Page 47 of Full Throttle

A cheer exploded from a distant stand. Crew raced around, carrying bottles of sparkling juice and microphones. The interviews would start soon, followed by the trophy ceremony. Still, she had the dizzying sensation of being ensconced inside a bubble, impenetrable from outside forces. Dominic cleared his throat.

“Look, you have no interest in being friends with me. I get that. It goes both ways. But we could be…” He seemed to search for the right word. “Allies, of a sort. We’re going to need each other on track.”

“Allies,” Juliette repeated warily.

Dominic glanced at the press box; an irritated-looking crew member was waving him toward a microphone. “What do you think?”

Juliette shifted her weight. On one hand, she trusted Dominic Hastings about as much as a passenger trusted a drunk pilot. On the other, he was right: They’d need to work together if they wanted to win. But it was the sincerity in his voice—the rare chink in armor, so often disguised behind the blade of a joke—that decided her.

“Deal.” Juliette jogged backward. “But, Hastings?”

“Yes?”

“If you screw me over, I won’t hesitate to hit you with my car.”

To her surprise, Dominic smiled. “Good. I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He turned for the press box. Juliette swallowed. Allies. She wanted to believe him, but it wouldn’t be the first time Dominic had extended the hand of friendship and then happily screwed her over. She’d spent weeks wallowing in bed, eating tinned soup and crackers like a doomsday conspiracy theorist living in a bunker. And there hadn’t been a world championship at stake then.

No.

If it came to it, she’d take him down first. Allies be damned.

Chapter 16

Team Business

Sun beat down on the back of Dominic’s neck. Waves lapped at the yacht, accompanied by the tinkle of jazz music, which was unsurprising; his father always played jazz when he was entertaining guests. “It gives a touch of elegance,” Vance liked to say. A crew member offered Dominic a glass of champagne, but he waved the server off. He sure as hell wasn’t staying for long.

“Dominic!” Vance called.

His father waved him over. Vance Hastings sat at a low table, accompanied by a spread of food: cucumber sandwiches, smoked salmon blinis, lemon-flavored scones…None of the maakouda that they’d had when he was young, although Dominic wasn’t surprised. Vance hadn’t eaten Moroccan food in years.

For a whole year, Dominic had tried cooking Moroccan food. He’d made a point of trying a new dish every Friday: lentil tagine, lemony tagra, a barley soup thick as porridge…When his aunt Yasmin had visited, he’d made a couscous garnished with tfaya and then chucked it in the bin and served pizza instead. He’d been nervous that his aunt would be able to taste it, somehow: the falsity lurking beneath the spiced raisins. Imposter, she’d say, and she’d be right. When Yasmin had given him a hug goodbye and murmured something in Darija, he hadn’t understood her. Later, Dom had googled the words. “Come stay with us soon.”

He’d almost done it too. Booked a plane ticket and flown out over the summer break. Part of him burned for the experience of wandering through the sun-drenched marketplaces, of feeling something in his chest give like an exhaled breath. Ah, he would think, this is it. The piece of him that was missing.

In the end, Dominic had clicked off the website and gone to the gym instead. The only thing more terrifying than growing distant from his Moroccan heritage was realizing that he’d never really been Moroccan to begin with. He was a plane forever circling with nowhere to land. Even more so since Vance had cut ties with their homeland.

Now Dominic took a seat, crossing an ankle over his knee. Monaco’s buildings glittered in the distance, a cacophony of well-dressed party guests leaning drunkenly against one another. He looked pointedly at the food.

“Are we expecting a party?”

His father frowned. “Your suit is wrinkled.”

Dominic glanced down. He’d ironed his linen suit that morning, and if a wrinkle existed, it was well concealed. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“No,” Vance said. “I suppose not.”

A beat passed. Dominic looked down at a miniature ham-and-cheese sandwich; the cheese was sweating in the heat.

“You’ve done well recently,” Vance observed.

Dominic looked up. Technically, Vance was right; since the opening race almost three months ago, he’d consistently finished between third and sixth place. Saudi Arabia, Australia, China, Japan, Miami, Italy…Every race had gone to plan. Hell, even Juliette was doing well; she’d finished in fourth place last race.

No.

His father spoke the truth.