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Chapter 11
Jaxson
Savannah, GA April 24– Monday
My office has been newly decorated. It reflects the new me. The one I’m trying to project. I’ve been asked numerous times when I’m going to focus on something productive. HFH was supposed to be the thing I needed to ground me. It was. For a time.
Things happened and I veered left for a while. Drinking, sex, and gambling became my fixations. They were the things that got me through my day to day.
Bang up job those things did.
I was getting nowhere fast. Seeing Brooklynn, the one who lit up my night, was the shock to my system to give me a new guide. The fresh needle on the new record. The new shine on a leather seat. No, I wasn’t ready to get back behind the wheel yet. What I was ready for surprised the hell out of Hope. I was ready to take back the reigns of my co-chair seat. Hence the makeover.
A faux rock design of black and white stones served as the background to the mahogany wood bookshelves of one wall. The wood is the same tone in the ceiling, the end tables, and my desk. I purchased a new leather black and light gray couch with large back pillows. It butts up against the bottom of the bookshelf. A table, large ottoman, and two large chairs make up the sitting area. The gray and black theme is in each of the pieces. The two chairs’ backs rest up against my desk. The large executive chair is comfortable and sturdy.
I lean back in it as I review notes from an upcoming project while finalizing the numbers for our anniversary event. I look over at my black and white framed photos of Colton Donavan, Zander Donavan, and one of me. The three photos are on the wall of champions. When I was in the hospital in Los Angeles, Graham and GiGi set it up so the two stopped by my recovery room to talk to me. While they were there, they signed some things. It was one of the best days of my life. At a time when I didn’t know if I’d ever get behind the wheel again, it was a great experience. I’ll cherish those items for the rest of my life.
The gray wall where those photos hang is mocking me right now. I’m frustrated because I’m biding my time. I’m waiting to hear back on some details of a project Graham, and I have in the works. I don’t do well with waiting. Graham went to speak to one of our biggest sponsors. Monty, Anderson Montgomery, prefers to speak directly to me. I’ve been unavailable since I’m in rehabilitation mode.
It's been a time of me in a state of avoidance. I’ve been avoiding things that cause me stress. If I’m stressed, I drink. When I drink, I do dumb ass shit. I figure de-stress and I don’t drink in excess. Don’t overdo the drink and don’t end up with my ass literally out shocking my mother’s closest friend into an almost heart attack.
Fucking true story. How the hell they caught video of it isn’t something I want to dwell on. I don’t know if I’m forgiven for that one or my most recent idiotic antic.
I still haven’t spoken to my mother. I’ve been working the phone tag angle by purposely calling or texting her when I know she’s busy with all the things she does for JDJ Incorporated. I run Jaxson Daire Jr. Inc. and HDH from this office. My mother oversees the fan club, event planning, and charity auctions that happen under that umbrella. I had to do something to keep that woman busy and away from the racetrack. She worries, which is understandable. I haven’t had the best track record.
Jeanine Shaw and Hope work closely on the charity aspect. Hope stepped up while I was on ... hiatus. Since I’m back, she’s slowly stepping back to focus on things here.
I need a distraction. As if on cue, the door to my office swings open. Hope stands at the door in a red pants suit. She stops short to take in my office before frantically shaking her head and her hands. She blows a stray bunch of hair out of her face as she holds the door open.
“What did you do?”
“I’m thinking you’re going to need to narrow that question down for me.”
I sit forward in my chair then point to the open doorway with my stylus. She rolls her eyes as she allows the door to close. Striding towards me, she points her finger in my direction.
“Oh, I’m not in the mood for your charm or any of those cute quips you come up with when you’re trying to be funny.”
She’s in a mood.
“It’s a gift. I don’t even have to try anymore. They just come to me.”
Hope stands with her arms folded, glaring at me.
“How long have you been back? Two, three weeks maybe. My goodness. I thought, ‘this seems okay’. He’s back to work. He’s on the right track. He’s been warned about the right people. The man is even going to all the meetings and therapies. I should’ve known better. What the hell is wrong with me?”
I literally have six different responses to that question. She must see into my soul or something. At that very moment, she slams her hand down on my desk.
I clear my throat.
