WYATT
Damn, that was a fast run. The track conditions made me feel extra agile and alert to the curves.
If there’s the slightest bit of dampness in the air, I know the moves on turn three can take you to a whole new level of fucking scared. Today, though, that curve was huggable and insatiable in its appetite to let you glide right through unscathed. It felt awesome.
There’s no way I’m telling Doll that I needed this today. Sure, I would’ve enjoyed it alone, but the truth is, she always pushes me to work harder. She’s a natural competitor on the track and my equal in every way.
“Thanks for the run today.”
“Yeah. You sucked on turn two, but I caught your ass on three.” We parked the rides, stowed our helmets, and now we’re heading back to the house in our gear. “You were slow, Casper. Stop being such a pussy.”
My little sister and race partner, Doll, whose real name is China, is gaining on me at the track in an epic way these days. I’m going to have to up my game if I want to keep my position on the podium. She might get close to me, but that’s what fuels me and makes me so good. Teasing the competitors is part of my irksome personality on the track because I want more. Hell, I want it all.
Returning to the main house after our run, we can’t stop the wide smiles on our faces. We’re always happy after a good race. A day with no broken bones or crashes is always a good day.
Unfortunately, our house is filled to the brim with too many pompous, money-hungry, fame excitable assholes vying for a moment of our time. There’s nothing I hate more than the fucking family sponsorship parties that are hosted here monthly. Yes, I know they’re needed, but all I want to do is race. When and if I ever run Crown, I will hire all the people necessary so we can do what we love—hitting the fucking pavement. Hopefully, we’ve missed the majority of the festivities.
As we get closer to the door, my Spidey senses tingle. I know before I even get close that Mother will be doing her rendition of tossing darts at my head. Like fucking lasers, I could feel the hot pokers directed right at me. We’re always at odds.
We’re volatile.
As soon as Doll and I walk in, both with smiles wide enough to swallow a small turkey, I can see that we’ve found her last nerve. I can’t really blame Mother, though. Doll has this innate way of getting a thrill out of harassing her, and though it’s never intentional to toss me to the wolves, it happens. Doll’s just trying to stay out of the line of fire. Marca can be...unstable, and my little sister enjoys pulling every last thread of patience my mother owns, taking her to the breaking point. Which, in turn, leaves me in the path of the hurricane.
Doll is expected to be the future face of Crown Racing. She’s supposed to be poised, pristine, and not a racer. This was never what Marca had in in mind for her daughter. As for me, I was groomed from an early age to be my father’s favorite son, something I didn’t have in mind either.
“Wyatt, I thought better of you. Why couldn’t you keep off the track today of all days?” Yep, she’s pissed. When she rails at me it grates on my nerves, but when she calls me by my given name, it crawls up my spine like a team of tarantulas. Grinning wildly, with the posture of a tense jackal, she steps right into my space. “You should have stopped her from hitting the track while the house is full of people. She could fry her career. She doesn’t understand the strength of that new bike, and it would only take a second to end it all.”
Stay calm. Ignore her barbs. The ride was good, the track was perfect, and it’s a gorgeous day in California.
Knowing there’s no way I can avoid her wrath, I grin, settling my anger. With all these people around, she’s acting sickly sweet. Well, as sweet as she can be. Later, I’ll be blasted in private and that’s when the true fireworks begin.
“I’m truly disappointed in you.” Gritting her teeth tightly, she wanders off down the hallway to Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood.
It truly fries her to no avail that her husband, her sons, and her daughter all want to fall on the proverbial blade of dangerous sports. Jamieson, my older brother, is a competitive snowboard champion. We never see him, though. Let’s just say that the snow isn’t the only reason he’s not here. During the summer months, he’s a ghost. We might see him during his birthday, if we’re lucky. In the winter, we don’t see him at all. He’s off in Vale, Banff, or Switzerland. He’s anywhere the cold attracts like-minded individuals, avoiding us.
Most of the time, Dad is off globe-trotting with his team, doing all he can to keep in the point standing’s top five. Anything less than that would make him downright difficult to live with. So, Mother is usually home with us. We’re not kids anymore, but we have to deal with her moments of uncertainty. Through her ups and downs, we ride the waves of her manic illness. Something we all suffer from in varying degrees.
“Would you care for a refreshment, Mr. Crown?” a hired caterer asks.
“A soda with lime would be great.” Nodding, he walks off to the bar to collect my request as I contemplate how I can get away from this madness.
“So, daily ass chewing complete, or just postponed?” Doll asks me as she stirs her drink, clinking the cubes against her glass. She changed into her perfectly tailored outfit and tied her thick black hair back, looking the part our mother expects her to play.
“Postponed. What are you going to do now?”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I’m not interested in hanging around here longer than required, so I’m off to shop. I called the tribe already.” Her friends will make her invisible for a few hours, which is good. It would be best to avoid the most dangerous outbursts.
“Have a good time.”
“What about you?”
I really hadn’t figured that out yet. “I think I need a bit of fun. Why don’t you tell the girls hello for me.” She smirks at me, knowing what I’m up to.
Giving me a peck on the cheek, she walks off toward the garage as the waiter reappears with my drink. Texting to see if the girls are free, I guzzle back the tangy liquid. They respond back quickly. They’re here with their parents, and deathly bored. It’s no surprise, as we get bored easily.
Telling the girls to meet me in twenty, I pass through the crowd to say my hellos. I understand the need for my pleasant small talk, as I need to keep the sponsors and supporters interested enough to watch me on the track. I do the bare minimum of what’s required of me and nothing more. I let them feel big and powerful, showing I’m worthy of their dollars when race day comes because I know the rules. Do I care for them? No. Do I care to do this? No. But I’ll play my part for my father.
I’ve grown up in this life of ‘need for nothing, ask for all.’ I don’t give a shit, really, because all I want is a track, two wheels, and the opportunity to go fast.
I’ll never have a need for money, but I do want the fame and acknowledgement that I’m the best. Not the best in my time, but for all time. I’m cocky and confident enough to know that.
I can’t, and will never be less. It’s just not in me.