Revived (Revved Series Book 2) (5 page)

I AWAKE WITH A START
. The sound of crushing metal resounding in my ears, heat on my body from the flames, smoke clogging my lungs.

Panic crashes into me.

Rapid blinks bring my eyes to the white ceiling before moving them down the walls.

I’m in a bed.

Eyes casting around the room, I see I’m in what looks like a hotel room.

As I drag my hands over my face, a sturdy pounding takes over my head, and the taste of last night’s alcohol is apparent on my sandpaper tongue.

This is not an unusual start to the day for me.

My life.

My craptastic life.

Rolling over, I see the littering of condom wrappers on the bedside table, which tells of a good night.

Yet I don’t feel good.

After seeing the hot doctor yesterday, I couldn’t get the thought of fucking her out of my mind. I was restless and horny. Instead of going home after my appointment, I went to a bar. Clearly, I got wasted and hooked up with whoever is lying next to me.

I stealthily climb out of bed, so not to wake the body next to me. I pull on my clothes, slip my feet into my shoes, retrieve my wallet, keys, and phone from the desk, and shove them in my pocket.

Then, I quietly leave the room.

Shitty thing to do? Yes.

But I’m not exactly a stand-up guy nowadays, and I’m just not in the mood for the morning-after conversation that would no doubt ensue.

I take the elevator down and make my way over to the reception desk.

Paying for the room, I leave the hotel for the morning air and hail a taxi.

It doesn’t take long to get home. I pay the driver and let myself in my house.

The silence echoes through me.

I pick up the mail from the mat and dump it on the hallway table without looking at it. I walk to the kitchen and see the house phone blinking a few messages at me.

Probably my mother. She’s been calling regularly since I moved back to London, and she’ll want to know how my first session with Dr. Harris went.

What do I say? Well, I wanted to fuck the doctor, but of course, I couldn’t, so I instead went out, got wasted, and fucked a random woman.

Not what my mother would want to hear.

She had wanted me to stay in Brazil. But I couldn’t. I felt too smothered there with my family fussing around me, wanting to help.

I thought that coming back here would fix things…fix me.

It hasn’t.

Needing to wash the night off of me, I head upstairs and take a shower. I let the hot spray beat on my face to the point of pain, just needing to feel something…anything.

Toweling off, I brush my teeth, staring at myself in the mirror.

The beard covering my face hides who I am…who I used to be.

Flashes of last night flicker through my mind.

The alcohol flowing. The girl all but riding my cock in the bar. Then, riding it for real in the hotel room.

The thoughts should make me feel good.

They don’t.

They make me feel empty.

Going into my bedroom, I get some black jogging pants and a plain black T-shirt.

Slipping my cell in my pocket, I head downstairs. In the silence, I go to the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine.

Stepping away from the counter, I bend at the waist and rest my folded arms on the counter, and lay my head on them, letting the noise of the coffee machine abuse my head and rattle through the emptiness in my hollow chest.

My senses breathing in the smell of coffee, I grab a cup and pour some out.

Strong and black.

Turning, I press my back against the counter and stare at a picture on the wall.

It’s a signed picture of Ayrton Senna that my father got for me when I was a child.

I should have died. I would have died a legend.

Not the man I am now.

A washed-up has-been.

I can’t be
him
anymore. This weak fucking version of myself.

I have to race again.

I have to get back in a car.

I have to do this.

I can do this.

I’ve been driving all my life.

Putting my coffee down, I push my feet into my sneakers and head for the internal door to the garage.

I stall when I reach the door.

I haven’t been in here since before the accident.

My hand starts to shake.

I’m being ridiculous.

Clenching my fist, I force the tension away.

I open the door.

A strong wave of stale air hits me. Breathing through it, I reach for the light switch, turning it on.

And there she sits.

My car. A blue ’67 Chevrolet Camaro Pro Touring Coupe.

She was for sale in the local garage near my home back in Brazil, and I had my eye on her for ages. My father bought her for me when I turned eighteen. I had her shipped over when I moved to London. She goes everywhere with me.

I can do this. All I have to do is go over there, push the key in the ignition, and turn her over.

Forcing my fears away, I move my feet to my car.

Unlocking it, I open the door.

She still smells the same, aside from the stale dank air escaping her.

Deep breath, I climb inside.

I shut the door behind me with a clank.

Trapped. Fire.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I ignore the fear in my head.

“I can do this,” I say to myself.

Breathing in through my nose, I lift the keys. It’s not until I try to push the key in the ignition that I realize how badly my hand is shaking again.

“Fuck,” the word hisses out through my teeth. “I can do this. Nothing is going to happen to me. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Now, stop being a pussy, Silva, and drive the fucking car.”

I slide the key in, and before my fear talks me out of it, I turn the engine on.

She chugs and sputters for a few seconds. In those seconds, a voice in my mind prays that she won’t start.

If she doesn’t work, then I can’t drive her.

Not my fault then. I wouldn’t be chickening out.

She rumbles to life, and the radio comes on loud.

With the feel of the engine vibrating and the music playing, my head explodes. Images of the accident assault my senses.

I can smell the smoke.

Taste the blood in my mouth.

Feel my chest compressing.

I can’t breathe.

My fingers scramble to turn the engine off.

Opening the door, I fall from the car onto my knees. I gasp for air.

“Fuck!” I cry out, gripping my head in frustration. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I slam my fist onto the floor, not caring about the pain that shoots through my hand.

Then, I really lose it.

Getting to my feet, I grab a baseball bat that’s propped up against the wall, and I start to smash the hell out of my car.

My vision is red, and I beat my frustrations and pain and fears out on the car, hitting the metal and glass over and over. But no matter how many times I hit it, I don’t feel any better.

Staggering back, I see the damage I’ve done.

She’s wrecked.

Like me.

The car that my father bought for me, all I have left of him, and I destroyed her.

Grief lances through me.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I stagger back into my house, heading for my office.

I see all my trophies lined there, taunting me.

Then, I realize the bat is still in my hand.

With rage still burning in my veins, I take the bat to my trophies, wiping out what’s left of my career, smashing them to pieces until nothing is left but carnage.

The bat falls from my shaking hands.

I don’t feel better. I feel worse, if possible.

I hate myself.

I drop to my knees, among the mess I created. My head in my hands, I grip my hair, and for the first time since the accident, I cry.

I don’t know how long I stay there for.

Drying my face with the back of my hand, I get up and walk over to my desk.

Sitting in my chair, I open the bottom drawer, pulling out the bottle of whiskey I keep in there.

I unscrew the cap and take a long drink. Then, another. And another.

Then, without thought, I pull my cell from my pocket, and dial Dr. Harris before I realize what I’m doing.

“Dr. Harris’s office.”

It’s her receptionist.

“Is it possible to speak with Dr. Harris?” My voice sounds scratchy.

“Dr. Harris is currently in an appointment. Who is calling?”

I grit my teeth. “Leandro Silva.”

“Mr. Silva, I can have Dr. Harris call you back. Or if it’s an emergency—”

“It’s not an emergency.” I take another drink from the bottle.

“Should I have her call you?”

“No. Just forget it.”

“Are you sure? Because—”

“I’m sure,” I cut her off. “I’ll see her at my appointment tomorrow.” Then, I hang up the phone.

Why the hell did I call her?

Frustrated, I toss my cell on the desk and down some more whiskey.

It’s too quiet in here.

The silence in the room feels almost as painful as the noise in my head.

Reaching for my phone, I turn on the music to drown it out.

Fingers curled around the bottle, I drop my head to the desk, as the sound of Ed Sheeran’s “Bloodstream” kicks in.