People coming to my apartment? I never have company, except for Brody and Emily. Actually, I usually go to Emily’s apartment because she has a more comfortable couch. So just Brody and me here, our own little pocket of space that’s going to be invaded soon.
“What about Reed and Manuel? And my parents?”
“The guys are working downstairs. I gave them the short version. Reed’s fit to be tied, and I almost got into it with him so that he wouldn’t disturb you while you were still sleeping. You need to talk to him today, though, so he doesn’t break down the door or force me to set him straight.” Brody scratches at his lip, though I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it. I’ve figured out that’s his tell. When he’s lying or exaggerating, he’ll scratch his lip like the words tickle as they come out. I don’t think him and Reed are ever going to be best buds, but Reed cares about me and Brody can respect that. As long as he doesn’t cross the line.
“My parents?”
His answer is more hesitating this time. “They called a bit ago, should be here in about ten minutes, actually.”
He walks a plate of pancakes over to me, already cut up like I’m a child. It's on the edge of my tongue to bitch about it, but then I realize that I don’t really care and probably couldn’t cut them while lying in bed anyway. “Thank you,” I say, truly grateful.
“Your dad is angry—he was cussing and hissing things for Janice to say when she called. But I think he’s covering up how hurt he is. I can see where you get it from now.” One brow raises, daring me to argue, but he’s right.
“One of the best things he taught me,” I say, though I’m realizing that’s not necessarily true. If I’d just been honest a long time ago, we wouldn’t be in this position, but I covered up my true desires and am going to pay the price in a painful way with Dad.
Brody grunts his opinion.
I eat the pancakes, which taste like fluffy, carb-y bites of heaven, while he gets me a T-shirt and pair of shorts. He helps me dress and then carries me to the couch, neither of which I argue about in the slightest. What would be the point? We both know I’m not doing it on my own.
The best part of the morning might be when he turns right back around and goes to make my bed. I can’t help but laugh because I know he’s doing it for me and couldn’t care less about it.
“Thank you,” I say honestly.
I hear footsteps coming up the stairs and my eyes jump to Brody. All of a sudden, I feel like a teenager who’s about to get busted with a half-naked boy in her room. “Put a shirt on!” I whisper.
Brody shoots me that cocky smirk, and in no rush at all grabs his shirt off the back of the dining chair.
I hear Dad snap in the hallway, “I ain’t knocking on my own damn door. I own this place and I’ll come and go when and where I please.”
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I make a mental note to be better about locking that door. The last thing I need is Dad walking in on me and Brody fucking.
“Hey, Dad,” I say as the door swings open. “Mom.”
Dad’s eyes flick from me on the couch to Brody standing barefoot and right at home in the kitchen. Mom’s do the same, but she looks pleased as punch while Dad looks murderous.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cole.” Brody greets them like this is a perfectly normal social visit. “Coffee, tea, beer?”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Dad barks judgmentally.
Brody shrugs. “Long night. You earned it.”
Mom breaks the staredown between the two men. “I’d love a coffee, and you can call us Keith and Janice.”
Dad snorts. “No.”
Brody pours a cup of coffee and grabs two beers from the fridge. He sets it all on the coffee table and then drags the two dining chairs over. Mom sits down gingerly beside me on the couch. “How are you feeling?”
Dad eyes Brody again, stubbornly refusing to sit until Brody does first. Finally, I speak up. “Guys, sit the fuck down or pull your dicks out and start measuring.”
Mom gasps. Brody and Dad look at me with matching raised brows that say ‘really?’ but at least they sit down.
“Finally. I’m fine, Mom. The burns aren’t that bad, and I’ll be good as new in no time.” That’s not exactly true. Dan said that I’d have to be careful about infection and probably won’t be able to work or drive for at least a couple of weeks. Maybe more. I’m going to go stark raving mad sitting on my ass, but now is not the time to tell Mom that or she’ll plan out an entire schedule of people to come sit with me and play cards. No, thank you.
Brody clears his throat, and I glare at him, telling him to keep his big, fat mouth shut. He opens his beer and takes a swallow.
Dad watches, still judging until Brody sighs in satisfaction. That gets Dad, and he leans forward to grab his beer. He cracks his open and takes an even longer drink. Apparently, we’re still measuring dicks.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I say, clapping my hands, and three sets of eyes land on me. Support—that’s Brody, betrayal—that’s Dad, and hope—that’s Mom, all surround me at once. I focus on the most important issue at hand. “Dad, I should have told you I was racing and I’m sorry I didn’t. Well, not really sorry because you would’ve tried to stop me, but I’m sorry you found out like you did.”
He narrows his eyes and leans forward, elbows on his knees and beer dangling dangerously. “Just so we’re clear—you’re not sorry you did it. You’re sorry you got caught.”
“Basically.” I shrug like that should be obvious.
“What the hell, Rix?” Dad says, standing up. “I said no more! You know why. I can’t believe you’d go behind my back, that everyone would go behind my back . . .” His voice strangles off.
“We didn’t mean to hurt you, Dad. Big John was important to all of us. But do you think he’d want you to give up something you love over him? He wasn’t even racing when it happened.” Dad flinches when I say Big John’s name. “We’re careful, you know that. The nitrous thing with Todd’s car was a fluke that could’ve happened to anyone.”
“But it happened to you!”
Brody is watching carefully, and I hate that he’s meeting my Dad at his worst. He’s such a great guy, they both are, and I think they’ll like each other eventually. But right now, Brody’s got a front-row seat to a moment I’ve been dreading for years.
“I’m okay, though,” I say calmly, hoping Dad will see reason.
“You’re not going back.” He issues the decree as if he has a single say-so in what I do and where I go.
So, that’s a no to being reasonable, then.
“Yes,” I tell him in a clear, determined voice, “I am. That’s my business, my hobby, my passion. One you taught me, and I’m not giving it up. I’ll be back out there next week” —I gesture to my legs— “not driving, but watching the races, tuning my engines, and doing what I love.”
“Business? Your engines?” Dad’s interest piques despite his anger.
“Yeah, custom work,” I say, pointing to the parts on the floor in the corner.