Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

“Maya Alatorre, Bachelor of Arts in Communications.” The announcer states my degree in both English and Spanish. My parents and Santi beam at me from their seats off to the side of the stage, waving signs amongst other parents of graduates from the Universitat de Barcelona. I clutch the most expensive piece of paper in my hands, the rough texture pressing against my fingertips, reminding me of my efforts to graduate today.

I sit myself back in the sea of students cloaked in cheap polyester gowns. After a few speeches, we move our tassels to the side, signifying the end of our university days. Five grueling years and two major changes later, I can happily say I graduated. Turns out I wasn’t cut out for a biology degree; I fainted during a dissection lab when my partner cut into a baby pig’s stomach. And pre-law didn’t exactly work out for me; I threw up in a nearby trash can during my first debate, forfeiting before the questions began. People would count these restarts as failures, but I think they built character. That and resilience for messing up.

It took me two internships to discover my interest in film and production. I add myself to the unemployed post-grad statistic because finding jobs in film is a lot harder than I thought.

My family meets me outside, the views of Barcelona greeting us while the cool December air brushes against my skin, which is poorly protected by the cheap grad outfit. We all pull in for a group hug before they take pictures of me. I get a boatload of congratulations and kisses, along with a slip of an envelope from my brother, Santiago.

“For the graduate. Took you long enough.” He sends me a smile before smacking the top of my cap. We look similar yet different, thank God. Dark, thick hair matches our light brown eyes, long lashes, and olive skin. Our similarities end there. Santi inherited a tall gene from a distant relative while I stopped growing by eighth grade. He rocks week-old stubble and a goofy smile while I prefer a more mischievous grin that matches the glint in my eyes. He works out seven days a week while I count climbing up stairs to get to class as my daily workout.

Santi’s phone rings and he steps away to answer it.

My mother poses me and takes more pictures. She and I look alike, all honey eyes, short stature, and hair with enough wave and volume to look good when I wake up.

“We’re extremely proud of you. Both of our babies are out doing good things in the world,” my mom says as she snaps a picture of me rolling my eyes. Her accent has a lull to it, a product of learning English from hotel guests at her job.

I groan when she smacks a big kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her lipstick.

My dad mumbles about her needing to treat me like a grown woman. Look at me, now called a mature adult, all at the toss of a graduation cap. His smile reaches his brown eyes, wrinkles creasing at the corners as he looks down at me. He has thick hair that competes with Santi’s, a short beard, and a lean frame. Santi looks like a younger, more muscular version of our dad.

“Who wants to grab dinner?” my dad says while rubbing his belly.

Santi steps back toward us, looking paler than usual. He comes up to my side and whispers into my ear, “Sorry about this. But they’ll get pissed if they find out from someone who isn’t me.”

I look up at him, confused why he needs to say sorry.

Santi takes a deep breath before he breaks out a smile. “My agent just told me Bandini offered me a contract for next season.”

Well, shit.

Santi doesn’t need to steal my thunder when he robs the whole damn storm.

I place Santi’s green smoothie on the table next to his workout bench. Four measly ounces of juice mock me, the goopy evidence supporting how I belong nowhere near a kitchen for the unforeseeable future. Especially since green liquid still drips from the kitchen ceiling. What a mess. It’s all fun and games until I forget to put the cap on the blender, making contents splatter everywhere, including my hair and clothes.

“I don’t need you waiting on me hand and foot. You should be out having fun because we won’t be back home for a while.” He grunts as he lifts a weight above his chest.

“I want to make myself useful and not feel like I’m taking advantage of you for a free place to stay.” I fidget with my hands while he counts his lifts, his deep exhales filling the silence.

Sleek equipment gleams under the overhead lights, a testament to his commitment to Formula 1. His new home is a far cry from the bedroom we shared while growing up. This new one has six bedrooms, a personal gym, a mini movie theater, and an Olympic-sized pool. A whopping six thousand square feet.

He sighs. “Money isn’t a worry anymore.”

“I know, I know. But I want to make a name for myself because I can’t live in your shadow forever.” My hand itches to twirl a piece of my hair, but I resist the nervous tick.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget how his bank account has a ridiculous number of zeros. The first paycheck from F1 paid for my college in full. No questions asked. Santi didn’t blink when he signed the check like he expects to provide for our whole family now that he’s made it big, which can’t be further from the truth. We appreciate everything Santi does. Him wanting to help in whatever way he can comes from a meaningful place rather than a sense of obligation.

When we were younger, our parents worked two jobs to save up every penny for Santi’s racing career. My dad repaired karts as a side gig while my mom cleaned houses on weekends. Unlike most wealthy “trust fund” kids in F1, my parents are middle-class on a good payday. Santi made a name for himself without the financial backing or a famous pedigree. He finally has sponsors who believe in him and his skills, making life easier and racing a hell of a lot more fun.

“I want you to come to my races this season. You can take the year to figure out what you want to do next. Plus it’ll be fun because this is our chance to finally travel together.” He sends me a goofy smile from behind his barbell.

Santi gets to live out his fantasy of being a top F1 racer with Bandini—the top team in the sport. Driving for them is my brother’s dream come true. I didn’t hesitate to say yes when he asked me to join him because my big brother is basically a superstar. His bombshell of a revelation at my graduation a couple weeks ago stung, but I pushed past it because he had a valid reason of not wanting us to find out from paparazzi. Unlike other siblings, I don’t mind sharing the limelight.

“That’s the plan. Your assistant sent me all the travel info and bookings.”

It feels odd to say he has an assistant in the first place. She runs all his gigs, like checking in on his hotel accommodations, making sure he has weekly groceries, and booking sponsorships.

“Did you get the camera I picked out for you?”

I have no idea how to pay back his generosity, especially with such expensive gifts. He still buys me things even though he pays for everything. Lately, I struggle between feelings of guilt and gratitude.

“Yes, thanks again. I have it all set up, and I’m pumped to vlog. I already bought a hand-held tripod to film F1 stuff.” I smile down at him.

He doesn’t miss a beat, lifting the weight over his chest as he continues to chat. “Can’t wait to watch the videos once you start. And you have all your stuff packed up?”

“Yes, Dad, I got everything ready two days ago like you asked.” I roll my eyes.

He chuckles as his almond-shaped eyes look into mine. “I hope I won’t have to put up with this attitude all season long. I can’t keep up with your teenage hormones.”

“You’re a year older than me. Relax with throwing the teenager word around. Any hormone issues are a thing of the past. I’m twenty-three, not fifteen.”

His body shudders. Good. That’s what he gets for not thinking through his words. He needs to watch what he says since film crews will follow him around all the time.

He gets up and wipes down his gym equipment because that’s the kind of guy he is: put-together, organized, and responsible. Respectable people clean their workout equipment, making sure to put everything back where it belongs, while people like me never enter the gym to begin with.

Where Santi’s dependable and secure, I tend to have good intentions with poor execution. I respect my brother’s life decisions, but I’m in a transitional phase at the moment. So I get to travel the world, learn about myself, and grow up. Our family knows I have to pull it together eventually. And I most definitely will. But like a fine wine, I’m taking my time.

My time includes sipping drinks by the pool while Santi competes across the globe in twenty-one different races. No, I’m kidding. Like any other decent European, I love F1, which means I’ll cheer him on every step of the way, or wheel rotation. But you get what I mean.

My brother and I did everything together while growing up. His kart races were what we all did as a family activity, and no one was shocked when he became an F1 racer—all at a world-record-breaking age of twenty-one years old. I can’t imagine the gratification Santi experiences knowing that Bandini realizes his potential and wants to capitalize on it. His new contract reinforces his lifetime efforts in the racing community, representing a new chapter in his driving career.

Basically, my big bro has the talent and drive. Pun intended.

It’s in Santi’s weight room that I make a promise to him.

“I solemnly swear I’ll be up to good.”

His eyebrows draw together. “Did you quote Harry Potter to me?”

“Not really. I changed it up so it’s all me.”

He snickers at me. “You’re a piece of work.”

Oh, sweet brother of mine, don’t we both know it.

Our parents show up an hour later for Sunday dinner. Mom’s homecooked paella invades my nose while sangria coats my tongue. They beam when Santi and I tell them how I plan to join him for the race season, pride and happiness flowing off them.

“All your hard work has paid off, including those long days on the dirt tracks before you moved up to the big leagues with the Formula divisions. We appreciate all the sacrifices you made, including school.” My dad tips his glass before taking a sip of his drink.

Our parents like to share their appreciation for everything Santi has done since he gained his massive contract with Bandini, including paying off the rest of their mortgage, setting up a savings account for them, and sending them on a vacation. More selfless acts from him. An uncontrollable pang of jealousy runs through me at his ability to care for our family. The uncertainty of never living up to anything he does intimidates me. His success makes me happy—don’t get me wrong—but I’m nervous about not accomplishing anything close to his greatness.

“We can’t wait to visit Bandini when you compete in Barcelona for your home race.” My mom claps her hands, a gesture I tend to copy. Her eyes shine under the chandelier in Santi’s dining room while her brown hair flows around her.

Santi smiles at our parents. “I can’t wait to be back and competing in Spain. Home races are the biggest races for drivers.”

We all clink our glasses to Santi’s words.

“It’s great that you’ll follow him around and keep him company. I’m sure it’s lonely on the road. Plus, you’ll have your vlog,” Mom says between bites of her food.

I love her for including me in the conversation. She supports my whole process, sending me different articles and videos about marketing myself while building an audience.

I don’t intend on following him around from country to country because that’s lame. My ideas mean something to me, but vlogs can’t compare to driving around in the fastest and most expensive cars in the world.

“I can film everything because Santi bought me a camera. Hopefully I meet people along the way and make connections because I want to keep active while he’s busy.” I hold my chin up high, exuding confidence I don’t entirely feel at the moment.

“We’re happy you are going with him. Your mom and I worry about you and hope you find your way. Use that communications degree to its fullest potential.” My dad runs a hand through his gray hair. He means well, and since my previous track history isn’t the greatest, I can’t judge him for it. Doubt seeps into my bones at his comment, but I push it away.

“Santi’s lucky his life panned out like he wanted. He’s an all-star at twenty-four years old. I’m only twenty-three, which means I have the world ahead of me.” I shoot my parents a smile, ignoring the sense of panic running through me at disappointing them.

“I went over a few ground rules with Maya, you know, to keep her out of trouble. God forbid I find her drunk and crying on a bathroom floor to a Jonas Brothers song.”

I throw my cloth napkin at Santi. “That happened one time! It was my birthday and they had just announced they were getting back together. I was super emotional, okay? Feelings hit me all at once, right there while I was washing my hands.”

Everyone chuckles at the table.

“And I told her not to hand her camera over to random strangers because of the last incident.” Santi’s eyes shine with humor.

I withhold the urge to roll my eyes. “How was I supposed to expect that a random guy would run off with my phone when we asked for a picture? Who even does that? It goes against every code of ethics ever written.” To be fair, some situations are a consequence of me being in the wrong place at the wrong time, while trusting a shady person.

“People without morals, that’s who. You should be careful with those types when you’re gone. People need to go to church more.” My mom does a sign of the cross for good measure.

Leave it to my mom to think religion will solve everything. Bless her heart.

I enjoy the rest of dinner with my family, grateful when the conversation sways away from me. No one gets how tough it is to live up to everything my brother does. Not that I want to, but still, Santi leaves behind colossal shoes my whole body can’t fill. But I want to push negativity aside and enjoy the trips we have planned.

Because you know what’s worse than complaining about your big brother?

Complaining about a big brother who is so damn perfect all the time.