Page 122 of Full Throttle

Vance stopped typing. “What?”

Blood pounded in his ears. “What if I said that I’m giving it all up? Would you still want me as your son?”

“If you recall, I’ve wanted you to do that for months.”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be…” Ashamed. “Just answer the question.”

Vance paused. Something swelled in Dominic’s chest—something fragile, something stupidly hopeful—only to be swiftly crushed when his father resumed typing. “This is pointless. My legal team will call you in the morning.”

It was a clear dismissal. And yet, Dominic couldn’t bring himself to move.

“Do you know,” he said quietly, “why I wanted it so badly? Why I worked my arse off to be the best racer in the world?”

His father cast his eyes skyward. “Dominic.”

“I did it for you. Not for me. For you.”

Vance made a noise. “That’s not—”

“I just wanted to make you proud,” Dominic said. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” I wanted you to love me, he thought desperately.

His father looked at the computer. The screen cast his face in an eerie glow, hollowing out his cheekbones. It made him look older, somehow. More skeletal. Dominic balled his hands. The moment balanced on a knife’s edge, still wet with his blood, a self-mutilation that he presented like an offering.

“Break things off,” Vance said finally. “For your own sake.”

His father went back to typing. Dominic stared. Something great and terrible blazed in his chest, burning everything in its path.

“No.”

Vance looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said,” Dominic said, enunciating the words, “no.”

Vance picked up his phone. “Let me be clear: I’m not offering you a choice. End things with Juliette Marchmont, or I get on the phone with her sponsors and end her career.” His thumb hovered over the screen. “It’s your choice. The same choice I gave you all those years ago.”

Something in Dominic broke.

“Here’s an idea,” Dominic said, his voice rising. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

He hurled the words like a spear to the gut. His father flinched. Blood sang in Dominic’s veins; he felt slightly feral, like an animal loosed from its cage. I have no idea what I’m doing, Dominic thought, and it was frightening and exhilarating in equal parts. This wasn’t him speaking, and yet it was. What a thrilling thing, to realize that you were an entirely different person than you thought you were.

Slowly, Vance lowered his phone. “You can’t speak to me that way.”

“Why not?” Dominic’s heart pounded. “Because you’re my father? You’ve ruined my life.” The word echoed in the silent office. “For years, I’ve put up with your bullshit. Don’t make friends. Train hard. Keep your head down. And for what?” He spread his arms. “For the shot at winning a piece of glass?”

A pulse jumped in Vance’s forehead. “There’s no need for hysterics.”

“Oh, you don’t want to see hysterics,” Dominic said darkly. “Trust me.”

“You were supposed to be sensible.” Vance’s knuckles were tight on his pen. “When I dismissed you from the team, you were supposed to—”

“And you were supposed to love me.”

Dominic felt the words rip from his chest, from some fleshy underbelly that he’d worked so damn hard to exterminate. He was breathing hard, his fingers digging into the wooden chair. He felt like the time he’d driven his hand into the wall, the sharp pain masked by the satisfying smash of pent-up rage.

Vance was staring. “I don’t…I never…”

“You were supposed to love me.” Dominic’s voice broke. “No matter what. That’s what fathers are meant to do.”