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One
Axel Pendleton
My head throbbed as my assistant, Marta Kurtz, cued up the latest NASCAR news and forced me to listen to the two hosts discussing bad boy, Alex Pendleton,again.
“I didn’t do that,” I muttered, leaning back in the lounge chair of my motor home and staring out the large window into the bright sunlight. In the next lot, one of my competitors chased his daughter around the lawn furniture set up beside their own rig, stretching their legs before traveling.
Today, we were all departing the exhibition location, some heading to their homes, for a final stint of off time before things got serious. More serious, anyway. In fact, a bunch of the drivers and their families had already moved out late last night after the exhibition races had finished. We had two weeks before the season officially began, and one week before the drivers reported to Daytona for testing, practices and qualifying.
I needed to start stuffing the gear I wanted to take with me into my duffle bag. I didn’t keep a place during the season, choosing to spend all my time in my motorhome or at hotels. Renting a place I wouldn’t see the inside of for weeks on end, made no sense to me, and I had no desire to buy a place. Not at this stage in my life. So my crap was either with me, in this motorhome that I did in fact own, or in my storage unit in Charlotte, North Carolina, where the team’s headquarters were located.
“Al, there are pictures,” Marta scoffed. In the swivel chair across from me, she tapped her fingers on her long leg, which she had crossed over the other. Her foot, encased in a shiny candy apple red heel, that ironically matched my car, bobbed up and down. The short, straight skirt of her suit hiked up to expose a good amount of her tanned thigh.
Some guys might be interested in that display. I was utterly unimpressed and not in the slightest enticed by the sight. As my assistant and so-called righthand, who listened to the team’s owner more than she did me, not only was she off-limits and at least ten years older than me, but she was a perpetual pain in my ass.
“I don’t care about pictures,” I growled. Hell, I hated it when she called me Al. How hard was it to say Axel? Or Ax? But no… Marta eliminated the middle of my name, practically whining it out when she said it. Just like everything else she did lately, it got on my nerves—especially with the hammers pounding at my temples this morning. It wasn’t from a hangover, though commentators would have pinned the cause on that if they knew. Rather it was post-race dehydration and lack of good sleep.
Pushing aside the pain and my irritation at her, for now, I focused on the annoyance at hand. “I didn’t run through some fricking fountain naked. I have more sense than to do that. Has the video even been authenticated? You know what they’re doing with AI shit now.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What?” she asked. “You want them to compare the dick in that video to yours?”
“No,” I groused. Fuck. Why would she even suggest that? Thank God, the member in question was blurred in all the footage. I had no doubt a search of the web would show the “Full Monty”, the so-called evidence.
“It’s not me,” I reiterated, completely pissed I was the target of image bashingagain.That seemed to be my thought of the morning. Again, again, fucking again. Why did this keep happening?
“The video says otherwise.”
“Well, maybe, it’s AI created, like I said. Maybe, it’s a lookalike. Maybe…it’s not fucking me!Have you thought of that?” I shot to my feet and paced away from the seating area, which wasn’t nearly far enough. “I can prove it’s not me, but I’m not going to because that’sfucking private.”
I certainly wasn’t sharing views of my intimate piercing with Marta or anyone else. Despite my aching head, when I’d viewed theevidence,I’d noticed the birthmark on my upper leg wasn’t apparent—but since I was rarely shown with shorts that werethatshort,most people didn’t know about that feature. Which Ialsowasn’t telling Marta about. Very few individuals knew about my piercing or my birthmark.
“It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not,” she retorted. “Word’s come down from on high. You need to clean up your act or else. So if you have any skeletons in your closet, you’d better fix them now.”
Clean up my act? When it wasn’t even me? How about I performed some other miracles, too?
“Or else what?” I asked, catching the ultimatum in her statement.
Her words immediately sent agitation through me. “On high” meant my sponsors and my boss, the owner, who also happened to be my uncle. It was a toss up who would be a bigger problem.
“Darius.”
My uncle, then. But that didn’t mean my sponsors weren’t getting annoyed that their clean-cut boy had run into troubles.
What no one knew was that Ididhave one skeleton in my closet. And I really needed to deal with it someday. The problem was, I didn’t want to change things. With each new media blow-up, it became clearer and clearer, I would have to. Just as I’d made a heartbreaking decision regarding the very same person, six years ago—for the same reason, my career—I’d have to act again.
“Also,” Marta continued, looking at her nails and avoiding my eyes. I wasn’t sure if it was the news she was about to impart or because she just didn’t care. “An opportunity’s come up in your hometown for some good PR—which you need, so don’t argue with me. There’s a fundraiser for the Children’s Hospital, and management wants you to be there.”
Translation: my uncle wanted me to be there. He made no bones about frequently reminding me that I was only a driver on this circuit at his whim and discretion. Which was crazy, because I wasn’t the only one on his team, since he ran three cars. But lucky me, I was always a moment from the ax falling.
Once upon a time, I’d been stupid and put myself under his control. And now, I didn’t know how to escape unscathed. Closing in on my mid-twenties, wiser than I’d been six years ago, I realized he’d manipulated me into making decisions no eighteen-year-old should have to consider.
Which was neither here nor there at that moment.
I had no doubt Darius had found out about this fundraiser via my extended family, many of whom still lived in Cherish Cove, Michigan. My parents still lived there, too, though they didn’t speak to Uncle Darius, despite what he’d done for them.
And then there was my ex-girlfriend, Bristol, AKA the skeleton in my closet and the woman I’d love to my last breath, even though I’d broken her heart. She still lived in Cherish Cove, as well.
