Page 136 of Full Throttle

Kabir Chaudhury’s taillights came into view. A pulse beat in her throat, and Juliette gritted her teeth. Everything was a muddle in her head. Dominic. Paris. The interview. The backlash. Shoving the emotions down wasn’t working; they only punched back harder, like a beach ball held underwater.

Time to change tactics.

Juliette drew a breath. Then she let the emotions flood her.

She thought of the Sunday morning she went shopping at IKEA for a new bed with her mother. Juliette had wanted a blue race car bed, and the saleswoman had shaken her head, her hand jumping to her throat. “Oh, no, honey,” she’d said. “That one’s for boys. How about the princess bed?”

Her grip on the wheel tightened.

Juliette barreled into a turn, overtaking Kabir. The Las Vegas crowd roared. Blood pumped through her veins, hot and fast.

She could do this. She had to do this.

She overtook at pace: Gunther Wagner and Zuri Gudeta, Ross McDonald and Alex Forth…A commentator was shouting, his American accent carrying across the racetrack. The crowd was a coiled spring.

“Thirty laps to go.” Hamish’s voice was tense. “You’re in P11.”

Juliette punched a button. “Hastings?”

“Two positions ahead.”

So Dominic was in the points. That was good, at least. Thinking of him brought a fresh wave of pain, but she welcomed it, letting it scorch through her veins like liquid kerosene. Fuel was made to burn. Every driver knew that.

“DRS available,” Hamish offered. “You know what to do.”

Yes. She did.

She overtook Igor Petrov next, then Matteo Sanchez. Liêm flipped her off as she passed, although she could have sworn he was grinning. She edged closer to Frederick Von Galen; his blue car was a feral dog, snapping at the rear of the car ahead of him.

Hamish sounded incredulous. “I can’t fucking believe this. P8. Let’s keep pushing.” A pause, followed by a heated exchange of whispers. When Hamish came back on the radio, his voice had flattened. “Change of plans. Robert wants you to pit.”

Juliette’s heart plummeted. “Now?”

“Aye.”

“But we’ll lose the advantage. It’d be better to wait and then—”

“Box, box.” Hamish sounded resigned. “That’s an order, I’m afraid.”

Juliette let out a string of curses. She tore down the pit lane, screeching to a stop by the team garage. Crew rushed out with tires. Juliette drummed her fingers on the wheel. Every second was a fresh agony. Robert turned to look at her from the pit wall; even from this distance, she could see that he was smiling.

Smugly.

The team stepped back. She tore out of the pit lane, shooting onto the track.

“Where are we?”

Hamish paused. “P14.”

Juliette’s chest tightened. So she’d lost six places. All because Robert hadn’t wanted her to overtake his son.

Well. No, thank you.

Juliette shot forward. Her tires ate up the track, a snarling beast released from its cage. She overtook those same drivers again, then passed James Astor for good measure. Von Galen’s car drew closer, still gnashing at the next car ahead with sharp teeth. A whispered argument sounded over her radio.

“What is it?” Juliette demanded.

The whispering paused. She clutched the wheel.