"Drop it, Carter." The warning in his voice was a low vibration, the kind of sound a predator makes right before it strikes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding them from my sight, but I could see the tension vibrating through his forearms.
"Dominic, look at me." I stepped closer, close enough to see the frantic pulse in his neck. "I’m not the enemy here. You’re shaking. Is it a tremor? Did something happen?"
"I said drop it!" He snapped, the volume of his voice cutting clean through the silence, echoing off the water. He paced a short, tight circle, like a caged animal. "You don’t know what you’re talking about. You see one moment of weakness and you think you’ve got me figured out."
"I don't think I have you figured out at all," I said, my voice dropping to a quiet sound. "That's the problem. But I know racing. And I know that look on a driver's face when they realize their body isn't listening to them anymore. You’re terrified, and you’re taking it out on me because I’m the only one who saw."
He stopped pacing and leaned into my space, his breath hot against my cheek. "If I'm hurt, what? You’ll go running to your father? Tell the coach his lead driver is a liability? Is that the play? Get me benched so you can spend more time playing house with Luka?"
"It’s not a play! I’m asking because—" I bit the word back, the air catching in my throat. I reached out, my hand hovering near his arm, desperate to stop the space growing between us with every word. "I'm asking as someone who—"
"As someone who what?" Dominic stepped into the light, his eyes tracking the movement of my hand with a predatory sharpness. He didn't move away, but he didn't lean in either. "Finish the sentence. As someone whocares?"
He let out a short, blunt laugh—a sound so humorless it made my skin crawl. "You? You care about me?"
"I didn't say that," I snapped, pulling my hand back and curling it into a fist at my side. "I said I'm asking as a person with eyes. Someone who knows that if you go into a corner at two hundred miles an hour and your hand decides to check out again, you aren't just a liability—you’re a corpse."
"We aren't friends. We were never friends." He looked at the space where my hand had just been as if the air itself was contaminated. "You're just like your father. You see a crack in the foundation and you start measuring for the demolition. You want to see me weak so you have something to pull the trigger on when things don't go your way. You’re just waiting for the right moment to use me as leverage."
"Is that really all you think of me?" The question felt small, pathetic.
"I think you’re a distraction I can’t afford," he spat, his eyes blown wide, dark and unsteady. "And I think you’re looking for a reason to ruin me before I can ruin myself. Well, find a different target. I’m not giving you the satisfaction of being the one to turn out the lights."
The air between us curdled. Whatever small moment had existed when he touched me earlier was now incinerated. I looked at him—really looked at him—and realized he was so busy building a fortress that he hadn't noticed he was the only one trapped inside it.
"You're right," I said, my voice dropping to a razor-thin noise. "We aren't friends. Friends actually trust each other to be human. You? You're just a machine with a broken part, and honestly, I'm bored trying to understand it enough to fix it."
I saw his shoulders pull rigid, tendons standing out in his neck as his eyes flickered like a guttering candle. For a second, the armor slipped, and I saw a flash of raw, panicked emptiness—the look of someone who had finally pushed everyone far enough away to realize how cold the dark actually was.
"Fix me?" Dominic’s voice came out low, raspy, and laced with a sudden, ugly venom. "That’s the problem with people like you. You hang around the edges of a life you claim to hate, just hoping someone will notice you enough to let you play doctor. Don't flatter yourself. You aren't my savior; you're just the latest person I used to kill some time. I don't need fixing—I just need you to get out of my eye line."
I went still. The air between us felt heavy, thick with the grit of the sand and the stench of his pride. I didn't give him a scream or a slap. I just looked at him, letting my eyes sweep over him like he was something small and insignificant I’d found on the bottom of my shoe.
"Don't worry," I said, my voice flat and devoid of any warmth. "I’m done trying to find a heartbeat in a polished facade. Enjoy your reflection, Dominic. I’m sure the view is exactly as empty as you are."
I didn't run. I didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me worked up. I simply turned my back on him and walked toward the roar of the engines and the smell of high-octane fuel. Every step was deliberate, sinking into the sand and pushing off with a finality that made my lungs feel lighter.
Before I even realized what was happening, the world was reduced to the view through a visor. I needed the noise. I needed something that did exactly what I told it to do.
I was strapped into the seat of my rig, the engine beneath me a violent, shaking beast. My helmet felt heavy, my breathing loud and rhythmic inside the padding. I sat at the staging line, my heart hammering against my ribs, waiting for the signal.
I don't know why I looked over to my left. Maybe it was the sudden silence from my seat, or the way the crowd shifted.
The person holding the clipboard pointed a finger directly at my rig, then back at the guy in front of him.
Standing there, bathed in the harsh, yellow glare of the floodlights, was Dominic. His face was pure, unadulterated rage—a red-misted stare that should have made me flinch. I’d told the bookie the track’s favorite disaster—the Formula One driver who can’t seem to stay out of my existence—would be covering my buy-in. A parting gift. A petty little tax for privilege of being exactly who he is.
I watched him pull out a thick roll of bills, shoving the money into the guy's hand with a violence that made him stumble back. Dominic didn't even count it. He didn't look at the cash, and he certainly didn't look at him. His eyes were locked on mine through the glass of my windshield, burning like it could melt the visor right off my head.
He wasn’t just paying my way. With his free hand, he reached down and snatched a loaner helmet off the bench, his knuckles stark as he gripped the casing.
He was buying a spot on the line.
I felt a surge of adrenaline that tasted like copper. I lifted my hand, giving him a slow, mocking finger wave before curling them down and leaving the middle one standing tall.
Fine, whatever,I thought, my pulse slamming a frantic rhythm against my ribs as I gripped the wheel. I didn't care if he was there. I didn't care if he was angry. If he wanted to chase me into the surf, he could damn well try.
I turned my attention back to the dark expanse of the shoreline, the engine’s roar drowning out everything else. If he wanted a fight, we’d finish it on the sand.
