Revived (Revved Series Book 2) (3 page)

On the cover of the magazine is a picture of me with the caption,
What the Bad Side of Formula 1 Looks Like
.

Nice.

So, now, I’m the bad side of Formula 1. Good to know.

I already know what the media say about me. How I’ve turned from a great racer into a drunk and a whore.

They’re not wrong on the whore part. Well,
whore
is a bit harsh. I don’t charge for my services. And I wouldn’t say I’m a drunk. I just like to drink—a lot.

I shouldn’t read the article. I know this, but the sadistic part of me has me turning those pages.

Finding the article, eyes scanning the text, I pick out the usual shit.

Why is Silva no longer racing? Physically, he’s healthy. Is it mental problems? Fear over racing because of his accident? Is that why he drinks—drowning his misery in alcohol? Such a shame to see a once great driver fall from grace so dramatically.

Frustration and rage grip my chest like a vise.

Fuck this. I don’t need this shit.

Even though I can’t race, it’s not like I actually need to.

I don’t need to race. I just need to drink and fuck. That’s all I need now. All I will ever need.

Liar.

I’m a liar and a chickenshit. And that’s why I’m sitting in the waiting room to see a therapist.

Maybe I am beyond help.

Tossing the magazine back onto the table, I get to my feet, ready to leave this place, just as the door opens, revealing the epitome of what I could really do with screwing right now.

My eyes trail up the tanned, toned legs to the fitted pencil skirt that I would happily hitch up to see the magnificent pussy that I bet lies beneath. A pale-pink blouse is tucked into that skirt, covering what looks like a fantastically sized pair of tits. Silky blonde hair sits on her shoulders. Hair that I would enjoy getting my hands all tangled in while I fuck those bright red lips of hers, enjoying seeing that lipstick smeared all over my cock.

My dick pulses in my jeans, more than ready to proposition her with the offer.

“Mr. Silva.” She steps forward. “I’m Dr. Harris. But please call me India.”

She’s Dr. Harris?

This hitch-your-skirt-up-and-let-me-fuck-you-right-now woman is my new therapist.

Well, that’s just fucking great. It’s not like I can bang my therapist.

I put my cock on hold and give her my best smile, the one that always has panties dropping to the floor, as I say, “And you can call me Leandro.”

“Leandro. Okay.”

I see a definite flush in her cheeks. The same flush I see in all women who want to fuck me.

Stop it. She’s your therapist.

Not yet she isn’t. This is only my first session to see if we like each other.

We might not.

Who am I kidding? I definitely like her. Well, I would like her right up until I came, and then I wouldn’t want to see her again.

Do I really want to screw up getting help from a brilliant therapist for the sake of a fuck that I can get with someone else later?

“I apologize that I’m a little late for our appointment.”

“No problem.” I follow her into her office.

Standard therapist’s office, all neutral colors and calm feel to it. Not that I have been in a therapist’s office before.

“Please take a seat.” She gestures to a comfy-looking seat as she sits down in one a few feet in front of me with a coffee table separating us. “Would you like a drink before we start?”

“No, I’m fine. Thank you,” I say with my eyes glued on her legs, which she’s just crossed.

She clears her throat, dragging my eyes up to hers.

Reaching forward, she picks up a manila folder, setting it on her lap. “So, this is our introductory meeting. This will help me get to know a little about you and what you need help with. It will let you get to know me and see if we’re a good fit together, if you think I can help you.”

We’d definitely be a good fit. Her naked, me inside her.

I think we’d fit just perfectly.

“I’ll make notes, if that’s okay with you? Some therapists like to tape the sessions, but I prefer pen and paper.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I give her a small smile, so I don’t come off like the asshole I am.

She returns my smile, eyes on mine.

I feel that smile all the way down to my cock.

She looks away, down at the folder. Opening it up, she picks up a pen from the table and holds it, poised over the paper before her. “So, let’s start with the reason you’re here?”

Tell her why I’m here.

I’m here because my life is fucked. Fucked because of one accident.

I don’t want to sound like a whiny-ass pussy to anyone, but I know, to get better, I have to fess up my shit to this woman.

“I was in an accident.” My voice is monotone.

She nods as she begins writing.

“On the track. I’m a racing driver.”

“Did your accident result in major injuries?” Her eyes meet with mine. She’s looking at me like she doesn’t know, and her words sure as hell sound like she doesn’t know.

I thought the world knew everything about me.

Maybe not her.

The knowledge relaxes me a little, and from out of nowhere, I find myself wanting to tell this woman everything.

My biggest fears. My regrets. The self-loathing I feel at my own weaknesses.

“Yes.” I take a deep breath. “Both my legs were broken. My wrist was shattered. I had numerous broken ribs. But those injuries were the easy part.” I give a sardonic smile. “The worst were…a burst fracture in my lower vertebrae and a subdural hematoma.” I tap a finger to my head where the scar lies hidden beneath my overgrown hair. “I was on the operating table with my head wide open when my heart stopped beating.” I take a deep breath. “I was technically dead for about a minute.”

“And how does that feel, knowing that you died?”

I lift a shoulder in a half shrug, like it doesn’t matter. It does matter.

“I don’t know. But I do know how it doesn’t make me feel.”

“And how is that?”

“Alive. I know that it should make me feel more alive now than ever. But I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t race. Without racing, I’m nothing.”

“Are you sure that’s true?”

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Eyes leaving me, she stares at the words she’s written. “You haven’t raced since the accident?”

“No.”

“Are you physically able to drive a car? Your injuries haven’t hindered that?”

“No, they haven’t. I spent a year going through rehabilitation, making sure I could get back in a car.” And now, I can’t because I’m a fucking coward.

“So, it’s not your body keeping you from racing. It’s your mind.”

“I wouldn’t fucking be here if it wasn’t.” I don’t mean to curse or snap at her, but I can’t help it. And I won’t apologize for it either, because I’m an asshole.

Her eyes meet with mine, her gaze steady. “How about traveling as a passenger in a car? How do you find that?”

“I manage.”
Just.

“The same level of anxiety as when you’ve attempted to drive?”

“No. Slightly less. Not as bad.”

“Do you suffer from anxiety attacks?”

I frown. “Only when I try to drive a car,” I mutter quietly.

Admitting that I have anxiety attacks is not easy for me.

She scribbles on the paper again. The scratch of the pen is driving me to distraction. That, and her fucking legs and her tits, which are rising up and down with each breath she takes.

I don’t want to talk anymore. I just want to fuck her and not think about any of my shit. Bury myself so deep inside her body until she’s all I can think about and feel and see.

“Now that you’re no longer racing, how do you spend your time?”

I let out a hard laugh. “You want the glossy version or the real version?”

“The truth. I only ever want you to tell me the truth here. If you don’t feel you can do that right now, that’s fine. But no lies. I can’t help you if you lie to me.”

“Okay.” I blow out a breath. “How do I spend my days? Regretting the day before, missing my life from before the accident, and nursing a hangover. Then, I go out to a bar, get drunk, and hook up with a woman. Take her to a hotel, her place, an alleyway, bar restroom—anywhere really, and I fuck her. Then, I do the exact same the next day and the day after.”

That’s the first time I’ve laid my life bare like that to anyone.

And she doesn’t flinch. I suppose she must hear all kinds of shit.

“Still think you can help me?” I give her a challenging look.

“Yes.” She gives me a steady stare. “You drink to cover the way you’re feeling. I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that it’s a bad idea. The alcohol—are you addicted?”

“Straight to the point.” I laugh, but it’s hollow, even to my own ears.

It’s been so long since I laughed for real that I can’t remember the sound.

She uncrosses her legs. My attention is immediately brought to them. She has great fucking legs. And she’s wearing panty hose. I wonder if there’s a garter belt under that skirt.

“I’m sorry if that offends you, but it’s how I do things. I might ask you things that make you uncomfortable. You don’t have to answer, but it will help me help you if you do.”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. I’m not a drunk.”

“The thought of not drinking again—how does that make you feel?”

I think about it for a moment. “It doesn’t make me feel anything.” Not that anything makes me feel anymore.

“Still, I’d recommend seeing someone about the drinking. I know a great group that deals with substance—”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” I bite. “I might have problems, but that’s not one of them.”

She carefully eyes me.

“Okay. We’ll shelf that…for now.” She puts her pen down on the paper on her lap and looks at me.

Her red lips are slightly parted, and all I can think of doing is smearing that lipstick all over her mouth as I kiss it.

“Our time is nearly up. The first session is always short. The next time, we’ll have a full hour to talk.”

I know what I’d rather do in sixty minutes with her, and it doesn’t involve a lot of talking.

But she’s the best, and I need to get better.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about before we end this session? Anything you feel I should know?”

I want to fuck you.
“No. Actually, yes.” I scratch my nose. “I have to be back on the track by January, mid-January at the very latest, to allow me to prepare for the start of the Prix in March.”

She puts her notepad and pen on the table as she glances at the calendar on the wall, which is currently on the month of November. “That gives us three months. Three and a half, at a push.”

“Impossible?” The weak part of me wants her to say yes, so my coward has a way out. I fight against it.

“No. I like a challenge.” Her lips lift into a soft smile, making me smile. “But this means intensive treatment. I’ll need to see you at least three times a week. Are you up for that?”

I flex my fingers from the fist they were curled into. “I’m up for it.”

“Good.” She presses her hands together in a clap and rises from her seat. “Sadie, my receptionist, will be in touch with you tomorrow to schedule your appointments. We book them in batches for intensive treatments.”

“Okay.”

“So, I’ll see you in a few days, Leandro, and we can get started on getting you back on that racetrack.”

I follow her to the door, watching her ass sway as she moves. She’s heading to a different door than the one I entered.

“This is the exit door,” she explains. “I always have my patients leave through this door than the one they came in as I usually have another patient waiting to see me. Most people prefer anonymity—as I imagine you would.”

She holds the door open for me, allowing me to pass through.

I turn to face her. “This can’t get into the press,” I tell her.

From the other side, she smiles at me. “Anything you tell me never leaves this room. You’re safe here.”

I give her a nod. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you in a few days.”

Turning, I hear the door close behind me, and I jog down the stairs. I let myself out the door at the bottom that takes me out to the street.

Breathing in the crisp, cool air, I run a hand through my hair.

Then, I pull my cell from my pocket and dial.

I don’t even give him a chance to speak. I just hear the answering click before I start talking, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that she looked like
that
?” I growl down the phone at Carrick.

“Hello to you, too. And who looks like what?” There’s laughter in his voice.

Bastard.

“You know exactly who I’m talking about—Dr. Harris, dickface,” My cock starts to harden at the mere thought of her.

Jesus. What the hell am I now? A teenager getting a boner over an attractive woman.

Who am I kidding? She’s not attractive. She’s gorgeous.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“Stop being a cock. You know exactly what I’m talking about. You might be pussy-whipped and have Andi vision, but you know a hot chick when you see one. You could have warned me.”

“Sorry, but the thought didn’t even cross my mind. Yeah, she’s decent looking, but she’s not my type. I never thought you’d want to bang her. Actually, scrap that. You’ll screw anything at the moment, so really, my warning was there when I told you she was a woman.”

“Funny, dickhead.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs loudly. “Wanting to fuck Dr. Harris aside, how did it go? She’s good, right? She’s helped Andi a lot.”

“Yeah, she’s good, I suppose.”

“So, she thinks she can help you?”

“That’s what she says.”
That is, if I don’t fuck her first and screw it up.