Page 44 of Full Throttle

“Yeah.” The boy licked his ice cream. “But you crashed it. And anyway, my dad says they only let you in for di…diversity met-tricks.”

The boy stumbled over the last two words, as if the shape was foreign in his mouth. His mother gripped his shoulder. “Jack! That’s quite enough.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry. He doesn’t mean that.”

Juliette offered a small smile. “No offense taken.” She nudged the girl. “I’m sure I’ll see you on track one day.”

Tiggy’s eyes fell to her sparkly shoes. Her mother ushered her son into the crowd, chastising him in a low voice. Baz leaned over, and there was an unbearable amount of sympathy in his eyes.

“You okay?”

Juliette watched as the boy’s ice cream pooled crimson on the hot asphalt. “Fine.”

“He’s just a kid,” Baz offered.

Juliette shielded her eyes. Jack was chasing a pigeon, waving his raspberry ice cream cone wildly. God, he was so young to be learning lessons like that. At what age did those sorts of beliefs become embedded? “Yeah, I know.” She gave his arm a quick squeeze. “Find me after the race, okay?”

The next thirty minutes passed in a blur: Ranya’s pep talk, their warm-ups, the national anthem…Juliette climbed into the car, her hands shaking. The sun was sinking behind the stands, bleeding across the horizon like a cracked yolk. The boy’s sticky raspberry-stained face appeared in her mind, along with Frederick’s smug voice. Second place isn’t bad. As a woman, you’ll be lucky to finish at all.

Her hands tightened on the wheel.

She started the engine. Five lights flickered on overhead. She could hear Hamish’s breathing through her radio, accompanied by a crinkling sound, which was standard: Her race engineer ate crisps when he was nervous.

“Any advice?” Juliette asked.

Hamish’s voice was grim. “Don’t crash.”

Well. She supposed that was fair enough.

The radio crackled. “Juliette?” It was Ranya this time. “How are you feeling?”

Like she might puke. “Fine.”

“You remember our conversation?”

As if she’d forget it. Ranya’s voice haunted the darkest parts of her nightmares. I need you to finish in the top ten. Do you understand? She wondered if Robert Von Galen was watching her from the garage, pouring a beer to toast her demise.

No. That was silly.

It would be champagne.

“I remember,” she said.

“Good.” Ranya was drumming her nails. “Good luck.”

The lights went out. Juliette shot forward.

The world was a crush of cars. Front wings and tires and the roar of engines. She swerved to avoid an orange Hydra Auto, her heart pounding. Fuck. Fuck. Where the hell was the racing line? She couldn’t see shit. She barreled into the first turn, her car kissing the wall. Her radio crackled.

Hamish’s voice was terse. “Avoid the—”

“Wall,” Juliette finished tightly. “Working on it.”

She hurtled through the first lap. Her breath came in gunshots, her gloved hands numb on the wheel. How the hell did people do this for fifty-seven laps? Especially at night. A Romulus Alto came into view, glinting like a golden coin.

“Overtake available,” Hamish said, which would have been encouraging if he’d sounded even a little enthused about it.

Juliette gripped the wheel. “Not yet. I don’t want to push the tires too hard.”

There was a long pause.