Then you’re welcome.
I shove my phone in my pocket and quickly remember why I’m here in the first place.
Gia didn’t text me, but I know the media will want me to comment on what happened, and I will.
But first, I have something else to take care of.
Most of the crews are busy taking things down and loading up their gear. A few nod as I pass, but the rest are too busy to notice me.
The yellow-and-red tent pulls me like a magnet.
My knuckles ache with anger as I stand outside of it. I crack my neck and flex my fingers before curling them into fists at my sides.
I step inside, and Beau has a girl on his lap with his hand in between her legs.
She turns and yelps.
“Get out,” I rumble.
Beau leans past the half-undressed fan. “Wrong tent, bud. Remember?”
I shift my glare to his plaything, and she quickly jumps from his lap to scurry away. He stands and pulls his pants up to charge me.
My veins fill with an eagerness.
I wait until he’s less than a foot away and plow my closed fist into his jaw.
The shock renders him motionless, but I’m quick on my feet.
I grab him by the collar of his shirt and haul him toward me.
“Did you know?” I seethe.
“What the fuck?” Bloody spit flies from his mouth. “This is a suspension, minimum. Wait until I get the FIA involved and tell them you just came intomyprivate tent and fucking hit me.”
My lip curls with anger. “You really want to get the FIA involved? Because they won’t just investigate me, but you too. And I’m not sure you want them that close to Pierce Racing.”
“This again?” He moves to shove me away, and this time, I let him.
He stumbles backward and wipes his bloody mouth on his shirt. “You’re just angry because you can’t handle losing. Did punching me make you feel better about not finishing the race today?” He rolls his eyes. “Taking after your dad, huh?”
My skin burns from quiet fury.
There is no other insult that would get me this worked up.
“Answer my fucking question,” I seethe.
“And what question is that?” a familiar voice asks.
Beau shifts, and a chill works itself down my spine. I turn with my body tense.
It’s like looking into a mirror.
The only difference between me and my father is the gray peppered throughout this dark hair. We share the same blue eyes and square jaw. His thirst for winning was passed down to me for years—until I left. I never thought I'd be able to quench it, but it turns out I have a thirst for something else, and it isn’t necessarily winning.
My father raises an eyebrow in a challenge, but he should know me better than to think I’ll back down.
On steady feet, I walk the short distance over to him and look him straight in the eye. Surprise takes over when I grab onto his Pierce Racing jacket and give it a shake. I hear the sound of pills rattle against a bottle. I shake my head with disappointment.
