. It requires a lot of your time, including an exclusivity contract and a non-disclosure agreement.”

“What are the stipulations?” I remain nonchalant despite my body buzzing with anticipation. At this point, if it doesn’t involve removing my clothes, I’m all for it.

Hell—even that sounds tempting after checking my funds.

“We would be paying you eight thousand euros per month for ten months, starting this March. Plus, a bonus of twenty-thousand euros if you can make it until the final Prix the first week of December.” He makes the second sentence sound like a prayer. “We want you to work solely with Jax Kingston. The job would include keeping an eye on him and helping positively boost his presence in the media.”

One-hundred thousand euros? For that kind of money, I’d do just about anything.

“I have a few clients I would need to check in with. If that’s okay, then I can absolutely help with whatever you need.”

Connor breaks down the main parts of my contract, listing everything I need to do throughout the race season. His plan is smart and well-thought-out. I say yes with little trepidation, knowing I can’t resist the answer to my prayers.

Not all heroes wear capes. Turns out some rock badass tattoos and a McCoy race suit.

3

Jax

When I was seven years old, my dad thrust me in front of a punching bag after I took a whack at a kid on a kart race podium. I was mad at the young wanker who made fun of my parents’ relationship. That day, my dad looked me in the eyes and told me I needed to chase away my demons. Unfortunately, after all my dad’s efforts, it looks like I decided to run beside them.

Demons come in all shapes and sizes. Anger. Anxiety. An aversion to the future. Mine tempt me to submit to Xanax in order to have some peace of mind. I’m not a drug addict. I swear it. But I’m addicted to the temporary relief a Xan provides.

I imagine heaven is a lot like my head after the pill kicks in—silent, calm, and a hell of a lot less dark.

I didn’t mean for my life to take such a drastic turn this year. As Mum’s condition becomes more pervasive and Dad grows desperate to help her, I toy with instability. I give in to my vices when the going gets tough. But with avoidance comes anxiety, like a freight train hitting me when I least expect it.

Racing keeps me sane. Some people say they don’t believe in love at first sight, but to me, that was it. I fell in love with adrenaline—a nasty lover who leaves me as quickly as she came. I chase after her in any way I can have her. Drinking, driving, fucking—all adrenaline-inducing activities to keep the edginess inside of me at bay.

“You sure made a mess of things.” Connor McCoy faces me in all his glory. Instead of having fun in Melbourne before the season starts, I get to park my arse inside of a conference room.

“I fucked up. You know it, I know it, even Elías, my new fucking teammate, knows it.”

“What you did is concerning. Fuck—” Connor closes his blue eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose “—don’t blow my trust and force me to find a different solution to manage your anxiety.” His British accent has an edge to it.

“It won’t happen again because I’ve learned my lesson. Those pills don’t pair well with alcohol, no matter what the rap songs say.” I didn’t consider the side effects of mixing the two, seeing as Xanax only recently became my newest crutch to ease my anxiety.

Connor’s jaw ticks. “Quit fucking around. There were videos of you dancing on tables, acting like a wild man, before blacking out next to a urinal.”

I withhold the urge to cringe. “I hate to say I’m not a man of class and honor in the wee morning hours.”

“Your dumbassery can compete with a Bravo reality show.”

I drop my mouth open in faux shock. “I’m almost insulted. Unlike those shows, my life has a captivating storyline.”

His grim expression sets me straight. “Be serious. I understand your reason for being upset. I’m sorry about your mum. Mine visited yours last week, and she told me it wasn’t a good one.”