Page 118 of Off the Grid

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he finally says, filling the silence with the truth.

I clear my throat. I’m more than grateful when he gives me the time to gather my thoughts. “Belgium was a tough race all around. Andrew ended up in the wall on the last lap. You . . .”

“I fucked up and didn’t follow Hank’s directive.” He nods but doesn’t look my way. “But we both know that’s not what I’m talking about, is it, Camilla?”

Fuck. What I’d give to be able to share this burden about my dad’s diagnosis with someone. To have a shoulder to cry on with the one person I seem to spend more time with than anyone else these days. But I can’t betray Dad’s confidence. I can’t dignify his indignity.

I can’t burden Riggs with more things than I already have. Because sex . . . the sex has been phenomenal between us and yet, after the orgasmic haze has lifted, I notice him studying me as if he’s afraid he hurt me.

Yet another secret I’m not ready to share.

But that’s not what he’s talking about.

He’s talking about what he saw the other day after the race. The sliver of doorway he looked in. My dad’s acute attack where he lost his balance after tremors overtook his body. The episodes are few and far between but are violent when they do hit.

I had walked by, saw him struggling, and rushed in to help, trying to prevent him from falling. My only error was not closing the door all the way.

That and Riggs seeing us.

“You trust me with your body, with the broken you think you are but really aren’t, but you won’t trust me with your thoughts,” he says softly, causing tears to well in my eyes before I blink them away.

“You’re one to talk.” It’s a defense mechanism I learned . . . after everything. Deflect. Redirect. Dissociate.

“Me? I thought we just were talking about me. What more do you want to know about me before you’ll share some of yourself, Cam?”

“Tell me about your dad.”

“You know about him. Everyone knows about him. It’s all I hear and it’s a blessing and a curse.” He shrugs. “I’m glad that his memory is still alive and well, but I’m also more than sick of being compared to his ghost.”

“I take it the article bugged you then?” I ask. Moretti just landed a few large spreads in magazines and platforms that reach beyond the racing world. Elise worked her ass off to land them for us. To expand the brand into mainstream. Riggs’s AITA notoriety and daredevil antics helped us get those.

The articles were humorous, insightful, and occasionally a bit harsh in their comparisons of where the sometimes revered, sometimes vilified Ethan Riggs was in his career at his time of death compared to where his son is at a similar age.

“I’m sure you know about my father,” he says without answering my question.

“I’ve heard he was funny and charismatic and—”

“Reckless. You forgot to throw that in there. Gotta make that comparison or else you wouldn’t be like everyone else.”

So it does bug him. How could it not?

“Actually, I wasn’t going to say that. Clearly the comments and comparisons bug you, as they should. You’re your own man in a sport he might have raced but that has changed exponentially in the years since he was in it.”

“Seventeen years. God.” The pain in his voice is heartbreaking and such a foreshadowing of my own future that it’s hard for me to hear. His sigh is heavy. Resigned. “I try to use the comparison to my advantage, but fuck yes, it bugs me. They use the word reckless like it’s a bad thing. Like it’s what led to the accident.” He looks over and meets my eyes, the grief still there after all these years. “We’re all reckless. We must be to be in this sport or we wouldn’t be any good, so stop using it as a negative. As a means to try and shame a man who was larger than life in almost every aspect that I can remember. There was so, so much more to him.”

His voice cracks and hell if my heart doesn’t right along with it—for the man beside me.

I have my dad. He’s been my rock my whole life. How lucky am I to get to say that? How incredibly naïve am I to have taken that for granted? How stupid was I to contemplate turning the opportunity down to work with him when someone like Riggs would kill for that chance?

Nine years of memories with your dad isn’t enough to last a lifetime. That’s all Riggs gets though.

God, I’m fortunate to have the chance to make more with my dad.

“Tell me about him. The more people don’t know. I want to know him.”

His smile is the most genuine I’ve ever seen. It lights up his face and his eyes and is so hauntingly beautiful. The love he has for a man he most likely barely remembers is clear. That, in and of itself, says volumes about how much his mom kept his dad alive for him.

“Candy floss,” he murmurs. “I remember it at races. I’d get the package that had two colors—pink and blue—and eat them in that order. I’d try to measure it perfectly, a bite per lap, so that there was one bite left after he crossed the finish line. When he’d get out of the car, he’d rush over to me and pick me up in the biggest of bear hugs. I’d give him the last bite of candy floss and he’d say victory is sweet.”