A hand slams into the center of my chest, and another grips my bicep, dragging me backward with such violent force that my heels barely touch the concrete. I’m hauled back into the dry strip of the shelving, slammed once more against the metal with a force that knocks the wind out of me.
Dominic is right there, his chest heaving, his face inches from mine. He doesn't let go; his grip on my arm is bruising, his other hand still flat against my sternum as if he’s physically pinning my heart in place.
“Stay. Put,” he hisses, his voice vibrating with a rough, splintering anger. “Do as you were told for once in your fucking life, Carter. Marco said don’t move, so don't fucking move.”
The sheer force of him this close is suffocating, and the arrogance in his tone snaps the last thread of my patience. I shove his hands off me, my palms hitting his chest with enough force to make him stumble back a step.
“Don’t you dare,” I snap, my voice low and trembling with my own rage. “Don’t play the hero now. You don’t get to bark orders at me to make yourself feel better about the fact that you showedup here today looking like your life is a disaster. You should feel lucky the rain delayed you until tomorrow.”
I point a finger at the dry line of concrete between us, my hand steady despite the adrenaline.
“I’m fine, Dad!” I call out from our side of the shelf, my eyes never leaving Dominic’s. “Stay right there, Dominic. You stay on your side of the line, and I’ll stay on mine. Don’t touch me again.”
He stares at me, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged hitches. The color in his eyes is gone, replaced by a dark, fathomless hollow. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t apologize. He just stands there.
“You think you’re the only one carrying something?” I ask, my voice gaining a sharp, cruel edge. “Look at this garage. Look at the mechanics who have been up since four a.m. in the pouring rain to make sure your car doesn't fall apart out on that track. They’re working themselves to the bone for a person who couldn't even bother to show up sober and rested.”
I step closer to the edge of the dry concrete, the anger bubbling over. “It’s not just about you. It’s about every other driver on that grid too. If you’d gone out there today in this state, you wouldn't just be a danger to yourself; you’d be putting other lives at risk because you’re too self-indulgent to handle your own mess. You’re lucky the track called it, because you were a disaster waiting to happen.”
I pause, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The silence that follows is deafening, filled only by the hiss of the rain and the erratic rhythm of his breathing.
Dominic’s shoulders tighten. He doesn't look away, but the look he gives me is poisoned.
“Say the rest,” he pleads, his voice so low it’s almost buried by the storm. “Go on, baby. Finish the insult.”
I look at him—really look at the unraveling, stranger standing in front of me—and let the truth out even though I know it’s the one thing he can’t handle.
“It isn't an insult. It’s an observation.” I lean in just enough so only he can hear me over the rain. “You’re becoming exactly what you said you hated. I’ve seen how this plays out. I’ve watched guys like you think they can outrun the mess they’ve made until they just... disappear. You're fading out of your own life, and the worst part? You’re doing it to yourself.”
A heavy, brittle silence follows. Dominic’s eyes thin to slits, the darkness in them sharpening into something brutal and defensive. He lets out a short, breathy scoff that holds zero humor.
“Is that right?” he says, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “And I suppose you’re the expert on disappearing acts, aren’t you? You mean like your fuck-up of a father? That’s who you’re comparing me to, right? Him. Newsflash: we aren’t the same, so maybe stop comparing every fucking racer to a situation that happened to him. I’m not him.”
“I never asked you to be like him,” I say, my voice steady despite the roar in my ears.
“Well, you made it pretty fucking clear you wanted me to listen to him.”
“Because he knows the cost of the seat you’re sitting in,” I fire back. “Regardless of how he lost his.”
“He lost everything, Carter!” He drags a hand through his hair like he’s trying to hold himself together. “But I did it anyway. I sat there and took his advice—for you. I tried. I let a someone who wrecked his own life tell me how to handle mine because I was terrified of losing the only thing that actually makes sense to me.”
I don’t answer. I can't. The words hit me like a physical blow, knocking the breath from my lungs and leaving me completelybare. I open my mouth to fire back, to tell him I never asked for that kind of burden, but my throat is too tight to let the sound out. I just stand there, blinking as the silence stretches until it’s unbearable, realizing he's been bleeding out right in front of me and blaming me for supplying the knife.
“Well, then,” I say, my voice turning quiet and calm in the worst possible way. “You can officially consider your debt paid. You don’t have to go out of your way for me ever again.”
Dominic flinches hard. He looks like he wants to reach out, to snatch the words back out of the air, but he’s frozen on his side of the concrete. I don't give him the chance. I turn my back on him, my pulse kicking a frantic, painful rhythm against my ribs that makes it hard to breathe.
For a second, the only sound is the rhythmicthrumof the storm against the metal roof. We stay like that—two statues caught in the dark—until the air between us feels like it might actually snap.
The power-line crackles one last time—a weak, dying spark—before falling silent.
“Carter—Dominic—”
Marco rounds the corner, his flashlight cutting a bright path through the gloom as he splashes through the water. He stops short, the beam of light bouncing between the two of us. He takes in the distance, the tension, and the way Dominic is standing like someone who just watched his world collapse.
“You’re clear,” he says, his voice losing its professional edge as he looks at me. “Power’s dead on this line. It’s safe to move.”
I step over the dead line, my shoes splashing through the shallow water as I head toward the main part of the garage.
