SIXTEEN
It’s early, way too early to be in the office, but I’m burying myself in work. I have no idea what Alek’s excuse is. Either Evan kicked him out of bed again or he had to take him to work, but he’s annoying me.
“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask as I settle back in my worn desk chair. I need a new one, but it’s more important that I spend money on drivers and cars.
Alek leans against my desk with a yawn. “Not at this hour, I don’t.”
“Oh, excuse me for being confused since you’re at work,” I deadpan.
He nods sleepily. “You’re excused.”
Rolling my eyes, I focus on the serious task of signing invoices, one of the more mundane parts of my job. When I first became a racer, this wasn’t where I thought I would end up. I always assumed I’d die on the track or retire as a champion, not become a garage manager, but here we are. When my dream was taken away, this was the closest I could get to it, providing others with their chance at the title I lost. I never thought past that next mile stretch and now look at me.
It’s why I offer my staff chances for school and other skills, so if or when they move on, they will have other opportunities, especiallySkylar and Mackie. They can’t race forever, and if they are lucky, they will stop early with money and trophies. That’s what I want for them, a future that’s bright even after they exit the car for the last time. I don’t want them to be lost like I was, especially Mackie . . . .
Focusing on the invoice, I peer at the blurring numbers, blinking to clear my vision. My glasses help, but I misplaced them, and I don’t like to wear them in front of others. It’s a reminder of what could happen in their future, of what happened to me. I need to be a pillar of strength for them.
Alek’s phone buzzes, and he picks it up before sitting bolt upright. I eye him, see the name Pretty Boy, and roll my eyes. The only person who can ever get Alek Anders to do shit is his boyfriend.
He looks happy as he opens the text, but then he freezes and clicks on something, and curiosity gets the best of me. I lean closer, wondering if I’ll regret it and want to bleach my eyes, but what I see has my heart plummeting to my stomach.
It’s a picture of Mackie and Conan asleep on a couch, their faces visible as they embrace each other. I stare at it longer than I should, and Alek slams his phone on the desk.
“Shit, sorry, Noah. I didn’t?—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter as I turn away. “Go get some fucking work done.”
“Sure.” Grabbing his phone, he stands before placing a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be so stubborn that you lose something good, okay? It isn’t too late.”
That’s where he’s wrong.
It’s too late.
I’ve lost Mackie.
That picture was proof of it.
He moved on just like I wanted, but it hurts much more than I could have ever anticipated. I can barely breathe, and when Alek shuts the door behind him, I gasp for breath and bend over. An ache spreads across my chest until it feels like my heart will explode.
It’s for the best. I repeat the words in my head, but it doesn’t help.
I broke my heart to save his.
I avoid everyone for the day since I’m in a foul mood, and I don’t want to put that on them. Instead, I hide in my office, working until my head starts pounding. I groan when it gets so bad, each breath feels like knives stabbing my skull. I manage to clamber over to the sofa and slump down on it, throwing my arm over my face.
My entire body aches. I should get up and take my pills, but even the thought of moving to get them fills me with dread. I hear my door open and groan, expecting Alek or Skylar, but there’s a soft shuffling sound before a hand touches my arm—one I would know anywhere.
I drop my arm to see Mackie’s worried eyes. “I brought you some dinner since you didn’t come out to eat. What’s wrong?” Despite being beautiful, his voice grates on my nerves and I wince.
“Migraine,” I mutter. This isn’t the first time he’s found me suffering from one, so he leaps to his feet, pulls my blinds closed, and grabs the patches and pills from my drawer.
“Here.” His voice is a soft whisper as he hands me the pills and helps me sit up to take them before pushing me back down. He peels off the patch then gently smooths it into place on my forehead, his soft touch making me shiver.
“You’ve been working too much,” he murmurs quietly. “You should go home and rest.”
“I will when it passes,” I reply softly, and he nods, not saying another word. For once, I want him to. I want him to tell me what I saw was nothing, that he’s still mine.
I want him to stay forever.
