Page 65 of Full Throttle

“DRS available,” Blake said.

Dominic hit the gas. “Got it.”

He sped into the straight. Juliette was ahead, neck and neck with Sinclair, their cars barreling into the fourth turn. Dominic jerked the wheel. The car bucked beneath him, and the red exterior of Sinclair’s car—his old car—winked mockingly in the fading sunlight.

His father’s words echoed in his head. His data is better across the charts. He wins more races. Sinclair’s the better driver.

He thought of Sinclair at the casino. The smugness in his voice. I’m going to take her home and fuck her tonight. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.

Dominic gritted his teeth.

Sod.

That.

He shot forward. Close. He was so fucking close, one breath from overtaking Sinclair. Everything narrowed to the sound of his heartbeat. He hammered the gas pedal. Juliette moved to block him, but he could squeeze past, he could—

Blake’s voice was alarmed. “Dom, don’t try to—”

Juliette slammed on her brakes.

Tires screeched.

Dominic swore, swerving hard, but too late: His car skidded into the gravel. He guided the car back onto the track. Lights flashed up on screen. Big, angry lights. Not that it mattered; he could have told you that he’d fucked his front wing without even looking at it.

“Are you all right?” Blake asked.

“Fine. Marchmont?”

There was the clatter of keys. A low exchange of voices, and the clatter grew louder. Dominic’s head swam.

“Blake? Is Marchmont okay?”

A pause. “Still in the race, but now in last place.”

Fuck. She was going to kill him for that. “Is she hurt?”

“Bring the car in,” Blake said. “There’s no point in trying to drive it in that condition.”

He’d already figured as much; he was limping the car into the pit lane. “And Marchmont’s not hurt? You’re sure?”

Blake made a humming sound. “Your vitals look a bit unstable. Wait in the car for the medical team to assess you, all right?”

Screw that. “Marchmont. How is she?”

Keys clacked. If he didn’t know better, Dominic would have sworn the other man was trying to give him an early aneurysm. A pulse beat rapidly in his throat. Juliette was probably fine, but what if they were just trying to keep him calm? To keep him focused on delivering the car in one piece?

“Blake,” Dominic said. “Did you hear what I said?”

“Give me a second,” Blake said, and he had the nerve to sound exasperated. “We’re just trying to sort her race strategy.” He must have sensed that Dominic wasn’t exactly in the mood to be patient because his tone shifted. “She’s fine, Dominic. I promise. Stay in the car. Don’t move until someone tells you to.”

There was a click. Dominic yanked off his helmet, staring at the microphone in disbelief. The bastard had disconnected him.

What the hell?

He sprang from the car, fully intent on marching over to the pit wall and demanding answers, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Dominic balled them into fists. Logically, he knew that Juliette was fine, but he couldn’t seem to shake the adrenaline. It was the shower incident all over again. He’d always had to physically feel things to make them true: It wasn’t a win until he was holding the trophy; the avocado wasn’t rotten until he cut into the flesh; his mother wasn’t dead until he’d touched the casket. That was just how his mind worked.

“Dominic?” a tentative voice asked.