Revived, Page 3

  From the day I found out I was pregnant, Kit took care of me. The day Jett was born, Kit became the father figure in his life, and he’s been here ever since.

  I will forever be indebted to him for that.

  When Jett was a baby, I knew I wanted to give him everything in life that Kit and I never had. So, I made the decision to go to college, then university. Being a single mother didn’t make that easy, so between Kit and me, we’ve raised him, and as the years have gone on, the daily demands of my job have meant that Kit’s around for the important school stuff, more than I am,

  “So, are you coming to celebrate with us this weekend, or do you have a hot date?” I tease my brother.

  He’s a serial dater. Actually, dater is probably being generous. He can barely stick with the same girl for longer than a day. Not that I’m anyone to judge. I haven’t had a serious relationship, in…well, ever. And I’ve never been in love. Not the real kind.

  My extensive psychological training could tell you exactly why Kit and I are the way we are when it comes to relationships, but I’d rather not delve into my own psyche, or my brothers for that matter.

  “I don’t date, Indy. You know that.” He gives me a cheeky grin.

  “Maybe you should try it and get a steady girlfriend?”

  “Like you and Dr. Dull?” He takes a sip of beer.

  I frown at him.

  Dr. Dull—I mean, Dan is the guy I’m currently dating. I’ve been seeing him for two months. Kit doesn’t think much of him.

  “I really wish you wouldn’t call him that.” I sigh. “Jett calls him that now because of you.”

  “Jett calls him that because Dan is dull as fuck.”

  “Jett hasn’t met him, so he has no clue that Dan is dull—I mean, if he is dull or not!” I bite.

  Laughter bursts from Kit.

  “And he’s not! He’s not dull at all,” I say, defensively folding my arms. “He’s quite interesting in fact.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Kit’s brow lifts. “Then, tell me one interesting fact about him.”

  Shit.

  Come on, India. There’s got to be something interesting about Dan…

  “He, erm…he’s, um…”

  With his satisfactory win, Kit’s smirk deepens as his arms fold over his chest, leaning back in his chair.

  Kit will not win this.

  Dan is not dull. He’s nice. Good. Safe.

  “He likes…watching Breaking Bad.” I give a satisfactory look, picking up my slice of pizza and taking a bite.

  “Wow. Jesus, I was so wrong about him, Indy. The guy lives on the edge.”

  I flip him the bird. “Stop being an arse.”

  Kit chuckles. “You can do better than him.”

  “Dan’s nice to me.”

  “So is the postman.”

  “The postman? What the hell are you talking about?” I exclaim, puzzled.

  “I’m talking about you playing it safe with Dr. Dull. I get it, Indy. I do. You were burned badly, but it was a long time ago. And I want you to be happy. You’re not happy with dating dull fucks like Dan.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’m happy as I am.”

  “You’re safe and comfortable.”

  “And what’s wrong with safe and comfortable?” I frown.

  “It’s boring.”

  “Yeah, well, look what happened to me the last time I chased excitement.”

  “I know.” He blows out a breath, like he’s breathing out the past. “But that was thirteen years ago. You’re a different person now. And you can do way better than Dr. Dull, Indy. You deserve better.”

  I don’t know why, but a flash of Leandro Silva’s face passes through my mind.

  Brushing it aside, I stare at my brother. My heart swells for him even though he’s irritating me with his interference in my love life, but I know he does it because he cares about me.

  “I know you’re only looking out for me. But what I have with Dan works—”

  “What you have is boredom.” He grins, back to playful.

  I give him the middle finger again.

  “Anyway, what about you?” I lean forward, wrapping my hands around my glass.

  He’s fine with commenting on the men I date, but at least I date. What he does barely constitutes as dating.

  He’s never had a steady girlfriend. Sometimes, a part of me worries that’s because of Jett and me.

  “What about me?” He tips his bottle back, taking a drink.

  “Why haven’t you settled down?”

  “Have you seen me? There’s too much good here not to share it.”

  My brother is a good-looking bastard, and he knows it. But he’s also a great person with an amazing heart, and I just wish he’d share that with someone.

  “I think you should try dating just one girl. Try it out. See how you get on. What about that model you went out with last week? Tanya? She seemed nice.”

  “She was nice. And we didn’t go out, Indy. We went to her place. We got naked. I stayed for three hours. I came. Came again. Then, I came home.”

  “Ugh, Kit! Jesus Christ! Way too much info for me, thanks.” I know he’s done it as deflection, so I won’t keep pushing.

  Chuckling, he puts his bottle down on the table. “So, will Dr. Dull be joining us this weekend to celebrate Jett getting on the team?”

  “No. I’m not ready for Jett to meet him yet.”

  Kit raises a knowing eyebrow.

  “Soon.” Maybe. I’m just not really sure if Dan is the guy I’ll be introducing Jett too. “But I want it to just the three of us, a family celebration.”

  “Family night. Sounds good to me.” Leaning over the table, he clinks his bottle on my glass.

  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 h
ad 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.

  “LEANDRO SILVA CALLED. He sounded on edge, told me not to bother telling you he called, but I knew you would want to know.”

  Sadie’s words ring in my head. They’ve been bothering me ever since she said them to me yesterday.

  I tried calling Leandro back as soon as she gave me the message, but I got his voice mail. He didn’t call back.

  Now, he’s late for his appointment. Forty minutes late.

  I’ve been treating him for only a week now—three sessions, four including his initial session—and so far, he’s talked around everythin
g but his actual problem, no matter how much I try to steer him to it. I didn’t want to push him in the initial, I wanted to let him lead the pace, but if he wants to be back in his racing car by January, then I’m going to have to take some decisive action and push him forward.

  But this, not turning up for his appointment, just isn’t going to cut it.

  I tap my fingernails on my desk, debating on what to do. Then, my office phone rings.

  I snatch it up.

  “Leandro Silva is here for his appointment,” Sadie says down the line.

  I try to ignore the actual level of relief I feel, which is more than I usually do in these cases. “Send him in.”

  Ten seconds later, the door opens, and a disheveled-looking Leandro walks in my office before closing the door behind him. His clothes are rumpled, like he slept in them. His overgrown black hair is messy, like he just fell out of bed and ran his hands through it.

  But even still, he looks handsome.

  As my eyes move down from his face, I see something red on his shirt, near the top button.

  I immediately think blood. But when I narrow my vision on it, I see it’s not blood at all.

  It’s lipstick. Red lipstick.

  I curl my fingers into my palms, nails biting my skin. “Are you okay?” I ask. My voice sounds tight.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  I will myself to relax.

  He rolls up his shirtsleeves, revealing strong tanned forearms dusted with black hairs. “I’m fine.”

  He’s hovering by the door he just closed, seemingly unsure of what to do, so I get up from my desk and move to the seating area.

  There’s no apology for his lateness, and I don’t prompt it, no matter how much I want to.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask before sitting.

  “No.”

  He still hasn’t sat down.

  “Are you going to sit down?”

  He glances at the chair like he didn’t even know it was there.

  With a nod, he walks over and sits down.

  Leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, he clasps his hands together.

  That’s when I smell it—alcohol. The smell is strong on him. And I can smell perfume. Cheap perfume.

  They bother me equally in measure.

  But I ignore the perfume issue before I start questioning my own issues with it, and I focus on the alcohol.