Wrecked (Dirty Air Series Book 3)

“Hey, Mr. Second Place in the Entire World Championship. Way to represent the Kingston name.” My mum’s voice echoes through the speakerphone.

I place my luggage in my closet, ready for Baku’s race week. “Oh stop. Your fanfare is too much for me.”

“Get used to it. She’s your biggest supporter,” Dad says. “So, what’s your plan for today?”

“Not much. I have a sponsor event and some interviews today,” I grumble.

“What a chore, living the high life.” Dad laughs.

“And how are all your friends?” Mum loves to hear about them.

“Liam and Sophie are good. She couldn’t come to this race because of uni. She’s been trying to travel with us some weekends between her school schedule. And Noah and Maya are all hot and heavy—lots of snogging involved. I bet they’ll get married within a year or two.”

“Young love.” Mum sighs.

“And is that Elena girl still following you around?” Dad can’t help but probe about her.

“Yup. Still here keeping my image squeaky clean.” Not that I’ve been much of a help. I’ve done everything in my power to keep to myself since last week’s supposed kiss with Elena that I can’t remember for the life of me. I don’t know whether to be grateful for the amnesia or hate myself for forgetting.

“Thank God. It was hard defending your actions in front of my book club. They keep labeling you as some bad boy and I can’t bear my son matching the antics of some of our characters. Absolute arseholes, some of them.” Mum laughs.

“How dare your friends objectify me that way!” I let out a mock gasp of horror.

“You have no idea what they say about some men. Not that you need to worry, honey,” she whispers to my dad.

I cough once the speaker picks up their kissing. “I’m still here.”

“Sorry. Oh, no! Look at the time. I need to run. Gwen asked me to grab some type of wine for our movie night. Take care, love bug!”

We all know Mum won’t run anywhere. The thought alone makes my stomach roll.

“Bye, Mum and Dad.” I hover over the red button.

Dad’s voice stops me. “Jax. Wait.”

Like a sixth sense for bad news, my spine straightens as a chill rushes through my body. “Yeah?”

My dad’s footsteps carry through the phone, followed by the sound of a door closing. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. I didn’t want to bother you while you were celebrating last weekend and all.”

“Why do I have a feeling this isn’t good news?”

“It’s not terrible, but it’s not great. Mum’s been having a lot of mood issues lately.”

“She didn’t sound like it.” Way to go making assumptions, Jax. This is ironic coming from a guy who doesn’t look like an anxious piece of shit all the time either.

“The tremors have been getting worse, so the doctor switched her medicine. She’s having difficulty adjusting. They’re heavy-duty stuff, and she’d benefit from some of your attention. If you have the time, of course. I don’t want to burden you.”

I take a deep breath. Guilt surges through me at Dad thinking I’m too busy to help Mum. “I’d do anything to help her. I can call her more and check in.”

The thought alone makes me panic. More phone calls means more anxiety. Seeing as I’ve done a crappy job controlling that so far, I can only imagine what will happen to me with more calls.

If I was brave, I’d open up to my parents and express my concerns. Instead of voicing my feelings, I bottle them up. I can handle this. I need to handle this. “You know family always comes first.”

“That’s what makes you a Kingston.”

How fitting. The same thing that makes me family has the power to destroy me.

My irritability hit a new high after I spoke to my parents earlier. I spent my lunch thinking about skipping this week’s session with Tom, but I decided to attend in all my arsehole glory.

Tom sits across from me in his usual leather chair. “Anything you want to talk about today?”

“Not really.” I stare up at the ceiling and count tiles. Every time I think of my mum, I restart.

After twenty minutes, I still haven’t made it past ten tiles.

I let out an agitated breath. “My mum is sick.” I don’t look at him. Shit must be hitting the fan today because for the life of me, I can’t fathom a good reason why I decided to open up to Tom.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Jax. From what you’ve shared in the past about her, I can tell she means a lot to you. Her being ill must be extremely difficult for you.”

“It’s the absolute fucking worst. I hate hearing about it. Hate knowing she’s struggling, or that my dad is home helping her while I’m here racing and having fun.”

“It’s completely normal to feel upset about everything you’ve said. And it can’t be easy for you to battle these feelings every week by yourself.”

I let out a deep sigh, hoping to expel some of the negative energy stewing inside of me. “Is it normal to feel upset every single day?”

I don’t know what I’m looking for by opening up to Tom. But I need to vent to someone because I despise the man I’ve become to avoid all the feelings I have about Mum’s illness.

“Of course, it’s normal. I wouldn’t expect anything less from someone who talks about your mom like you do. It shows how much you care.”

“Yeah well, I hate the constant guilty feeling in the pit of my stomach every time they text or call me. And then I hate myself for feeling that way in the first place. I should be grateful to talk to Mum as it is.”

“You can be grateful and still be upset about her being sick. It’s okay to feel like that. If you don’t mind me asking, what illness does your mom have?”

“Does it matter?” I don’t need Tom’s pity about her disease. Those who know about Huntington’s Disease always give us the same look. One that’s a mix of horror and sympathy, as if that does us any good.

“It would help me have a better grasp of the kind of situation you’re dealing with, but I understand if you’re not ready for that.”

“I’m not.”

Tom nods. “That’s fine. I’m wondering what you find is the hardest part about talking to your parents?”

“Every time I do it, I feel worse. It adds to my anxiety, knowing she keeps deteriorating while I’m thousands of miles away. Now my dad asked me to talk to her more because she’s down, and it stresses me out.”

“What about phone calls stresses you out the most?”

“She pretends nothing bothers her. I’m well aware of her private suffering, so I hate when she puts on a brave face. And then after, my dad informs me about her progress and it’s not the best news lately, which adds to my anxiety.”

“It seems like you want to speak to her, but it’s difficult to manage the anxiety that comes with those conversations.”

“Of course, but I take Xanax, and that helps.”

“Are you aware of the pros and cons associated with the long-term use of Benzodiazepines?”

“Yes. I wanted something fast-acting and starting something like Zoloft wasn’t going to do the trick. Now I’m not sure if Xanax was the right call. It’s addicting as fuck to have my problems disappear with the swallow of one pill.”

“Benzos are known for those instantaneous effects. If you ever want to consider changing meds or having a second opinion on the matter, there are plenty of psychiatrists I know for referrals.”

We stay silent for another five minutes until the second case of the warm fuzzies hits me. “This is the first year I find my guilt choking me. I don’t know why, but F1 hasn’t been as fun knowing she’s getting sicker while I’m away. I feel like I’m losing precious time with her because I’m selfish.”

“Have you thought of taking a break from F1 to be with her?”

Yes, but I’m not going to admit that to him. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t make her better.”

“It might not. The real question is if it will make you feel better.”

Dammit, Tom, stop making so much sense. I return to counting the ceiling tiles, closing myself off from the one person I’ve opened up to the most.

I sit in my usual seat of the private jet. The nine-hour flight from Baku to Monaco allows me to stew in my emotions. For the first thirty minutes, I ignore Elena and her stupid puzzle.

My eyes drift back to her every five minutes. She proves a worthy distraction from my shitty thoughts. She stares angrily at a piece, attempting to jam it where it clearly doesn’t belong.

“Maybe if you bend the piece hard enough, it will finally fit how you want it.”

Her head snaps in my direction. “Those who don’t help can’t offer opinions.” She switched her usual prim clothes for leggings and a hoodie looking three sizes too big. The site of her in something so casual has me craving her like a damn wanker. I shouldn’t want her like this—shouldn’t desire her at all. But here I am with a semi because of a Mexican Billie Eilish wannabe.NôvelDrama.Org copyrighted © content.

“Just observing.” I put my hands up.

After another couple of minutes with her attempting to try a different piece, I get up and sit across from her.

I don’t know why I bother, but I want to check out her progress. “Wow, you’ve done what? A solid hundred pieces in a few weeks?”

To be fair, the puzzle looks hard as fuck. It beats me why she chose a one-thousand-piece puzzle reminding me of someone’s brain while tripping on ecstasy.

“Are you going to keep running your mouth or are you going to help me?” she taunts with a smirk.

I grab at the puzzle box, wanting to keep my hands busy. “You had to pick the most colorful, complicated puzzle?” There’s a shit ton of hot-air balloons with the most detailed patterns. Looking at it for a couple of seconds has my eyes straining.

“Would you believe me if I said it looked easier on the website?”

I laugh. “Did you read the reviews?”

“Do people even review puzzles? I didn’t think that was a thing.” Her mouth drops open. “But now that you mention it, maybe I should’ve because I’m convinced half the pieces are wrong. This is what I get for ordering off some sketchy website.”

“Or maybe you suck at solving things.”

“Spoken from the second-hardest puzzle I’ve ever encountered.”

I tilt my head at her. “I’m competing with a set of hot-air balloons? I’m slightly insulted. Maybe I need to up my game.”

“I’ve yet to decide what’s harder. I’ll keep you posted.” She tries to hide her smile behind her hair as she looks down at the puzzle, but I catch it.

For once, I don’t avoid her. I can’t decide whether it’s because I’m lonely or sad about my mum. Elena and I work quietly, with me helping her.

We enjoy the silence together. She doesn’t pressure me to talk, and I appreciate it. Instead of me getting lost in my negative thoughts, I focus on the task at hand.

Eventually, Elena calls it for the day because she wants to take a nap. I return to my seat and play my music through my headphones. After twenty minutes, I turn toward her, taking in her sleeping profile.

I’d never say it to her face, but she’s one of the prettiest women I’ve been around. Natural with the best kind of curves, full cheeks, and skin with a healthy glow. All while radiating positivity and a sassiness I’ve come to enjoy despite our spats.

As I drift out of consciousness, I realize I didn’t take a Xanax to calm down before the long flight. I can’t tell if it was the relaxing activity of the puzzle or being around Elena.

The last thought concerns me. Elena is the one thing I couldn’t anticipate this year. She threatens everything I thought I could accept about my life.

I don’t want to hope. I don’t want to be better. And most of all, I don’t want to be reminded how empty my life is now that I’ve been around someone who makes the bad days bearable.