Page 9 of Heart of the Race

It wasn’t fair.

“Please, Brian,” she entreated, squeezing my hands.

I wanted to ask: Do you care if by some miracle your son falls in love with me? Do you care if it physically pains me to be near him and not be his? Am I so expendable? And more… it was like returning to my childhood.

I was again a foster kid whose life was constantly unsettled, who was displaced over and over, and whose whole world had been one giant upheaval. I craved stability, and I wouldn’t get it. More than anything I wanted a home, and that dream too would have to wait. All in ruins because of this, because of what Varro needed.

“Brian,” Nico said at my ear, suddenly there.

I couldn’t tear my eyes from Mrs. Dacien’s dark-brown ones, the ones she had passed on to her son.

“Brian.”

The first time my name was spoken, it was Nico. I’d been conditioned to ignore him by years of close quarters.

But the second time, it was Mr. Dacien, and she commanded too much respect for me to not give him my full attention. I met his gaze.

“He’s asking for you.”

I was furious because they all expected me to do the right thing. I was just supposed to go in there and give up my life because Varro needed me? How was that fair?

“Brian?”

Mrs. Dacien squeezed my forearm gently before she put her hand to my cheek. I covered it briefly with my own and then made my way down the hall. Moving at a clip, I passed the socialite and the crew and the assorted entourage until I was standing again in the doorway of his room.

“Come here,” he said tiredly.

I stayed where I was. “Are you going to get better?”

“Of course—” He winced, shuddering with pain. “—I always do.”

“Nico says you’re off to Morocco next.”

“The next race is in two months. It’s gonna be a rough one.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he explained. “Lots of bad turns, and there’s a huge gorge that—” He sucked in a breath. “Come push this button for me. I need more drugs.”

I remained still. “You can get it.”

“Yes,” he hissed. “I can. But I don’t fuckin’ want to! I want you to do it. I want you to come here and give a damn that I almost⁠—”

“Shut up,” I mumbled, letting my head thunk back against the doorframe. “You know I care. Don’t be so dramatic.”

“Please come here.”

I levered myself off the wall and crossed the room, stood over him and looked down at his bruised and swollen face, at his eyes, both with blood in them, the subconjunctival hemorrhaging which Nico had explained to me, looking and sounding worse than it was.

“I missed you.”

What was I supposed to say?

“Just hug me already.” His voice broke.

I felt horrible. He just needed comfort, and I was keeping that from him because of what was going on in my head, in my heart.

“Brian?”