Chapter 14
Peter
The feeling of being watched is never a good sign, and ever since I landed on US soil, the anxiety in my gut has intensified, knowing my dad probably will try to make an appearance.
He always does.
Which is why, when he stumbles out of a dark alley—looking worse than I’ve ever seen him—I’m not all that surprised.
He always finds me, or rather, I let him find me.
I guess a part of me will always hope for a day when he’ll wake up and decide that he’s done with this life.
That he’s ready to get the help he needs.
That day isn’t today.
He mumbles, cursing and growling things I can’t decipher as meaningful. I know why he’s here, why he’s sought me out again.
It’s always the same thing.
He wants money for more drugs.
Each time, I beg him to finally get the help he needs. Hoping that this time might be the one that makes a difference.
“Hey, Dad,” I mumble, the word feeling foreign in my mouth.
Dad.
I haven’t had a dad in many years.
Still, I cling to the word, hoping it will mean anything to him.
Desperate for him to see that I would do anything to get him to accept my help.
He looks even thinner than the last time I saw him, which was around eight months ago.
“You fucking ungrateful idiot,” he spits, and I know this is one of the bad days.
Whenever we meet like this, it’s never really a good day, but sometimes he’ll be riding the high from the drugs, and he’ll be happy, at least for a while.
Other times, like now, he’ll curse me and the ground I walk on. Saying I’m an ungrateful bastard. That I left him to this life, even though he was the one choosing the drugs over his family.
At least he knows who I am this time.
I’ve met him when he didn’t know who he’s talking to. The first time that happened, I was scared I’d lost him for good.
In a fucked up way, I believe that as long as he at least remembers me, there is hope for him.
I have to cling to that hope; if not, it will consume me.
“Left me like this. Whilst you live your rich life,” he mumbles, swaying as he walks closer to me.
I look at him, our similarities fading with each day, the drugs eating away at the man I once looked up to.
How could it get this bad?
I’m taking out some dollar bills, knowing he’ll ask for money any time soon.
In the past, I’ve refused to give him any money, but he then tried to sell his story to the press.
The father of the ungrateful F1 driver.
Luckily, no media outlet bought the story; he doesn’t really look like the most reliable source in his state.
He sure knows how to be creative when I refuse him anything. Therefore, I usually give in and just hand over the money, the heaviness eating at me.
To the outside world, it looks like I have the world at my feet.
Money to buy anything I want.
My dream career.
A world champion title under my belt.
Women lined up to take me up on any offer I make.
All I really want, though, is my father to get healthy and sober.
I may have the success I’ve worked for, but it all feels useless in moments like this when I’m faced with the reality of my family history.
He’s never been physical, which is why I don’t see the punch coming before it’s too late.
I crunch over, feeling my lip and cheek.
He hit me.
Punched me right in the face.
Immediately, I feel a pounding in my head and lip, knowing this probably will swell to a nice bruise.
Fucking hell.
This is a new low.
He’s never turned physical, even though there have been times when I was scared for my mother and myself.
He’d be verbal and aggressive, but he’s never raised his hands towards us.
He stumbles away from me, seemingly unaffected by this whole scenario. I guess punching your only son and child is the expected action from a drug addict.
I spit out some blood, realising he cut open my lip with his hit.
For a drunk mess, he sure knows how to pack a punch.
I’m left standing, speechless as he wanders away, the dollar bills in his hand, which I dropped when he hit me.
There might not be a way back from this.
He seems so far gone.
I bring my hands up to my face, the urge to scream tearing at me.
The hole inside me seems darker and more hollow by the second as I take in the situation.
I should probably ice my face to reduce the swelling.
I could probably ask for some ice at the hotel restaurant or call Ryan to help me sort this mess out.
The media will have a field day.
They usually camp outside of my hotel, and with the state of my face, it’s probably not wise to walk through that front door.
Which is why I get in my car and start driving to the only place that feels right.
The only person who seems right.
As I drive through the streets of Austin, the only thought in my mind is that I need to get to Molly.
I need to lessen the noise consuming my brain.
I park my car close to the Star News bus, not caring if anyone notices.
I just want to get to Molly.
It’s tempting to march right up to the door and knock, but if anyone from her team sees me—all bloody and bruised—I’ll have even more people asking questions.
Therefore, I make my way to the window of her room before I softly knock.
I really need her to be here.
As I wait patiently, I hope that this isn’t a night she decided to stay in a hotel.
When the window opens, Molly looks out and gasps when she sees my face.
“Peter, what happened?” she whisper-shouts, probably realising I don’t want to draw any more attention to this situation.
“Explanation later, sweetheart. Help me up,” I tell her before I grab a hold of the window frame.
Molly helps me into the small room, and even though the solidity of the situation weighs on me, I feel slightly better knowing I have her here.
“Wait here, and I’ll go grab some stuff,” she says, and I’m tempted to tell her that, no, I’ll walk right out of that bus after freaking climbing through a window to get here.
She’s gone before I get out my remark.
I sit down on her bed and see an open sketch book and some pencils scattered around. I browse through the pages, stopping when I see a pattern that looks a lot like my tattoo on my throat and chest.
She’s drawn the parts she’s seen.
And it looks beautiful.
I keep going through the book, knowing I’m interfering with her privacy, but I don’t have the will to stop.
She hasn’t just drawn my tattoos. She’s drawn me.
Portraits of my face.
The victory scene from my win.
And even more intense.
She’s drawn me with Arthur. In a hug.
And she’s drawn us.
Together.
As I kissed her.
And I realise I don’t have the will or the power to hold back any longer when it comes to this woman.
I’m so tired.
Of everything.
I hear footsteps, and I close the book quickly, before laying it back where I found it.
Molly comes into the room and puts on a light before she sits down in front of me with different supplies.
First comes the ice. She’s grabbed some frozen vegetables and gently presses them to my cheek.
“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks, her voice low as she looks into my eyes.
I can tell she’s uncertain if I’ll open up.
She knows just as well as I that I haven’t been able to in the past.
But I’m so tired.
Tired of running.
Tired of carrying it all on my own.
So I tell her.
“It’s a long story, but the short version of this specific story is that my drug addict dad hit me,” I say, and instead of feeling the suffocating emotion I’m expecting, I feel lighter getting it off my chest.
When Molly brings her other hand to my own, squeezing my fingers, I feel the emotion in my throat.
“Peter, fuck. I’m so sorry,” she says, and when I look at her, I let out a long breath, soaking in the comfort of having another person to rely on in a heavy moment.
I hang my head, not feeling strong enough to look into her eyes just yet whilst I begin telling her the story of my dad.
A story I’ve never told anyone.
Not like this.
Ryan knows since he was there when it all went down. But I’ve never poured this out like I am right now.
And Molly is holding my hand through it all.
I tell her about the wonderful years we had, before it suddenly turned. The small changes had suddenly grown into something massive and unstoppable. The ugliness was tearing our family apart, and to save ourselves, we had to get out.
“We tried so fucking hard; he just didn’t want to listen,” I say, feeling the tears run down my cheeks.
I’ll probably always feel guilty about leaving him.
That day, it felt like we were giving up on him, but we were trying to save ourselves.
“You couldn’t do anything else,” Molly whispers, pulling my head into her chest as she runs her hands through my hair and holds me close to her.
I tell her about my break in F1 and how the very first paycheck I earned was used to hunt down the whereabouts of my dad, try to get him the help he needed, only for him to take that money and use it for more drugs and alcohol.
Then I get to the part of the fucking suits, and how they know so little, but gladly will run on any story they fabricate.
Most nights, I’ll be stone-cold sober in those clubs, simply trying to numb the loneliness.
“At least now I know why you wanted me to be sober for the first time we kissed,” she murmurs, and I chuckle.
I wipe at my face before I look up at her.
There is so much in those eyes.
Compassion, strength, and empathy.
“Yeah, alcohol can ruin even the best moments. I knew with you that I couldn’t ever have that,” I tell her, and when she brings her hands to my face, I feel dazed.
I’ll gladly take another punch if it means I’ll have her tender touch on my skin.
I lean in, desperate to feel her close to me.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She rests her forehead against my own, and for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m breathing properly.
“Thank you for listening,” I tell her before I softly press my lips to hers.
Our first kiss was all grabby hands and fiery desire.
This is so much more.
This is two souls connecting, and I’m finally letting her in.
When she tastes the blood from my lip, she pulls back.
“You’re still bleeding. I should patch you up,” she whispers.
I’d rather have her lips back on mine, but I decide that there will be plenty of time for that later.
Molly grabs a cotton ball and applies an antibacterial fluid to it, telling me it will probably sting a little.
“I’m a bad boy, remember. I can take it,” I wink at her, which earns me a smile.
Fuck, that smile is everything.
She presses the ball to my lip, and it does sting a little, but nothing I can’t handle.
When she’s all happy with her handiwork, she tells me she’ll add a form of bandage to my lip, holding it together.
“Can I still kiss you?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes at me.
“Yeah, casanova, you can, but we should keep it light,” she tells me.
Fine by me.
As long as I get to have her.