Page 118 of Full Throttle

“Hastings?” Blake demanded. “Hastings, can you hear me?”

Dominic rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Something warm trickled down his cheek. He hoped it was sweat. “The bastard hit me.”

“I saw.” Blake’s voice was terse. “We’re already contacting the stewards. He has to move out of your way during qualifying. Those are the rules.”

Dominic closed his eyes. “The car?”

“Damaged.”

“How badly?”

A long pause. “Badly.”

“And Sinclair?” Dominic asked shortly. The bastard could be in the wall, and he wouldn’t give a shit, but it felt polite to ask.

“He’s fine.” Blake didn’t sound happy about it. “Minimal damage. Just swiped you from the side and spun off.”

“But I thought…” Dominic frowned. He was almost certain a car had rear-ended him. “Was there another vehicle involved?” A long pause. He could hear Blake’s breathing, as well as a whispered conversation. “Blake?”

“Can you get out of the car?”

Something cold trickled down Dominic’s spine. “Blake? Who was in the other car?”

Another pause. Dominic gripped the wheel.

“Marchmont,” Blake admitted.

Dominic was out of the car, stumbling onto the track. Smoke spiraled into the gray sky, filling the air with the scent of burnt rubber. Two identical cars sat on the track. They reminded him of chewing gum, Dominic thought numbly, great blue wads stamped under impatient feet. Juliette wasn’t in her vehicle.

“Where is she?”

His heart rocketed. More whispering over the radio.

“Blake.” His voice was a whipcrack. “Where the fuck is she?”

“The hospital,” Blake said. “But, Dom, don’t—”

Too late.

Dominic was already running.

Chapter 37

Hidden Injuries

An hour later Dominic was tearing through the local hospital. Antiseptic burned his nostrils. Everything was the sound of rattling wheels, the beep of machines, and sterile white walls. Nausea rose in his chest. Hospitals were, in his opinion, the waiting room to hell; he’d been to them often during his mother’s chemotherapy, and he’d never planned to be in one again.

Until now.

His phone buzzed. Dominic didn’t bother to glance at the screen; his father had called six times, but that was a problem for later.

Dominic paused at a desk. The nurse looked to be in his thirties, and he was playing a game of Angry Birds. He looked up as Dominic approached.

“Hang on.” The nurse paused. “Aren’t you—?”

“Juliette Marchmont,” Dominic said breathlessly. “Is she here?”

“Are you family?”