Page 120 of Full Throttle

He cut off abruptly. Cap blanched. For the first time, his anger seemed to waver. “You heard that?”

“I did.”

Cap looked down at his shoes. Dominic turned to Baz.

“Five minutes.” Sod it. He wasn’t above pleading. “I just need to…” I need to see her. To reassure myself that she’s alive, that she’s not dead, that my stupid rivalry with Sinclair didn’t kill her. “I won’t stay long.”

“Hastings…” Baz rubbed at his face. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He seemed to choose his next words carefully. “She’s really shaken up. The doctors want to monitor her in case there are hidden injuries, and considering your history…We don’t want anything to agitate her.”

“But—”

“She needs rest,” Baz said, and his voice was polite but firm.

Dominic looked between the two men. He felt something in him deflate, the air rushing out like a punctured tire. Could he force his way past? Probably. He had an inch on both drivers, as well as adrenaline.

But was it worth it?

He glanced at the room. Juliette was probably curled up on a cot, hooked up to wires. She would be angry, certainly; the crash was his fault, and it had ruined their chances at the championship. Sinclair would win tomorrow. But he could handle that. Dominic wasn’t afraid of anger.

But seeing Juliette hurt…knowing that it was his fault, that he’d spun out and left her no time to brake…

Something in Dominic’s chest cracked open.

“Just tell her I stopped by. Please.”

Cap looked like there was a better chance of purple guinea pigs springing from the earth. Baz pulled at his sleeves. Blue paint caked his fingernail beds, oddly bright in the sterile white corridor. “We will.”

Dominic strode down the corridor. He made it to the waiting room before pulling out his phone: six missed calls from Ranya, two from Liêm, and a half dozen texts from various drivers and pit crew members, but it was the last text that caught his eye.

Vance: Come see me.

Sent ten minutes ago.

Dominic knocked on the door.

Paper shuffled within. A television blared—the Vegas qualifying highlights, no doubt—and the volume was lowered, but not muted. Dominic glanced at his watch. He’d been standing here for at least a minute, which had to be a tactic; Vance liked his opponent squirming by the time he allowed them entrance.

“Come in,” Vance called.

Dominic pushed open the door.

His father stood by the window. Vance was dressed in a white suit, his hair smelling of orange pomade. He’d put a surprising amount of effort into decorating his temporary Las Vegas space, Dominic observed; Christmas decorations littered the office: a fir tree, golden baubles, a smattering of potpourri…

He picked up a glittery reindeer; it was the sort of thing that his father used to shake his head at when they walked by Harrods. It will never cease to amaze me, Vance used to say, how British people celebrate their god with plastic snowmen. That had been when they still celebrated Ramadan and Eid. The days of date-filled cookies and mint tea and offering prayers at the local mosque.

Vance nodded at a chair. “Take a seat.”

Dominic set down the reindeer. “Will this take long? I need a shower.”

His father’s face was impassive. “I saw your crash. Followed by your uncannily swift disappearance from the track.”

Irritation flickered. “And?”

“Is it true?”

“Yes,” Dominic said, deadpan. “I did ski naked in Bulgaria once.”

His father’s mouth twisted. The only sign of his displeasure. “About the girl, I mean.”