Page 98 of Handle Me

“Fuck you.”

The bottle didn’t respond.

“You don’t get to decide what I’m worth,” I screamed at it, wishing I believed it. But the truth was that if I lost racing, I would lose the last scrap of who I was—who I had fought to become for years.

I reached for it and twisted off the cap. I took a swig straight from the bottle, the amber liquid burning my throat. But it tasted as bad as I felt. Whatever the answer was, I wasn’t going to find it at its bottom.

Anxiety knotted my stomach as I walked to the window and looked out, trying to clear my head. I’d screwed up everything, and I had no one to blame but myself.

But the worst part wasn’t being on the verge of losing my career. It was that Lola would be gone, too. Why would she want driving lessons from a failed racecar driver? She’d barely said a word when I’d dropped her off. Not that I’d been very talkative either. It was for the best. I’d barely had anything to offer her before. Soon I would have even less.

There was a knock at the door, and I frowned. It was probably Wilkes coming by to give me unhelpful advice. I couldn’t blame him. He was about to lose his job, too.

I opened the door to find Lola on my doorstep, in shorts and a tank, sheer enough to reveal she was braless. She pushed past me, uninvited, and strode towards the living room.

“How did you get here?” I asked as I closed the door.

“I drove.” She shrugged, her eyes surveying the room.

I stared at her. We’d only made it successfully around the track once today without any nervous braking. “By yourself?”

“Questioning your teaching skills?”

“I’m questioning leaving you with the car keys.”

She ignored me and wandered over to the couch, but she didn’t sit down.

“Do you always drink straight from the bottle like that?” she asked, grabbing the bottle of McKinnons from the table.

I didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t bear the silence stretching between us. I could judge myself without her help.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I finally managed to say, trying to hide the desperation in my voice. “I’m not in the mood for company.”

She shook her head. “Too bad, Your Majesty.”

“Don’t call me–”

“Stop hiding who you are,” she interrupted. “What is this going to solve?”

“I’m not drinking alone at home.”

She raised an eyebrow, and I sighed.

“Not really.”

“What are you doing with a bottle of whiskey then?” she demanded.

I shoved a hand through my hair. “You want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Yelling at it,” I admitted, letting my head hang.

There was a pause, and I couldn’t bring myself to look up at her. She probably thought I was mental—I thought I was mental.

“And how’s that working out?” she asked slowly.

“I think we were finally getting somewhere,” I said dryly. I lifted my eyes to search hers for the answers I couldn’t seem to find. “You can pour it out. I shouldn’t drink. Tomorrow is going to be bad enough without being hungover.”