Page 3 of Out of Control

In a way that tells me I don’t have a choice but to race. But to get my family out of the hole I dug for them.

“Yeah. I know.”

“Oliver.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “I would take on any burden possible to make you succeed. Don’t feel guilty about it. This is my job as your parent, but you have to knock off this art shit. This—racing—is what you will succeed in. I can feel it deep in my bones. That’s why I’m being hard on you.”

“This is a longer shot than art will ever be.”

“No. It’s not.” He says it so resolutely I almost believe him. “You’re sixteen years old. No one has the right to take your dream away from you.”

But you did.

He must see the thought in my eyes because he shakes his head as if it’ll take away the truth behind it. “Fuck Stavros. You’re talented, Oliver. Gifted.”

I hear his words but don’t want to listen to them. Don’t want to believe them. “You don’t know that. All you care about is having the right someday to brag that your son is an F1 driver.”

His shrug communicates everything. “What I want is for you not to have to live paycheck to paycheck like we do. Working non-fucking-stop so that you can’t ever be present to watch your kids grow up.”

“You’re here now, aren’t you?” I ask like an ass. “Present.”

His chuckle is self-deprecating, and I know I’ve said the wrong thing. I know he’s taken off work to be here. Know that there will be some odd job he’ll have to pick up to make up the difference in income. Know how hard he’s worked to give me this opportunity.

Know that I’m being a prick . . . but he just doesn’t understand.

“Exactly. I am. And I need to get back to work.” He yanks the magazine out of the trash bin and tucks it in his back pocket almost as if he’s afraid I’m going to dig it out the minute he leaves. I was. “Like I said, fuck Stavros. Fuck him into next week for all I care. Us Rossis fight any way we can to stay afloat and get to the top. You keep working hard. You keep getting there by any means necessary. Someone will notice.” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me in to kiss the top of my head like I’m a little boy. I don’t resist. I’m simply indifferent. “You’re the only hope you have to not be . . . us.”

He says the single syllable like it’s a curse. Like destitute is all we’ll ever be.

And fuck, it feels like that more than ever right now. The guilt? It’s like a lead coat weighing me down. Owning me. I’m the hope for my family to get out from under our financial struggles.

And I’ll never be able to do that with art.

I know it. He knows it. The whole fucking world knows it. It is selfish for me to even want to, considering that debt is because of me.

Stay the course, Oliver. Don’t give up.

“Prove him wrong,” he says with a pat on the back. “That’s our ticket out, son.” He walks away, my magazine in his pocket and a sag to his shoulders. My animosity trails after him.

He just doesn’t understand.

Hauling my duffel bag onto my shoulder, I turn back to the track. To something I’m decent at but that’s already telling me I’m not good enough for it.

Stavros’s laugh rings out.

I’ll make it someday, you son of a bitch. And when I do, you’ll beg me to drive for you. And even if you do, I’ll never accept your request.

CHAPTER ONE

Rossi

“Hey. You—you’re that guy,” the drunk fuck in front of me says, his finger wagging in my face and his glassy eyes narrowing on me. He stumbles and chuckles because of it. “The racing guy.”

“The hot one?” the blonde on his right arm says as she angles her head to the side and wobbles, no doubt affected by whatever was in the bottle she’s carrying.

“Rossi.” The wind picks up the dust and swirls it around us. It doesn’t faze him. In fact, at this point in his drink fest, I don’t think anything will by the way he clumsily snaps his fingers. “Right? F1? That Rossi guy.”

I run a hand through my hair and smirk. “Nah. That’s not me, man,” I say, pulling my handkerchief up over my mouth, and grateful that my years of speaking English make my accent so slight it can be mistaken for American. “I get that all the time though.”

“Dude. You’re a dead ringer for him.”