Page 110 of Over the Limit

He fucking knows.

Shit.

Shit.

Double shit.

“You lowlife, cheating, stealing motherfucker,” he repeats as he presses his forearm against my chest.

Anger thrives in his every feature. The set of his lips. The squint of his eyes. The pressure on my chest.

“Take your bullshit out of my garage,” I growl right back.

“My bullshit?” he asks, his voice raising with each and every syllable. “My fucking bullshit? Playing the goddamn valiant friend when you’re nothing but a two-faced motherfucker who steals—”

“That’s enough,” Henry shouts from the outskirts of the garage. He strides over to us faster than I can draw in a breath. “That’s fucking enough. Gio is ten feet away from this garage and if you don’t want a contract—either of you—keep your fucking shit up.”

Rossi grits his teeth, his breath labored, and his fury eating up the oxygen around us.

“You got a problem? Want to kick each other’s asses? Do it outside of my garage,” Henry continues.

And for the slightest moment, I think Rossi’s going to throw a punch. His free hand is fisted and I can see his arm tighten up, but when Henry puts his hand on Rossi’s shoulder and yanks him backward, I know he won’t.

Instead, Rossi just glares at me.

“I wish the two of you had this much fight in you on the track,” Henry spits out. “Then maybe we’d win a fucking race, huh?”

Rossi mutters something about fucking piece of shit but it’s lost in his grit of anger.

“Then maybe we’d get somewhere,” Henry continues before turning to Rossi and pointing outside of my garage. “Get to your own garage. Get suited up. Get ready to qualify.”

Rossi grumbles a bit more as my heart decelerates and I wonder how the fuck he found out.

Henry has one finger held up to me to stay where I am as he looks over his shoulder to make sure Rossi has gotten out. Everyone else in the garage averts their eyes as he looks around and back to me.

“Want to tell me what the fuck that was all about?” he demands, his shoulders squaring and his own anger obvious. “Because it seems I’m having to ask that a lot of you lately.” And as if on fucking cue, just over his shoulder, I see my father step into the garage.

Smart and more than astute, he sizes up the situation in a few seconds. The way he crosses his arms over his chest and lifts his eyebrows says as much.

I can’t deal with him right now. With his shit. With knowing I’ll have disappointed him too.

I clear my throat. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing?” Henry takes a step closer.

“It’s personal. Off the track shit. It has nothing to do with this garage or our team.”

He chuckles and it holds no amusement. “Clearly it does. You fucking his girl? You kill his dog? You take his prized stuffed animal? What? Because this team’s already broken down enough with all our asses on the line and that”—he points to the wall where Rossi just had me pressed against—“says it’s fucking imploding.”

I grit my teeth and straighten my own shoulders. “Just because Rossi can’t control his emotions doesn’t mean I can’t,” I say and shake my head like I’m mad at being accused of the shit that’s churning in my gut. “We can continue this later if you feel the need to. If not, I need to get ready for qualifying.”

And without another word, I turn and head for my private driver’s room.

“Lachlan,” my dad calls out.

But I keep walking.

I meant what I said.