Page 46 of Full Throttle

“What if we undercut?”

Hamish’s voice was wary. “What?”

“Let’s say that I pit first.” Juliette’s mind spun. “Change to hards right now. That would mean my tires would be fresher at the end of the race.” She’d be fastest for the last few laps, which was her only chance of overtaking.

There was a moment of silence. No crunching, which meant that Hamish was covering his microphone to speak to someone. Then a faint whistling began, an eerie tune that dragged fingernails down her spine.

She knew damn well who that was.

Hamish came back on. “Robert wants to hold off.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“In case there’s a safety car.”

Juliette considered this. A safety car would allow her to pit and rejoin the race in her current position, without risking the drivers behind her overtaking. It made some sense, but…“We can’t bank on that.”

“Team orders,” Hamish said.

Juliette took a hairpin turn. Her thoughts raced with the car. Was it possible that Robert was trying to sabotage her? To make her look bad so he could replace her? But no; the man had twenty years’ experience with race strategy. She was a recent graduate who’d watched too many miniseries about corporate sabotage.

The experts knew best. Despite what Ranya had said, she had to believe that Robert was on her team, at least for now. After all, it wasn’t his fault that he’d unwittingly fathered the veritable spawn of Satan.

“Okay,” Juliette said. “I’ll stay put.”

She was true to her word until the checkered flag waved twenty laps later. The crowd roared as she passed the finish line. Cameras exploded in the darkness, raining down like silver stars.

“Not bad,” Hamish said begrudgingly, which was—in Hamish-speak—the equivalent of composing a fifty-line ode in her honor. “I dinnae ken how you’ve done it, lass, but that was one hell of a drive. P10.”

Juliette forced a smile. “Good.” In the points. Thank the lord. Robert’s order to stay put still niggled at her, but perhaps he’d just made a bad judgment call. Anyway, her seat on the team was secure for now, which was all that mattered. “Hastings?”

“Dominic finished third.”

Her mind did the calculations. “Sinclair won?”

“Aye.”

She parked the car. Well. Dominic wouldn’t love that. He was already out of his vehicle, weighing in at the scales. His dark hair stuck up in clumps, and his navy race suit dangled around his waist. Goggle marks ringed his eyes.

Juliette slowed.

She could congratulate Dominic on third place. She could say that it was impressive to get a podium in a midfield car, or to make up two places, and both would be true. But she wouldn’t because a driver was only satisfied by winning. On that point, at least, she and Dominic had always agreed.

So Juliette said, “You’ll have to subtract three pounds. For your ego.”

Dominic didn’t look up. “You might want to look up sympathy in the dictionary, Marchmont. You’ll find it useful.” She had the sense that he was fighting a smile as he stepped off the scale. “Good work today. You raced well.”

“You had a decent drive too.”

He shrugged. “Johnson and Tomlinson crashed out early. I got lucky.”

She leaned against the scale. “Someone told me that we make our own luck.”

Dominic held her gaze. The fluorescent stadium lights caught at his eyes, illuminating the flecks of gold until they glowed like whiskey held up to firelight. Juliette swallowed, bracing herself. She’d once had to stab a syringe of epinephrine into her thigh after eating a prawn spring roll. This felt a lot like that.

“Thank you,” she said. “I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

Dominic surveyed her. He seemed to be deciding whether she was kidding. “We’re teammates, right?”