Page 30 of Full Throttle

Heat prickled at Juliette’s ears. She was acutely aware of Frederick smirking from the shade of an umbrella. She hadn’t seen the arsehole since the final race at the academy when he’d tampered with her car, although he’d decided to show up today to “lend a hand with the feeder drivers.” Could he hear what Ranya was saying?

God, she hoped not.

“I can handle it,” she said.

“The car will feel bigger,” Ranya warned. “It’s a harder machine to control than what you’re used to driving.”

Juliette crossed her arms. “I’ve done the simulators.” She’d driven the Bahrain racetrack eight times last night. Hell, she’d even done it with her eyes closed.

“It’s different on track. You’ll need to ease into it.”

She looked away. The sun burned her neck, sending sweat trickling down her spine. She was suddenly twelve years old again, running after Cap and Baz through sprinklers, then being chastised by a neighbor because her T-shirt was transparent; she was crying to her mother, wringing the water from her shirt. I don’t understand. Cap and Baz didn’t get in trouble.

Logically, Juliette knew that Ranya was taking her aside because she was a rookie. Dominic had been driving these cars for years. He didn’t need the same level of handholding. But emotionally…

Her stomach clenched.

“I can handle it,” she repeated.

Ranya’s mouth tightened. “Just remember what I said.”

“Ranya!” A journalist waved her over. “Can we get a few comments?”

Ranya shot her a look before starting toward the reporter. Juliette had made it halfway to the car when Frederick appeared, looking annoyingly unaffected by the heat. His bleached hair was bone white in the harsh sunlight, and he wore a rubber bracelet that said #MenForWomen. She’d spotted it at a designer store last week; it retailed for approximately a month’s rent.

“I wonder what will take longer,” Frederick mused. “Changing your tires during a race or changing your tampon.”

Juliette yanked on her balaclava. “I’m not in the mood, Von Galen.”

Frederick clicked his tongue. “Testy. If you need a break, let me know. I don’t mind showing everyone how a car should be driven.”

“Funny,” Juliette said coolly. “I remember outqualifying you in every race at the academy.”

“I beat you in the last one.”

Juliette’s chest tightened. “Only because you fucked with my rear suspension.”

Frederick’s smile grew.

Juliette hopped into the car. If it was any other day—or literally anywhere else—she would have told Frederick Von Galen to go fuck himself. But there were cameras trained on them from every angle, and she knew the sort of things that journalists liked to write about angry women: If a man raised his voice, he was asserting authority; if a woman raised her voice, she was hysterical. It was like one of those Magic Eye puzzles: The same thing was happening, but there were two ways to see it.

“Von Galen,” a male voice said. “I heard about Taurus. Congratulations.”

She looked up. Dominic Hastings stood by her car, watching them with an unreadable expression. He crossed his arms, and Juliette caught the flash of something on his forearm. A tattoo. It must be new, because she couldn’t recall it from before.

Not that it mattered. They weren’t friends.

She didn’t care.

“Hastings.” Any malice that had been in Frederick’s voice was gone. In fact, his voice seemed to have miraculously dropped two octaves. “Nice to see you, mate.”

Dominic nodded at the car. “You ever driven one of these?”

“Oh, yeah,” Frederick said. “All the time. Dad bought me one for my fifteenth birthday.” He shot Juliette a smug look, and she resisted the childish urge to roll her eyes. Barely. “Some of us like to build up experience.”

“Interesting.” Dominic’s dark eyes glittered. “So you’re familiar with all the parts?”

“Extremely.”