Page 117 of Full Throttle

Dominic’s voice was sullen. “I’m fine.”

Ranya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. Even I didn’t believe that, Hastings. Pull your shit together.” She turned. “We have a race to win.”

“Noted,” Dominic muttered.

He got into the car. His fingers were numb as he steered the car onto the track. Anthony’s smug words played like a sick merry-go-round: I took her back to my hotel, and I fucked her. It couldn’t be true, obviously. Juliette had stayed on the rooftop in Milan. Things had happened between them. Monumental, earth-shattering things. And yes, she’d gone back to her hotel alone afterward because she’d wanted space, but it wasn’t like she’d seek Sinclair out.

Would she?

Unless Anthony had lured her to his hotel. Unless the bastard had invented an emergency with Cap, and Juliette had gone, and then he’d gotten her drunk and taken advantage of her emotional state and he’d…he’d…

Dominic gritted his teeth.

“Hastings?” His radio crackled. “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah.” It came out as a grunt.

Blake, his race engineer, was typing something. “Steady into turn one, okay? Your tires will take a second to warm up. That track is cold as a well-digger’s ass.”

Dominic’s smile was hollow. Normally, he found Blake’s Americanisms amusing, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh today. “Not sure the broadcast channels are going to appreciate the language, mate.” Five lights flickered on. His foot hovered over the gas pedal. “Here we go. Wish me luck.”

Blake slurped. Back on the sweet tea, no doubt. “Slow and steady, buddy. We need a good qualifying today.”

The lights went out.

Dominic shot forward. Cars slid. Wheels locked up. He swore, scrambling for the wheel. They might as well have been driving socks on a hardwood floor, for all the grip he had. He skidded into the second corner, and the crowd groaned. He wondered distantly if his father was watching from the team garage. The commentators, he thought grimly, must be having a field day.

An agonizing lap passed.

Two.

Dominic gritted his teeth.

Blake came on the radio. “Q1 is almost done. We need to put in a good lap.”

“We’re in the drop zone?”

A pause. “We are.”

Well. That wasn’t good. Dominic gripped the wheel. There were three sectors in qualifying, with five drivers eliminated after each sector; if he wanted a shot at winning the race tomorrow, he needed to make it to Q3 and qualify in the top ten.

Alas.

“On it,” Dominic muttered.

He punched a few buttons. A red car blinked into view, with the number 1 emblazoned on the back. Anthony sodding Sinclair. Dominic gritted his teeth. A pulse pounded in his forehead. Those same smug words played on repeat: She tastes like strawberries.

Red flooded his vision.

Dominic slammed on the gas, tearing left.

Sinclair moved.

Dominic realized what was about to happen a half second before it did.

Their cars collided. The world toppled. Dominic was spinning, and there was the sensation of a teacup ride, the same dizzying, vomit-inducing vertigo. There was a crunch from behind. The world stopped moving, but something warm trickled down his side. Blood? Smoke assaulted his senses. His engine must have been on fire. Move, Dominic thought dizzily, but his body wouldn’t respond.

A speaker crackled.