I wasn’t sure how much longer we’d be living here, though.
Romeo and Braeden were building some big house they were calling a “compound.” It was a huge place with a wall around the entire property (which was several acres).
For realz.
Being they were both pro football players and now my sister had her own column with People magazine and a popular YouTube channel (all about fashion and girl stuff), the press never left them alone.
Soon as Ivy announced she was pregnant with my niece (a total surprise, by the way), the plans for the compound were moved up, because everyone agreed we all needed the privacy and the protection.
Rimmel, Romeo’s wife, had been through a lot of shit over the years, and Romeo was like a freaking lion with a den full of cubs when it came to protecting her. Even though they didn’t have kids, the press hounded her, following her around and sometimes staking out the animal shelter she ran just hoping for a picture of a “baby bump” she didn’t have.
Hell, even on pancake Sunday, it was getting hard to have a family meal because my family was a bunch of celebrities.
Soon as the house was done, this place wouldn’t be needed anymore, so I wasn’t sure where I’d go. I’d probably just rent my own apartment or maybe a one-bedroom house with a garage for my car.
I’d been putting aside money out of every paycheck so I’d have a decent amount saved for a deposit and shit.
I think Ivy assumed I’d be coming to the compound with her and the fam. I wasn’t sure that was in the cards for me. I didn’t want to impose on the couples. Sometimes I felt like a fifth wheel. Not that I’d ever say that to my sister. She’d give me a lecture.
I’d miss the baby, though… My niece totally stole my heart from the day she was born. I’d never been a kid person, but she wasn’t just a kid.
Nova had me wrapped around her tiny pink finger.
Sometimes I was on uncle duty with her so B and Ivy could get out and be alone. I liked it, though. She was a good listener, and unlike most women, she never gave me crap.
I figured that might change when she started talking, but I’d enjoy it while I could.
Maybe after Trent graduated, I’d see if he wanted to throw in on a rental with me.
He’d been quiet lately.
I’d barely talked to him since we got back from the meeting with Gamble. He texted to bow out of pancake Sunday, and I hadn’t talked to him at all the rest of the day. When I texted him this morning, he hadn’t answered, so I called.
Fuck how early the clock said it was. He always answered my texts.
I didn’t realize how uptight I’d been feeling until his gruff, half-asleep voice came on the line. Even if he was being a grouchy bastard, just hearing his voice relaxed me.
We didn’t talk long ‘cause he was still half asleep (and a grouchy bastard) and I had to go to work and protect my soul. I asked him if everything was okay. He said it was.
I wasn’t sure I believed him. Something was up. I wanted to know what it was.
I’d looked at my phone several times today. And the clock. I knew T’s schedule. We’d been friends long enough I knew his general daily routine. Every time I knew he was in between classes, at lunch, or likely not to be in the middle of something, I picked up my phone.
I set it back down right after, though.
I didn’t text him. I didn’t call.
He didn’t either. He was avoiding me.
I was starting to think I was avoiding him, too.
Maybe that’s why I was in even more of a disgruntled mood today. Maybe it wasn’t just the tie around my neck, this stupid desk, the bright glow of the desktop computer in front of me, and the shitty coffee at my elbow. Might as well drink an ashtray.
“Seriously, though!” I yelled over my cubby. “Who made this coffee?”
The only reply was a few muffled laughs and some mumbled agreements.
On my lunch break, I flipped through the latest issue of GearShark and read the feature article on Roger Bones, the new king of NASCAR.
It didn’t help my mood either.
The more excited I got for our new revolution in racing and bringing the underground scene out of the dark, the more pissy I felt toward the pros.
There was a clear line drawn between the two groups. On one side lived the pro racers, loaded with sponsors and money. They got the spotlight and all the attention. Then on the other side were all the indie drivers like me. We weren’t “professional” because we didn’t have the money and the backing of big companies. Because my leather jacket didn’t have a million logos proving my substance, I wasn’t worth a dime.
What a double standard.
I did the work. I drove more than the pros did. They didn’t get as much track time as I logged on the streets weekly. They likely didn’t do the work on their own cars because they had a team to do it for them. They didn’t have to get out there and talk to pit crews, men who worked at the raceways, etc. because they already had the attention they needed.