One For The Road

2: Therapy

When I first signed my big-league contract, I didn't know a damn thing about Baton Rouge, Louisiana, where Roger Truscott set up his headquarters for his racing team. It was an odd choice, given that most teams set up shop in Charlotte, North Carolina, but Mr. Truscott had only one functioning brain cell, so I tried not to blame him too much.

Griffin lived in a well-off but not ritzy neighborhood, and naturally, I found myself there too, either in his house or in mine just down the street. At first, he didn't appreciate my constant presence, but he quickly got over it when I began to bring him whatever food the health gods deemed ideal that day.

Although it was always hot as hell, I didn't mind Baton Rouge. Everyone I cared for was there, after all.

Right before I could head home, though, I had to run a few simulation laps at the Talladega track before we left the following afternoon. A lot of older drivers didn't believe that simulations were actually beneficial when it came to the real race, but they had years of experience on a twenty-five-year-old like me. I had raced everywhere at least once, but if there was one track that had my number ninety-five, it was fucking Talladega. I spent the afternoon virtually wrecking myself.

I wiped the tears of frustration off my face, then headed to Griffin's place. He always had some sort of sweet junk food in his house, but he never ate it. He was far too into his healthy lifestyle for that, and in terms of his body, it paid off. He looked good, he knew it, and he got more ass than a toilet seat.

He kept the junk food there to keep me as sane as possible. And I enjoyed some Oreos and Doritos until I had my interview with the hosts of NASCAR Tonight. Since we didn't have our HQ in Charlotte, I always got to call rather than talk in person, and I had to be careful because nonverbal communication didn't exactly show through a telephone.

Damn, did I have a hot take for them.

"Hey, do you know where—oh, shit. Are you about to do your thing?" Griffin asked as he walked into the guest bedroom. With the last-minute party preparations (or a lack thereof) taking place, I locked myself away for just a second, but I could never escape from Griffin.

I nodded. "Could you get me a drink?"

"Sure. I'll be back in a second," he said.

I smiled. I had the phone pressed to my ear, and as soon as they came back from the commercial on television, they'd be ready to listen to me talk.

I had to do this kind of shit a lot more than a male driver with the same number of wins (a whopping fucking zero) as me, but I didn't mind it entirely. Interviews were a lot of fun as long as the questions were interesting, and I had a knack for coming up with even more interesting answers.

Griffin poked his head into the room again and held out a drink poured in a red solo cup to me. "Here."

I took a sip of it, but instead of the bitter taste I loved, it was some acidic shit. "What is this?"

"Vitamin water. It's good for you."

"It tastes like fucking battery acid. God." I took another sip. "Could you mix it with vodka and—"

"No. You can't show up hungover to work tomorrow," Griffin interrupted.

"Then how do you expect me to have a good time at your party?"

"Make a new friend. I have a hot engineer on my team. I'll introduce you if you want."

I rolled my eyes. "I don't need any more friends. I can barely handle having one, and I disappoint you every single day of my life."

I heard a few voices on the other end of the phone, and I shooed Griffin away with a flick of the wrist. He took the hint and made his way out of the room, and I turned my attention back to the phone just in time.