Born To Run: A Counterpoints Novella Read online

  Born to Run

  A Counterpoints Novella

  By Laura Rossi

  Editing by Gem Louise Evans

  Cover by Talia’s Book Covers

  © 2018, Laura Rossi

  Self publishing

  [email protected]

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  To all the lovely ladies in my readers group “La Dolce Vita with Laura Rossi”.

  To Vera, Gem, Carol, Stina, Monja, Melissa, Whitney, Lucrezia, Johnna, Johanna, Alison, Beverly, Kiera, Toya, Louise, Marley, Talia and….to all of 180 members of the group.

  This book is for you, thank you for giving this little ‘Italian spaghetti eater’ a chance. Love you all <3

  Introduction to Born to Run

  Dear Reader, thank you for reading this Counterpoints Novella.

  I feel the need to write a little intro to explain a few things, especially if you haven’t read the Counterpoints series.

  Now, the three books are about a race driver called Christopher who falls for his PR Isabella.

  Noah is a secondary character in the series and this Novella is all about him.

  If you haven’t read the series, let me tell you that Noah is a douche. He acts like one in book 1, kind of gets worse in book 2 but in book 3 he sort of explains himself and why he did what he did.

  Noah is very honest, speaks his mind. He’s known for his outbursts with the press, he keeps away from other race drivers. He’s not friends with many, besides Christopher. Noah is one of the few top drivers that made it to the top, without being the son or grandson of famous race drivers. He has no connections, but he’s so talented, he made his way up the ladder all by himself.

  Noah has said bad things to the press, he’s thrown his stuff around when he missed a chance to win. He pushed his team mate Christopher off track, risked both their lives. He’s made a lot of mistakes, but he was under a lot of pressure. He knew they wanted to give him the bullet, his position was in jeopardy. A younger race driver with more connections than him, wanted his seat in MB Racing Team.

  So this story takes from where we left Noah in the Counterpoints series. He’s lost his fight, he’s been kicked out of First Category Racing and there’s a flashback at the beginning of the novella.

  He thinks his fight is over, but it’s just the beginning. Noah will realize there is so much more worth fighting for ??

  Enjoy xxx

  Laura

  Prologue

  Noah

  The room was quiet, nobody dared to speak.

  Yet, I thought, scanning the place quickly.

  I recognised every single one of the journalists there. All the major magazines, newspapers and TV channels were present.

  Out the corner of my eye, I noticed a few were whispering amongst themselves, eyeing me a little suspiciously.

  ‘What the hell did he do now?’ I imagined them thinking. They didn’t have a clue but I knew.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the Chairman of First Category Racing touched the microphone and signalled for everyone to take a seat.

  “Thank you all for coming. As mentioned earlier, there will be an announcement on behalf of the MB team. I’ll let Mr. Johnson take the matter into his safe hands. There will be a ‘questions and answers’ session later on. Mr. Johnson,” the man shuffled some papers and leaned on the table, waiting for Aaron Johnson to carry on.

  I turned to look at him too, he adjusted his microphone, stared down at his papers while talking to the press. His forehead was a little shiny, his face glum.

  I was impressed. Mr. Johnson was delivering his speech in a very elegant, concise and politically correct manner.

  Bla, bla bla.

  “As you all know, we as a team don’t make decisions lightly.”

  That’s right because it really wasn’t your decision to take, I thought but stopped myself from shaking my head. I kept staring at my team manager, doing my best not to lose it.

  “Times are changing,”

  What are you going to say next? Let’s make room for young people?

  “It is with our deepest regret,”

  So deep, you agreed to this overnight, I thought.

  “That we must change a few things in our current line-up.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sakes. Just say it.

  “Noah will not be racing with us next year. His position will be filled by Second Category race driver, Fredrik Thompson.”

  Boom! There you go.

  The mumbling grew louder and louder, at every word out of Mr. Johnson’s mouth.

  Shocked faces, concerned whispers and stares surrounded us. I just nodded, keeping my face serious, unreadable.

  Yes, Mr. Johnson had delivered a clean speech and was still saying all the right things, talking over the mumbling press.

  “We will all miss him,” and “The contribution he has given to the sport, our team has grown over the past six years thanks to his commitment and work,” and “It will be difficult to see him go.”

  What a way to shoot someone in the back and come out clean, it took a lot of willpower to stop myself from clapping my hands.

  Alright I was bitter, yes even though I knew that deep down it wasn’t Mr. Johnson’s fault. What he was brilliantly attempting to do, was damage control, but I knew it hadn’t been MB’s decision. A series of things had led them to this conclusion, a series of things most of which I, and only I, was responsible for.

  I had failed the sponsors. I had lost my concentration, lost my mind. Racing should have been my only focus, not the rest, not all the buzz and noise that surrounded it. But I had messed things up.

  I had let gossip, whispers in the corridors control me. I had lost it. All of it.

  It’s over!

  This wasn’t just a goodbye conference, it was a boot kick. I had one foot out of First Category Racing already and this time nothing could save my ass.

  “Mr. Johnson, why did you decide to remove a driver and announce it before the championship is over? Isn’t that something you’d normally avoid, so that the driver doesn’t feel pressured during races?” one of the journalists in the front row asked, her hand still up as she spoke.

  Darling, the decision was taken at the beginning of the year. I knew, they knew, little Fredrik Thompson knew, I sat up a little and cleared my throat.

  For a moment I thought I should have just taken the microphone and told them all what I really thought. I could have said all the things I kept inside. What a perfect opportunity to just vent and tell the world how subtle and two-faced the sport really was. That was politics, right there, in that room, in that moment.

  Fredrik Thompson was part of the whole show. He was young, he was average but good enough to make the change and he had the money. Power. He was the perfect image for the sponsors. They all wanted him.

  “Please, let us first finish our speeches. I know Noah would like to say something,” Mr. Johnson turned to look at me and our stares crossed for a moment.

  But he couldn’t look at me in the eye. He was a man of pride an honour after all. M
r. Johnson was a good man and he knew what they were doing to me – what had been decided at the beginning of the year- was wrong. I was still an excellent driver, always in the top five, but I didn't have the connections. I wasn’t powerful enough, because I never really cared about all that jazz. All I wanted was to race and they were taking that away from me. It was dishonourable, but Mr Johnson’s hands were tied.

  That’s okay, it’s not your fault. I would have found a chance to tell him later.

  It was my turn to speak, my turn to say what I had to say.

  I took my time and sipped my water slowly and then looked around the room before talking.

  I could leave and cause quite a stir here today, I thought to myself.

  It would certainly have felt great, liberating. Right?

  There were many options, many ways to leave a memory of me behind in the sport. I could have chosen to leave the same way I had arrived- strong, determined, fearless- telling things the way they were, none of that sentimentalism, politically correct bullshit.

  I wasn’t given a choice, they're giving me the boot because I am not powerful enough, I am not diplomatic enough, I am not young enough. Little Fredrik has had his eyes on my seat for a while now and they served it to the little shit on a silver platter. All I want to do is race, I don’t give a damn about the rest. Ass-kissing isn’t really my thing. I just want to drive my car and put on a show. My show. Drive fast and win against the odds, make it to the top on my own two feet. That show is my life.

  And that was the truth, but there was more. I was so tired. So tired of fighting. I’d never felt so sick of fighting my way through the championship. Did I have to fight my way out of it, too? No, I was done.

  Nobody had offered me a place anywhere else. The sponsors had abandoned me. I had fucked with them for years and now they were fucking me. Quite right, too.

  And I was giving up on the idea of pushing on. There was nothing to fight for. Not there, not anymore.

  In that room- all eyes on me, waiting for me to speak- I decided I didn’t want to be remembered as the driver that couldn’t lose with honour. That was me losing, saying goodbye to my privileges and the life I’d fought so hard to conquer.

  I was losing everything and there was no reason denying it.

  I win like a champion, I lose like a champion.

  So I decided to use the filters for once and take a step back. I was more diplomatic than Mr. Johnson. I told the press exactly what they wanted to hear.

  Someone banged on the front door so hard, I sat up straight and cursed under my breath.

  Again, they banged on my door and I had to hold my head.

  ‘Go away’, I thought. I couldn’t even bother to say it out loud. I was so tired and the hangover from the night before was looming over me.

  Another knock, this time it sounded like a foot smashing against my door.

  Oh Jesus, I got up and almost fell to the floor.

  The sound echoed in my head, pushed against my temples and I held my hands up to hold my face again.

  Shit, who is it?

  Whoever it was, he wasn’t going away from the sound of it. There was another loud knock, but this time I heard a voice behind the closed door.

  I crossed the room in a haste, staggering, my shoulder hitting every wall on the way to the front room, but I didn’t even feel the pain. I must have had alcohol still running through my veins. I just mumbled something incomprehensible under my breath and reached for the door. The banging was still going.

  I was in my pants, no shirt, my hair was all over the place, my beard messy.

  Indecent, that’s what I was, and I hoped to scare, whoever it was, the hell out of my house.

  If this is another journalist, I am going to…. I thought pulling the door, opening my mouth to shout at the intruder but instead I gaped, stunned.

  “Is this how you open the door?” Christopher stared down at me in disgust, eyebrows up.

  Well, maybe I smelled a little too. Fine. I wasn’t exactly the figment of a crisp clean and well shaven gentleman. And I couldn’t have cared less. I'd had a rough night.

  A rough night that turned into a rough week and ended with yesterday’s even rougher night, I thought.

  “What are you doing here, Taylor?” I forced myself to stand straight at the door, as a last attempt to pick up the pieces of my downfall.

  Too late for that, I guess.

  Behind his cool, black shades, Christopher kept staring at me, with that good boy, ‘I am so sorry for you’ look on his face.

  I hate this shit, I rolled my eyes.

  “I want to talk to you Noah,” Christopher moved forward a little, as to walk through the door but I didn’t move an inch.

  “I am not in the mood for this crap,” I said, holding my head again.

  I won’t touch a single drop of liquor… for a while. I cursed and frowned, under Christopher’s serious stare.

  “What?” I snapped and regretted it immediately. My temples were killing me, I pressed my fingers against them.

  “Let me in. I don’t want photographers to see you like this, douche,” Christopher took a step forward, his shoulder brushing against mine and he held my stare.

  As if I gave a damn. Photographers had been all over me for days after the conference, after it was announced I was out of MB, out of First Category. I had done nothing but drink, party and fuck my brains, to the point I didn’t even bother getting up from bed until evening.

  And why did Christopher of all people give a damn? Why, especially after all that had happened that year, on track between us? After the arguing, the duelling during races?

  After me pushing him off track, like the dickhead that I am.

  Nevertheless, I let Christopher walk into my house and I closed the door behind us. Even if there was nothing Christopher could do, nothing he could say to make things go back the way they were.

  Why was he even there? Didn’t he have more important things to think about? Like the Championship? Isabella?

  Christopher paced the living room for a few minutes, searching the place, finally removing his shades to take a good look at me.

  “Can I take a seat?”

  “Suit yourself,” I told him, walking to the counter and pouring a glass of water for myself.

  Painkillers, where are my painkillers for crying out loud?

  “When was the last time you opened a window in here?” Christopher asked and I winced, his words, his questions were nagging me to death.

  “Cut the bullshit, Taylor. What do you want?”

  “I am here to remind you there is a race on Sunday. A race you are expected to attend. And your fans want you to win,” Christopher went straight to the point.

  That was the reason of his visit, to bring me back on track. Literally. I hadn’t trained at all over the past week. No simulator, no exercising. I had been a no show at the MB facility, I hadn’t been there for the briefing on the new components of the car.

  “My fans,” I almost laughed, if it wasn’t for the horrible headache that made me want to knock myself out. “My fans are probably already buying Fredrik’s new T-shirts and caps. Didn’t you hear, Taylor? I am old news. Out with the old, in with the new.”

  “It's nice to see your shitty attitude hasn’t gone,” Christopher snapped back and I stared at him a little stunned. My brows went up, as I settled the glass on the kitchen counter.

  “Have we met?” I snorted and pushed my glass to the side.

  There was silence in the room for a moment, as Christopher gathered his thoughts, his face glum. I knew what he was thinking.

  Maybe it had been a bad idea to come looking for me. Maybe he had gone in over his head, thinking I would listen to him, or anyone for once.

  ‘You are so stubborn, just like when we were kids’, how many times had I heard Christopher say these words to me? Every time we discussed something. Since we had started racing on go-karts.

  “Is this how you want to go? Like this
?” Christopher pointed at me, at the state I was in. “Giving up so easily?”

  “I am not fucking giving up!” that’s when I snapped, really snapped, slamming my hand on the kitchen counter.

  My head, I winced but the resentment was so strong I couldn’t control my outburst.

  Because I wasn’t, I wasn’t giving up. Or was I? Giving up to the idea I was out of the races, giving up to the idea I wasn’t a top driver anymore.

  “Yes, you are!!” Christopher shouted and I looked up at him, as my soon to be ‘ex-team mate’ went on. “You know what they are saying about you?”

  “I don’t care,” I told him but Christopher kept going, like I hadn’t said a thing.

  “They are saying that you are not trustworthy, that you’ll sit out the last races. That they were right about you, that you aren’t a team player, that you are not the driver that you once were.”

  “Maybe I am not the driver I was,” I was quick to say but Christopher shook his head.

  “The hell you are!”

  “Why are you even here, Christopher? Why do you even care? I was an asshole to you, to Isabella.”

  Christopher winced a little, his forehead creased with worry lines.

  I'd mentioned her, I knew she had gone. I’d read it on the newspapers that she had resigned or maybe they had kicked her out, too. I knew better to believe the ‘official statements’ of teams.

  Either way I was sorry for her, but I had warned her. Hadn’t I? How difficult it was to sleep and work with someone. I wondered what had happened to her, if Christopher had hurt her or if Isabella had just had enough.

  Christopher’s voice brought me back to our conversation.

  “Because you are the pillock I grew up with, asshole. And you are screwing things up. Now, get your ass back in that car. Show them, show them what you are made of.”

  “Go away,” I groaned, rounding the corner and heading out of the kitchen.

  I didn’t need that, another person lecturing me. Another person telling me what to do or where I went wrong.