Chapter 1

 

 

My Uber driver gives me a curious look as he pulls up to the address I gave him. I’ve seen that look before, on pretty much every driver who brings me home from the airport. He’s looking at the estate and then back at me, with my unkept hair and dark circles under my eyes and thinking, do you actually live here or are you going to rob the place?

“Thanks, man,” I say, hopping out of the backseat quickly before he bothers voicing his thoughts. He pops the trunk and I grab my suitcase. On instinct, I’m about to slam the car’s trunk down with my right hand, but then I remember I can’t. As if the pain isn’t enough of a reminder.

My broken wrist hurts like hell.

I drop my suitcase, close the trunk with my good hand, then pick it back up again. I’ll be one-armed for the next six weeks if I’m lucky. I’ve already stayed off my bike for two weeks, which is basically like being in prison. Being unable to ride is probably worse than prison.

Okay, maybe not. Why did I even make that joke? Prison is kind of the whole reason I’m where I am today. I’m Aiden Strauss, motocross racer. No longer Aiden Strauss, little brother of Mikey Strauss.

Mikey Strauss, otherwise known as the motocross legend.

Former motocross legend.

I let out a sigh, scratch my eyebrow with the hard plaster cast and drag my suitcase toward the front of Strauss Manor.

My parent’s house isn’t actually called that. It’s huge. It’s pretty much a mansion. But it doesn’t have one of those formal names for it anything. Strauss Manor is what my little sister calls it, and she’s almost always being sarcastic when she says it.

My fingers dangle out of the cast, so at least they’re somewhat useful. I use one to push the buzzer on the call box just outside the gate that borders the property.

“Hello Mr. Aiden,” a cheerful, raspy voice calls over the speaker. I look up into the camera and wave. The speaker box crackles again. “What happened to your arm?” Mr. Ashburn must be in his seventies now, but he’s still just as talkative as ever.

“Can I come inside?” I say back. “I’ll explain it to you in person.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

The black iron gate that keeps strangers out of my parent’s estate swings open, the motor whirring next to me. As soon as the gap is wide enough, I slip through with my suitcase in tow.

I gaze up at the Orlando mansion, with its white marble façade and carefully manicured palm trees dotting the cobblestone driveway. This is home. It has been for most of my life.

It just never feels like it.

We moved in here when I was four and my mom was a newly minted trophy wife to the locally famous Allan Strauss, real estate tycoon. Her previous marriage to my worthless father didn’t work out, and she took me and Mikey and brought us straight into the good life. She had our last names changed to my step dad's and everything. A year later, my little sister Bella was born. I started kindergarten here. I came home from high school parties here. I was playing pool in the game room when I got the call that I was being offered a spot on Team Loco’s professional motocross team.

But it never feels like home.

I have this theory that living in a house too damn big will do that do you. I feel most at home when I’m packed into a hotel room on the road with my teammates. Sitting on my dirt bike waiting for a race to start—that’s home.

This mansion? Not home.

But it’s the only place I’ve got and it’s where I’ll have to spend the next six weeks until I’m healed. My manager, Marcus, told me not to get my hopes up about racing any time soon. Even after my bones are healed, the team’s doctor has to clear me for riding, and that’ll probably be after a few weeks of PT. All I want to do is get back on my bike, with my real family, Team Loco.

Only six more weeks to go.

The house smells warm and inviting despite the cold feel of the marble flooring and expensive decorations we’re never allowed to touch.

Mr. Ashburn greets me in the foyer. He’s my step dad's cousin and has been a live-in butler for all of my life. I think he’s kind of a loser with nothing else going for him and that’s why my step-dad gave him this “job”, if it can be called that. All he really does is answer the door and watch TV all day.

“So what happened to your wrist?” he asks.

“Crashed during a race,” I say, scowling at the red plaster cast. “I could tell it was broken immediately when I couldn’t even pick up my bike. I was winning too, which sucked balls.”

He lifts an eyebrow at my choice of words. “Sorry to hear that, son. How long until you’re healed?”

“Six weeks,” I say, avoiding the whole truth which is that physical therapy will probably take longer. “I’m gonna crash here until then.”

“Sounds good,” he says. “Need me to carry that to your room?”

I shake my head. Technically it’s probably his job, but I’ve never liked having “the help” help me when I lived here. “I’ve got it. Thanks, man.”

I roll my suitcase to the stairs and then clunk it up each one until I get to the second floor. My room is on the opposite side of the mansion from my parents, right across the hallway from Bella. I miss her like crazy. She’s a cool kid—well, teenager. I keep forgetting that she’s sixteen now and not a little girl anymore. I toss my suitcase in my room and then knock on her bedroom door.

“Bella!” I call out, waiting for a reply.

I knock again a few seconds later. “Hello? Your brother is home! I need a hug!”

Still nothing.

Frowning, I head down to the game room but there’s no one in there, either. I check the movie room and the library and then the kitchen. Nothing.

But I do grab a snack while I’m down here. Looks like Connie is still gainfully employed as the live-in housekeeper because our fridge is filled with fresh guacamole, which was always her specialty.

I take it out and grab some chips, then carry it all outside to the backyard. Bella must be in the pool, enjoying the last few weeks of summer. It’s August, and school will start soon.

But our pool is also empty. What the hell? I drop my food on the patio table and fish my phone out from my pocket. There’s only ten percent battery left because I watched Netflix on it on the whole flight back home.

I call her, and her phone goes straight to voicemail. Okay, now I’m starting to worry.

I head back inside. “Mom?” I call out, cupping my hands to my mouth. “Allan?”

I wait a beat for a response, but yelling across this house isn’t very useful most of the time. No one can hear you. “Mom!” I try again. They’re probably not home.

Ever since Bella was old enough to walk, my parents started traveling all the time, leaving us with Connie and Mr. Ashburn. The last few times I’ve been home, they haven’t. Including Christmas and Thanksgiving. Bella and I still had a great time without them, though.

A hear a door open from down the hallway and I walk toward the sound. It’s Connie, wearing a black tracksuit with her graying hair pulled into a huge bun on top of her head.

“What’s all that yelling for, boy? You scared me!”

“Sorry, Connie,” I say, walking into her outstretched arms for a hug.

When I was a kid, she was taller than me, but as the years have gone by, I grew up and she seemed to get shorter. Now, her head fits under my chin.

“Are my parents home? Is Bella home? Is anyone home?”

She chuckles and then sees my arm. “What on earth happened to you?” she says, eyes wide.

“It’s nothing. Just a fracture.”

She doesn’t seem to believe me. “This is a cast, boy. That is serious. Are you okay? Do you need some pain medicine?”

I shake my head. “I’m good. I promise.”

I’ve got a bottle of hydrocodone in my suitcase but I only take it at night. I’m an athlete and I need to stay that way.

“Where’s Bella?” I ask again.

She frowns. “Bella?”

“Um yes. My sister?” I really shouldn’t have to explain this. Connie raised my sister.

“She’s not here, Aiden.” She puts a hand on my arm. “You knew that, right?”

“Knew what?” I say. The way she looks at me sends a sickening feeling of dread down my spine. If something happened to my sister and no one told me, I will—

“She moved out,” Connie says with a chuckle that silences my fears. “Months ago.”

“Moved out? She’s sixteen years old!”

Connie shakes her head, like I’ve misunderstood. “She didn’t move out on her own, she moved to Louisiana with your grandmother.”

I stand here for a second wondering why these words don’t make any sense. Our grandmother? She must mean my mom’s mom, the crazy old Cajun lady I haven’t seen in years. She used to come visit us for holidays when I was a little kid, but she never got along with Allen. She didn’t like my mom’s new fancy rich lifestyle. To be honest, I kind of forgot that she existed.

“Where are my parents?” I ask.

Connie shrugs. “Aruba, I think? I never know.”

“Does Mom know that Bella moved?”

“Of course. She wasn’t happy about it, but you know Bella. She does what she wants.”

I close my eyes and run my good hand through my hair. The only thing I was looking forward to for the next six weeks was hanging out with my sister. I’ve barely seen her since I became a pro racer. She used to spend every weekend at the local races with me before Team Loco picked me up. Obviously she couldn’t travel the country with us since she was still in school, so she had to stay behind. I miss her. She’s my best friend. The only family member I actually like.

“Where’s Mikey?” I ask as an afterthought. “Did he move out too?”

“Nah,” Connie says, shaking her head. “He’s still living here. I think he’s out with his girlfriend today.”

I don’t really care about Mikey. When we were kids, it was just the two of us until Bella came along. He grew up poor with me. He rode dirt bikes with me. He was my idol for a few short years, and then he was arrested for cocaine and spent six months in jail. It was just after he got out that I was signed to Team Loco.

He never even congratulated me.

So fuck him.

I take a deep breath. I don’t even want guacamole now. This isn’t how I expected to come home, to an empty mansion and six weeks of nothingness ahead of me.

Connie tilts her head. “Are you okay? Want me to make you some food?”

“I’m fine,” I say. I take my phone and try calling my sister again, but it goes straight to voicemail.

In my bedroom, I feel more like a guest. Someone—my mother probably—has replaced my teenage bedroom furniture with fancy expensive shit that looks like it should be in some model home instead of a guy’s room. My TV and clothes and stuff are still here, only it’s all been organized and arranged differently. Good thing there’s nothing important or private in here.

I drop onto my new bed and turn on the TV, trying to remember the last time I was home. I’ve been back a few times just to sleep a day or two until my next flight out for another race, but it’s been a year since I’ve actually lived here. I wonder if my other teammates feel so out of place when they go back home.

There’s a framed picture on my wall that’s new. Mom must have found it and decided to hang it up. It’s me, when I’m about six years old, holding my first trophy. Mikey and I loved dirt bikes but we couldn’t afford one until mom’s new husband came around. He bought us both bikes as bribery presents so we’d like him. It worked.

My mom and Allen took us to races for a few years and then they got bored and usually pawned it off on Mr. Ashburn until Mikey was sold enough to drive us himself. I remember this race. It was the first time I knew for a fact that I wanted to do this for the rest of my life.

I take a picture of it and post it to Instagram, thinking my fans would get a kick out of it. I am not too manly to admit that six year old me was pretty damn cute.

Within seconds, comments start flying in.

Now I regret posting it. Social media is fun when I’m interacting with fellow racers or friends, but the fangirls can sometimes be a bit much.

Daddy!! One of the comments says.

I scroll down and see the same word—daddy—another dozen times. I don’t get it, the whole daddy thing. I think it’s supposed to be sexy but it’s just weird to me. Other commenters confess their love for me, complete with emojis.

One says, when will you just love me back already?!?!?!

I lift an eyebrow. I’m grateful for my fans. I really am. But sometimes I wish I could tell everyone not to love me. They don’t know me. I’m just some guy. I’m a skilled racer, and yeah, my physique is good because I work out nonstop. But I’m nothing special.

I haven’t even had a girlfriend in years.