Throttled (Dirty Air Series Book 1) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Lauren Asher.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  THROTTLED

  Editing: Erica Russikoff

  Proofreading: Sarah, All Encompassing Books

  Cover Model: Justin Edward Hughes @justin_edwardh

  Cover Photography: Jono Madison, Jono Photography @jonophotography

  Cover Designer: Books and Moods

  Interior Formatting: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing

  Mom,

  Thank you for everything,

  including the holy water

  you’ll bathe me in after you read this book.

  Contents

  Playlist

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  Epilogue

  COLLIDED coming May 2020!

  Acknowledgements

  Playlist

  “God’s Plan” – Drake

  “High Horse” – Kacey Musgraves

  “HUMBLE.” – Kendrick Lamar

  “I Think He Knows” – Taylor Swift

  “Antisocial” – Ed Sheeran and Travis Scott

  “Mixed Emotions” – Emily Weisband

  “Animals” – Maroon 5

  “Bailando” – Enrique Iglesias

  “Torn” – Ava Max

  “Sorry (Latino Remix)” – Justin Bieber ft. J. Balvin

  “Never Be the Same” – Camila Cabello

  “Dusk Till Dawn” – Zayn ft. Sia

  “Locked Out of Heaven” – Bruno Mars

  “Proud” – Marshmello

  “Anywhere” – Rita Ora

  “Die a Happy Man” – Thomas Rhett

  Prologue

  Noah

  Two Years Earlier

  I inhale deeply, welcoming the smell of rubber and engine exhaust before I pull down the visor on my helmet. Gloved hands grip the steering wheel of my Bandini Formula 1 race car, my fingers trembling from the engine’s vibrations while the metal hood rattles. The Abu Dhabi Grand Prix crowd bursts with excitement as the crew pulls off my tire warmers. Yesterday’s successful qualifier sets me up in a first-place grid spot, and as long as I don’t fuck it up, the World Championship title will be mine for the taking.

  One by one, red lights illuminate above me, shining off the hood’s glossy red paint. Fans silently wait. Lights shut off to signal the start of the Grand Prix. I press against the throttle, and my car rushes down the straight road before I pull up to the first turn. Tires skid across the pavement, squeals sounding off behind me from other drivers. But I suffer from tunnel vision on the track. It’s just me and the road.

  “Noah, I want to let you know Liam Zander’s behind you, followed by Jax Kingston and Santiago Alatorre. Keep up the pace and mind your turns.” The team principal’s voice carries over the radio in my helmet.

  I stay defensive of my position, making it difficult for anyone to overtake my car at the turns. The hum of the engine fills me with exhilaration as I speed down another straight at over two hundred miles per hour. Fans scream as I pass them. My foot presses on the brake seconds before I make another turn, soft tires screeching against the asphalt. Music to my ears.

  The first few laps of the race go without a hitch. Adrenaline flows through my body as Liam’s car comes up next to mine at one of the curves, the recognizable steel-gray paint glistening under the desert sun. His engine roars. I pull a risky move, pushing on the brake a few seconds later than recommended for a curb. Metal trembles as the right tires lift off the ground before slamming back down. Liam pulls back, unable to pass me, as my car surges forward.

  A mechanic talks into the radio. “That was a dangerous turn. Relax out there, you still have fifty-two more laps to go. No reason to drive cocky.”

  I chuckle at the advice. After a grueling season fighting off Liam, Santiago, and Jax, I have one last Grand Prix between me and the World Championship win.

  “Santiago cut in front of Liam at the last turn. Don’t underestimate him, he wants the win.” More chatter echoes through the radio.

  Speak of the devil, Santiago’s royal blue car shows up in my side mirror. I shake my head as my car hugs another turn. He acts like a young shit who tries to show off a little too much, attempting to make a name for himself with his team and the F1 circuit. His skills are decent for a new guy, but one too many close calls during this race season make me hesitant to let him get close.

  The fucker races right up to my rear wing, closing the gap between our cars—unwise for the narrow set of twists coming up. My heart pumps rapidly. Hands clench around the steering wheel as I take a few deep breaths. Inhale, exhale—yoga shit. I don’t fold on my first-place spot, having no interest in letting Santiago overtake my car. Gray pavement blurs past me. On the next straight road, Santiago pulls up to my side, our wheels nearly touching. Just a few inches apart.

  Both engines rev as the accelerators hit their maximum. I push into first place again at the next turn, my front wing creeping ahead of his.

  Fuck me.

  Instead of Santiago jerking back, he speeds up. Motherfucking idiot.

  The whole situation happens in slow motion, like a movie, playing frame by frame. Me, a useless bystander. Bandini’s team principal yells in my ear about pulling back, but the sound of crunching metal tells me I’m too late.

  Santiago’s car makes contact with mine at about one hundred and ninety miles per hour, a catastrophic hit I won’t recover from. I curse as the wheels of my car lift off the ground and I end up airborne. Fucking flying before making contact with the road.

  My race car flips over twice and drags across the pavement, sparks flying around my head, cement within touching distance. Thank fuck for the protective halo. The shrill sound of scraping steel hurts my ears until my car stops moving. Ragged breaths leave my lungs, pushing through my tight throat.

  “Noah, are you okay? Any possible injuries? The safety team is on their way.”

  “Negative on any injuries. That piece of shit fucking hit me, knocked me out like a fucking bumper car.” Anger courses through me at Santiago’s carelessness. I plan on punching him the moment he enters the Cool Down room after the Prix. Knock that pretty boy smile right off his face.

  “Oh, shit! Noah, brace yourself!”

  A chill runs down my spine. Unable to move with my body trapped, I sit while Jax’s car swerves before ramming into mine, the turn from earlier making me vulnerable to another hit. Holy shit. My body shudders and my head painfully bounces ag
ainst the headrest while our cars spin out of control. The hit jerks me, my body aching in ways I didn’t think possible.

  I can kiss my Championship win goodbye. All thanks to Santiago and his stupidity, pulling a move he shouldn’t have to get seconds ahead. Fucking reckless of him. My head clouds as adrenaline wears off and my body gives in to the pain.

  “Fuck you, Santiago. Enjoy your Championship win because it’ll be your last.” I don’t give a shit about everyone hearing my team radio. Let fans and him know I hate his guts. Santiago can act like hot shit now, but I’ll come back for him. Asshole started a fight he won’t win.

  Black spots fog my vision, the combination of being upside down and being hit twice is too much for my body to handle. I’m fucking helpless as the safety crew works to situate my car right-side up. I stew in my toxic mood and smack my hands against the steering wheel to the hammering of my heart.

  I grunt at paramedics who check for any injuries. My body gets an all-clear with nothing to report except for a bruised ego and blood pressure through the roof. The safety team drops me off back at the Bandini suites, and I surge past the pit crew, not interested in pleasantries or fake claps on the back telling me how everything will be okay. I don’t want to hear people say how I’ll win the Championship next year.

  I take the steps up to my suite two at a time, ready for who waits behind the doors. My lungs burn from taking a deep breath. Fuck, more like ten breaths, in and out, the rhythm finally calming me.

  I open the door to find two people I’d rather not see anytime soon. Preferably not within the next ten years, give or take. My dad paces the small suite, his broad shoulders commanding the space, chest heaving in and out to the tempo of his feet. His dark hair looks disheveled for once, and his deep blue eyes narrow at me. Mother dearest parks herself on a gray couch. Her icy eyes don’t meet mine as she stares at her nails. Blonde hair perfectly coifed, her body is posed against the cushions like the has-been model she is. Lucky for her, she sunk her claws into my dad and snagged the ultimate prize of a child with a famous F1 racer. She hit the DNA jackpot with a son who rivals the man she married.

  Quite the family, right? A broken, mangled history of missed birthdays, uncelebrated holidays, and empty bleachers at most Formula races. The only reason they both attended this Prix was because Dad wanted to reminisce while Mom showed off to her friends how grand life is for someone who birthed a racing all-star. Neither one came for me.

  “What the fuck was that?” My dad’s voice grates across my skin like a knife. His pointed eyes cut into mine, assessing for any signs of weakness. He suffers from resting dick face with wrinkles marring the sensitive skin near his eyes. Unfortunately for me, I look like him. Dark hair with a wave, blue eyes that challenge the Caribbean ocean, and a tall frame that stands toe to toe against him.

  I place a palm against my race suit. “Well, shit. Someone told me I was driving for a top F1 team, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.”

  “Someone told me you were supposed to be a World Champion this year, but maybe I shouldn’t have believed them.” My dad’s voice snaps back.

  Ah, there’s the viper we all know and hate. See, my dad may be a legend to everyone in the F1 community, but to me, he’s a snake straight from the pits of hell. One sent from the Devil himself. A venomous man who does nothing but scold me, funding my career with the lovely bonus of tearing me down whenever he has the chance. But in front of everyone else, he acts like a doting dad who supports my racing career, both financially and emotionally. He could win an Oscar for Best Supporting Jackass.

  “Scared of me contesting your three-title standing? Thought you’d be happy with me staying in your shadow, forever trying to catch up to the legendary Nicholas Slade.” Distaste colors my voice.

  He closes the gap between us and grabs me like the good old days. His fists tighten around my race suit, eyes barely concealing the rage that bubbles within. I can tell he battles between hitting me and verbally sparring with me.

  I roll my eyes, feigning indifference despite my heart rapidly beating in my chest. “Your predictability bores me. What are you going to do? Slap me around to remember how much of a dick you are?” My voice stays firm.

  My dad and I have a tumultuous history at best. The first three years of my life were fun, but ever since I began karting, it was game over. Ironic how the best years of my life became the worst. Gone was the dad who took me to the park to ride my bike or throw a football around. Every year he got worse when all I wanted to do was please him, pushing myself to become one of the best drivers in karts. Then it became Formula phases, forever seeking his love and approval at the expense of my childhood. Desperate for anything to stop his private rituals. Fans don’t know the real me, the shit I dealt with to impress my dad, the weekly beatings I received if I placed anything below first. My ass never met a belt I liked.

  Slaps became punches that upgraded into verbal lashings once I reached his height. My dad stripped away my childhood at the expense of my humanity. Because to survive the worst of them, you eventually become them.

  I stare into my dad’s eyes and look at the monster who made me. He got his wish. To please him and protect myself, I became everything he is, minus smacking people around. I’m an asshole with walls higher than the Grand fucking Canyon.

  He leers at me, his words a snarl against his clenched teeth. “I lost thousands because of your shitty-ass display out there. Congratulations on being runner-up. Wonder how it feels to kiss a whole year of your life away. You can’t live in my shadow when you don’t deserve to breathe the same air as me.”

  His anger doesn’t faze my mother, who sits there and watches us, eyes cold and dead, just like her personality. A useless waste of space who plays the role of a mother whenever convenient. She chooses to turn a blind eye every damn time he gets this way, indifference evident in her blank gaze. I’d honestly forget she talks except for when she calls me to ask for exclusive tickets and backstage passes.

  “Then you should step away. Don’t want to get near me because I hear being a loser is contagious.” I grip his hands and push him the fuck off me. He doesn’t back down, keeping eye to eye with me as he sneers.

  “You’re such a fuck-up, ever since you were born. The only reason you got this far was because of me and my investments since no other person would have sponsored your sorry ass. A pompous brat who acted out, pretending to be tough when you really cried into your pillow at night about a mommy who didn’t love you and a daddy who beat your ass weekly.”

  I shrug, hoping to come off careless. Inside, my blood burns hot, edginess creeping up my spine in the hopes of a fight—an unlucky genetic inheritance from this man.

  “Darn, Dad, sorry. Would you like to wipe your eyes with a couple of hundred-dollar bills? What a disappointment to raise someone who has three World Championship titles already.”

  “The disappointment wasn’t raising you. It’s seeing the pathetic excuse of a man you’ve become. Enjoy your second-place parade. I know it’s been a while for me, but I heard the first-place view on the podium is best.” He sends me an evil smile before stepping away.

  Check-fucking-mate.

  1

  Maya

  “Maya Alatorre, Bachelor of Arts in Communications.” The announcer states my degree in both English and Spanish. My parents and Santi beam at me from their seats off to the side of the stage, waving signs amongst other parents of graduates from the Universitat de Barcelona. I clutch the most expensive piece of paper in my hands, the rough texture pressing against my fingertips, reminding me of my efforts to graduate today.

  I sit myself back in the sea of students cloaked in cheap polyester gowns. After a few speeches, we move our tassels to the side, signifying the end of our university days. Five grueling years and two major changes later, I can happily say I graduated. Turns out I wasn’t cut out for a biology degree; I fainted during a dissection lab when my partner cut into a baby pig’s stomach. And pre-law didn
’t exactly work out for me; I threw up in a nearby trash can during my first debate, forfeiting before the questions began. People would count these restarts as failures, but I think they built character. That and resilience for messing up.

  It took me two internships to discover my interest in film and production. I add myself to the unemployed post-grad statistic because finding jobs in film is a lot harder than I thought.

  My family meets me outside, the views of Barcelona greeting us while the cool December air brushes against my skin, which is poorly protected by the cheap grad outfit. We all pull in for a group hug before they take pictures of me. I get a boatload of congratulations and kisses, along with a slip of an envelope from my brother, Santiago.

  “For the graduate. Took you long enough.” He sends me a smile before smacking the top of my cap. We look similar yet different, thank God. Dark, thick hair matches our light brown eyes, long lashes, and olive skin. Our similarities end there. Santi inherited a tall gene from a distant relative while I stopped growing by eighth grade. He rocks week-old stubble and a goofy smile while I prefer a more mischievous grin that matches the glint in my eyes. He works out seven days a week while I count climbing up stairs to get to class as my daily workout.

  Santi’s phone rings and he steps away to answer it.

  My mother poses me and takes more pictures. She and I look alike, all honey eyes, short stature, and hair with enough wave and volume to look good when I wake up.

  “We’re extremely proud of you. Both of our babies are out doing good things in the world,” my mom says as she snaps a picture of me rolling my eyes. Her accent has a lull to it, a product of learning English from hotel guests at her job.

  I groan when she smacks a big kiss on my cheek, leaving behind a smudge of her lipstick.

  My dad mumbles about her needing to treat me like a grown woman. Look at me, now called a mature adult, all at the toss of a graduation cap. His smile reaches his brown eyes, wrinkles creasing at the corners as he looks down at me. He has thick hair that competes with Santi’s, a short beard, and a lean frame. Santi looks like a younger, more muscular version of our dad.