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“When are you going to learn to listen?” I’m in my dad’s office, leaning back in the chair across from his desk while he stands over me, chastising me like I’m still a child. Like I haven’t been racing since I was a teenager. “All your life, you’ve never listened to a damn word I said. Does it matter that you work for me? No. Why would it? I only sign your paycheck.”
“Actually, it’s a stamp. And mom does that part, so…”
“Yeah, be a smartass, because that will help everyone.” He throws his hands in the air and circles his desk to sit down, obviously fed up, but I can’t help but push a bit more.
“I mean, I did have an excellent teacher.” I smile, not trying to hide the insult at all.
His face goes a bright shade of red and I can almost see the veins in his forehead pop from here.
“I should have your ass fined for that tantrum out there, but it wouldn’t do any good.”
I roll my eyes and drop my head back, staring at the ceiling and counting the minutes until I can leave.
“Does it even matter to you that you’re down points this week?” He asks.
The reminder of my constant losing to this year’s rookie does nothing to ease my irritation. I don’t know what Alderson is teaching that girl, but damn if I wouldn’t like to be a fly on the wall during those lessons.
“I’ll get them back when I beat Breckenridge,” I say, spitting her name like a curse.
“Lacey isn’t the problem, Bodhi. Your inability to do anything you’re told is,” he scolds.
“Oh please, I can out race any of these clowns on the streets. This round-and-round shit gets old fast,” I say.
He rolls his eyes and I brace myself for the criticism I know is about to come.
“Street racing will not get you anywhere in life, Bodhi. How many times do we have to have this discussion?”
“Until you acknowledge that it’s also a sport, and it takes just as much balls to do that as it does this pro crap,” I say, throwing my hand in the track’s direction.
He leans forward, placing his elbows on his desk, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “The size of one’s balls has nothing to do with it.”
“Sure, it does. Skill helps too,” I joke.
He sighs loudly, just as done with this conversation as I am.
“Why can’t you just be more like—” he stops himself, curling his hand into a fist.
I pause, sitting up straight, gritting my teeth in outright rage.
“More like who, dad?”
“Bodhi—”
“No, more like who?” I shout.
He stands, unamused by my tone, but I’m past the point of caring.
“More like Tommy? Is that who you wish I were more like?” My voice rises to a level I never would have dared to use with my dad growing up. But I’m all grown up now, and things slowly fell apart without Tommy here as a buffer.
“Enough with the dramatics.” He takes a step toward me, and I shuffle around the chair, backing away from him with my hands up, mirroring him for a whole different reason.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
We haven’t finished here.
I don’t hear anything else he says as I walk out of his office and run down the stairs. There is only one thing that takes the edge off when things get like this between me and the old man. For most guys, it would be women or a cold drink, and while both are great, I need something a little stronger.
I head out to the parking lot and jump behind the wheel of my car. The engine rumbles to life and I grin as I slide into first gear with a destination in mind.
