Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1)

I regret how I went about everything in Baku, including how my anger got the best of me after the race, making stupid statements to Maya. I messed up big time with her. But I want to fix it and make things right.

I spend a good portion of the break working out kinks in my car and strategizing with the team for the second half of the Championship season.

But I also spend time going to therapy.

Yup. Let that sink in for a second. Me in therapy.

I sit in my psychologist’s office, attending one of my two weekly sessions. One session per week wouldn’t cut it because I need to work through a ton of shit about my parents, relationships, and my issues with commitment. And I don’t have a lot of time before the next race.

The whole process has been a lot to take in. Some days I leave sessions pissed off while other times I leave sad because of how fucked up my parents are and the damage they’ve caused. Therapy is an emotional struggle that drains me worse than driving one-hundred laps around a Prix track.

“What holds you back from wanting a relationship?” My therapist’s brown eyes gaze at me from across the room as he sits casually in his beige chair. I sit on a leather couch, switching between staring up at the ceiling and meeting his gaze.

“I’m not sure. It’s kind of a mixture of different things. I’ve never even tried to have a real girlfriend before.”

“Walk me through the combination of reasons.” His hands clasp together across his knee. He looks put together with his gray hair combed over and his pressed suit.

“I don’t even know what a good relationship looks like. My parents didn’t love each other. I was a credit line at Barney’s for my mom, an endless tie to my dad’s bank account. So I’m not sure what real love even looks or feels like. That’s a scary thought in itself.” How can I recognize something I have no clue about?

“If you could describe love to me, what would you say?” His questions never let me off easy. No, I consider them shit-stirring instead of open-ended.

“Hmm.” I rub the back of my neck. “I think love is about happiness and sacrifice. Compromising instead of arguing. Having someone who is always there for you even when you don’t deserve it. Loving someone means you want to spend the rest of your life with them, on the good days and the bad days and everything in between.”

He looks proud of what I said, nodding along with me and hanging on each word. A small ounce of pride rushes through me at my thoughtful answer.

“Those are all great ideas of love. And what would be the reasons holding you back from trying with someone? Let’s use Maya as an example since you bring her up during our sessions.”

I sit and think about his question for a full minute. He doesn’t push me when I stay quiet, instead preferring to wait it out, putting less pressure on me to fill the silence.

“I think I’m afraid.” Words leave my lips in a whisper. I don’t like admitting fear about anything when I drive cars faster than any other man in the world for fuck’s sake.

“Fear is not always a weakness. It’s what you do with the fear that shows your true strength. What exactly are you afraid of?” This man and his board of inspirational quotes.

“Not giving it my best and failing. Disappointing her and not being able to be there when she needs me. Breaking her heart and mine in the process. The thought of giving someone power over me…” I look down at my hands. Rough fingertips press together in a fidgeting motion that reminds me of Maya. Ever since Baku, thinking about her makes my chest constrict weirdly like it recognizes how much of a dumbass I am.

“Those are all reasons anyone would be afraid and worried about trying. You’re not alone in thinking that. A lot of people share similar reservations when they start a relationship because loving someone makes you vulnerable.”

I didn’t know that.

“How would you feel if Maya dated another person who is willing to love her like you described earlier?”

I clench my hands. The thought of her dating, kissing, or fucking another guy makes me sick. I don’t deserve her, but screw anyone else who tries.

“I wouldn’t like it one fucking bit.”

“And why is that?” He doesn’t flinch at my cursing, further evidence of why I like this man.

“Because I’ll be wishing it was me who could do those things with her.”

My admission sits with us like a third person. Minutes pass by as I devise a plan, the sound of the clock ticking to the rhythm of my bouncing leg.

“I think I have an idea for what I need to do. But I want to run it by you.”

My therapist smiles at me. He helps me build confidence, listening to my ideas while offering insight and opposing viewpoints. I’m fucking done sitting on the sidelines thinking about my mistakes, because I’m the type to be on the front of the grid with a pole-position start.

Time to get my trophy.