Page 142 of Full Throttle

“Well,” her father said, “you’re much braver than me. I still brick it when I have to go onstage after a show and thank the audience. Massive jelly legs.”

She paused. “Really?”

“Always.”

She chewed her lip. The rain was picking up; it would be hard to see the track. “What if I lose today?”

He smiled. “You won’t.”

“But what if I do?”

She tried to hide the anxiety in her voice, but it leaked out anyway. Her father reached down, adjusting the strap of her helmet.

“Can I tell you a secret?” His fingers were warm and sure. “Every winner has started out as a loser. You lose and you lose, and it lights a fire in your belly. And one day, when you win, it’ll feel better for all the times you’ve lost. Does that make sense?”

She considered this. “I’d still like to win, though.”

Her father let out a throaty laugh, as if she’d surprised him. He shook his head, his blue eyes the only patch of warm summer sky. “Then go out there and show them what you’ve got, duck.”

Chapter 45

The Victor

Now

Fireworks erupted, shattering in devastating bursts of vermilion and burnt gold. Someone was screaming into her headset, a blur of Scottish curse words. Hamish. Anthony punched a fist. In anger or victory? Her heart flattened to the back of her rib cage. They’d been so close at the end. Still, she thought—for a second, she thought that—

“Hamish?” she croaked.

Hamish drew a breath. And she knew. She already knew. Tears pricked at her eyes, and the lump in her throat was so thick that it was hard to breathe around.

“Juliette Marchmont,” Hamish said, his voice wavering. “You’ve done it.” She could hear the shit-eating grin in his voice. “You are the world champion.”

And the dam inside her broke.

She cried. Loud, messy sobs. But she didn’t care, didn’t give a single damn as she parked the car. Ranya was the first to reach her, using her cane like a battering ram. Hamish was next, leaping up and down like a madman, but Juliette was scanning the crowd, trying to see past the slapping hands and grinning faces. She could see Anthony swearing and kicking his car, could see Vance shielding his eyes from the pit wall…

And then she saw him.

Dominic was climbing from his car, his helmet tucked under his arm. His dark hair was sweaty from the race, sticking up in all directions, and his skin was flushed. He looked tired, and wrecked, and impossibly handsome, and she couldn’t have said who moved first but she was suddenly flinging her arms around him.

“The dummy.” He shook his head. “That was your idea, wasn’t it? Bloody brilliant—”

“I didn’t know if I would make it—”

“And the tires—”

“You held the others up.” Her throat was raw. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You could have,” Dominic said fiercely, gripping her shoulders. “You did this all by yourself, Marchmont. You deserve the championship.”

The words spilled out of her. “Liêm explained everything. About Vance and the photographs. I thought it was your career on the line, that you’d given me up for racing, and I was hurt but I understood. I really did. But I never imagined…” A lump rose in her throat. “It was my career, wasn’t it? That’s what you were trying to protect.”

Dominic’s throat bobbed. “Yeah.”

She shook her head. “I should have listened. But you also should have told me.”

“I know.”