Revived

I give a nod to let my mechanics know that I am ready. The voices in my ears start talking.

I pull out into the lane and begin my warm up lap.

Then, I’m in starting position, along with the other drivers.

My engine is revving, and I am more than ready.

Red…

Red…

Red…

Red…

Red…

Go!

I slam down hard on the accelerator and start moving alongside all the other cars, gaining traction.

Soon enough, I’m in the lead. Ryan is hot on my tail, but I keep this up, and I’m golden. I’m in for a win for sure.

Winning in my home country…nothing better. Well, apart from winning the championship.

I reach a corner. I steer through it.

What the fuck? She’s sticking. I can’t turn.

Fuck! I tug at the steering wheel, trying to turn, but she won’t give, and the corner is coming up too fast.

Panicked voices are in my ears. They know something is wrong, but I can’t speak, too focused on what is happening right now.

Come on, baby. Turn.

No matter what I do, the steering wheel is stuck, and I’m not going to turn in time.

Oh God.

I know there’s nothing I can do.

This is it. I’m fucked.

The wall comes at me fast. I close my eyes.

The impact is as hard as I expected. I feel my body shatter.

Pain…excruciating.

My skin…hot.

Smoke in my lungs.

Can’t breathe…

Blackness.

YOU EVER HAVE THE KNOWLEDGE of why you are somewhere, but you’re not really sure if it is the right place to be?

That’s how I feel while sitting in the waiting room of my new therapist, Dr. India Harris.

Well, I say new because this is the first time I’m meeting with her.

How the fuck did it come to this? When did I turn into this version of myself? A man who needs to see a therapist.

Of course I know the answer to that question.

The day of my accident. The day I nearly died.

Well, technically, I did die, but the doctors managed to resuscitate me.

Shame.

Sometimes, I wonder if it would have been better if they hadn’t. Now, I am less than half the man I used to be. A pussified version of myself, who can’t climb into a regular car, let alone my race car.

I can’t drive. And without that, I am nothing.

Now, I have to see a goddamn therapist as my last-ditch attempt to get me back into a car.

So, I’m here to see Dr. Harris because she’s apparently one of the best.

She’ll fix me.

Part of me is intrigued to see if that is even possible because I know how truly fucked up I am. And it is going to take a fucking miracle worker to bring back the Leandro Silva of before.

The Leandro the world wonders what the hell has happened to.

Am I here by choice? No.

My team is making me. Well, making me sounds harsh. They didn’t drag me here, kicking and screaming. I’m under contract, so I’m currently being paid to do nothing.

I sit on my ass and drink and fuck women.

I don’t work for my money.

At the last meeting, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that if I didn’t pull my head out of my ass and start racing again, my contract would not be renewed.

It makes sense. Who would want to spend millions of pounds on a racing driver who can’t race?

My mother would happily never have me race again.

But my colleagues and friends think it’s time I sort my shit out.

Particularly, my friend—a person who, twelve months ago, I would never have thought I would call a friend—Carrick Ryan. Once my rival, he’s now, surprisingly, my closest friend.

After my accident, he and his then girlfriend and now wife, Andi, came to visit me in the hospital back home in Brazil.

Every time they were back in Brazil to visit Andi’s mother or to attend a race for Carrick, which was regularly, they would come see me.

Then, Carrick and I started talking on the phone.

When I realized he wasn’t the dick I thought he was, we became friends.

Dr. Harris is Andi’s therapist. She recommended the doctor to me. Andi has been seeing her to deal with her fears over Carrick’s racing, which are related to her father dying in a race when she was a small child. Her dad died in front of her. It royally screwed her up.

Both Andi and Carrick assure me that Dr. Harris will be able to help me.

Hence, why my ass is in this chair in the waiting room.

Impatient, I glance at the clock, tapping my fingers on the arm of the chair.

My appointment was due to start five minutes ago.

I hate waiting.

I’ll wait five more minutes, and then I’m out of here.

My eyes move to the magazines on the table. A sports mag is peeking out from under the fashion mags. Leaning forward, I pull it out, instantly wishing I hadn’t.

On the cover of the magazine is a picture of me with the caption, What the Bad Side of Formula 1 Looks Like.

Nice.

So, now, I’m the bad side of Formula 1. Good to know.

I already know what the media say about me. How I’ve turned from a great racer into a drunk and a whore.

They’re not wrong on the whore part. Well, whore is a bit harsh. I don’t charge for my services. And I wouldn’t say I’m a drunk. I just like to drink—a lot.

I shouldn’t read the article. I know this, but the sadistic part of me has me turning those pages.

Finding the article, eyes scanning the text, I pick out the usual shit.

Why is Silva no longer racing? Physically, he’s healthy. Is it mental problems? Fear over racing because of his accident? Is that why he drinks—drowning his misery in alcohol? Such a shame to see a once great driver fall from grace so dramatically.

Frustration and rage grip my chest like a vise.

Fuck this. I don’t need this shit.

Even though I can’t race, it’s not like I actually need to.

I don’t need to race. I just need to drink and fuck. That’s all I need now. All I will ever need.

Liar.

I’m a liar and a chickenshit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room to see a therapist.

Maybe I am beyond help.

Tossing the magazine back onto the table, I get to my feet, ready to leave this place, just as the door opens, revealing the epitome of what I could really do with screwing right now.

My eyes trail up the tanned, toned legs to the fitted pencil skirt that I would happily hitch up to see the magnificent pussy that I bet lies beneath. A pale-pink blouse is tucked into that skirt, covering what looks like a fantastically sized pair of tits. Silky blonde hair sits on her shoulders. Hair that I would enjoy getting my hands all tangled in while I fuck those bright red lips of hers, enjoying seeing that lipstick smeared all over my cock.

My dick pulses in my jeans, more than ready to proposition her with the offer.

“Mr. Silva.” She steps forward. “I’m Dr. Harris. But please call me India.”

She’s Dr. Harris?

This hitch-your-skirt-up-and-let-me-fuck-you-right-now woman is my new therapist.

Well, that’s just fucking great. It’s not like I can bang my therapist.

I put my cock on hold and give her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, as I say, “And you can call me Leandro.”