Page 12 of The Fast Track

Thirteen minutes now and the OTC—where I’m supposed to be meeting Dietrich—is still barely visible through the grove of manicured trees.

“I’d be less late if you weren’t driving like a grandma.”

“My nan’s got stopped for speeding twice this year already, thank you very much.” He glances over with a large shit-eating grin. “Anyone ever tell you your lips get all twisty when you’re riled up?”

I quickly straighten out the corner of my mouth, which, without my realizing, had indeed twisted itself up. Mom always says I’ll give myself premature wrinkles if I don’t watch out, but I’m not about to share with Cameron what he has in common with the most overbearing person in my life. “If you’re not going to pick up the pace, can you at least let me drive?”

He chuckles, and a jet of irritation spurts through me. He’s enjoying this. Not only is he actively preventing me from getting to my meeting on time, but he is reveling in my distress, bwhahaha-ing away like a cartoon villain while my opportunity to impress Dietrich slips away with every passing second. I know we’re rivals—teammates naturally are—but the derision he’s exhibited goes beyond the usual competitive spirit.

“What is your problem with me?” The words burst out of me in a frustrated huff.

“What are you banging on about now?”

“Don’t give me that look. You’ve been rude and snippy since Opener drinks.”

“Maybe I’m just an introverted curmudgeon. Have you thought of that?”

This is so far from the truth, I can’t believe he even tried. “Are you kidding me? You’re a dipshit to me, but you’re the nicest person ever to everyone else on the team. Frank’s admin says you remind her of her nephew, you’re on a first-name basis with the graveyard crew, all the PR girls are in love with you and so are the receptionists—” Cameron’s face is in the early innings of an arrogant smirk, so I stop myself there. “The point is, you’re friendly and charming to everyone. Except me.”

“Firstly, I can’t help it if girls like me.” He’s beaming so widely, I’m tempted to reach over and smack the cockiness off his face. “Secondly, don’t act like you haven’t been trying to one-up me.”

“Me?”

“Bragging about how you went through the entire operating manual for the car, or actually doing the mad new routine recommended by the trainer so he’ll report good things to Frank. Or,” he adds, “getting extra with your racing lines and blowing up testing weekend for other people—namely me.”

I narrow my eyes. He’s right. I am extra. I am always trying to look good to everyone in the paddock. But he doesn’t understandnot putting in maximum effort 150 percent of the time is his privilege and his only. He can have a bad day every now and then and people won’t automatically think he’s only in F3 as a publicity stunt. But I have to claw and fight and prove myself at every turn, because every little mistake I make, everything I do that’s a nanometer less than flawless, gives an opening for those quietly muttering “I told you so” to say it out loud.

“You’re hardly innocent.”

For a second, I debate laying it out for him, but then we’d be here for another hour, and besides, in my experience, guys who look like him will do everything in their power to not see what’s in front of them.

“Whatever. Just let me drive.” I jab my foot over to his side of the cart, kicking his leg aside and flooring the flimsy pedal of the cart.

We lurch forward, at least double the pace we were going before. “I knew you weren’t going full speed.”

“I was only teasing; I’ll take care of it.” He knocks his leg into mine, trying to muscle me away. “Give me the pedal back.”

For some reason, it feels critically important not to give in right now, like this is some kind of metaphor for the rest of the season. If I cave and let Cameron have the wheel, he’s going to think he can keep walking over me whenever he wants.

And I’m not going to let him do that. Not today, not any day.

I grab the steering wheel with my right hand and brace with my leg. “Let. Me. Drive.”

“Let go. I’ve got this.” He elbows my side.

I use my free hand to push against the metal bar on the side of the cart, giving me more leverage. “Not unless—”

We’re suddenly airborne, sailing over a speed bump some genius decided to place around a blind turn. The cart lands on the ground with a loud crack and tips over, spilling Cameron and me out on the passenger side in a tangle of legs and arms.

I find myself nose-to-nose with him, my boobs crushed against his chest, which, while I knew theoretically would be hard because of all the conditioning Frank forces down our throats, I’m still not prepared for how it feels to be pressed against it. Up close, I can count every freckle sprinkled across his aquiline nose.

My phone dings again, reminding me of the mess I’m going to be in if I don’t get back to the OTC on time.

I push myself off the ground, my palms stinging. Somewhere between our cart going rally car and falling all over the asphalt with Cameron, I’ve also managed to scrape up both my hands, my left elbow, and my right knee.

Great. Add another five minutes for the bathroom stop I’m going to have to make to avoid looking like a six-year-old learning how to ride a bike.

I rush over to the golf cart, now tipped over on its side. The connecting rod on the front axle is snapped in two. Completely useless as a mode of transport.