Page 68 of Full Throttle

Ranya’s face tightened. She looked as if she seriously regretted ever becoming a team principal.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Dominic,” Vance said. “Go see a doctor.”

Ranya’s mouth puckered. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with your father.” She said father as if the word tasted like slimy vegetables left in the back of the fridge to rot. “Let the medical team look at you, and then I’ll point you in Juliette’s direction. How does that sound?”

Dominic considered this. It was, he supposed, a more viable option than threatening Blake into giving up her location.

He held out an arm. “Lead the way.”

Ranya sighed. “Oh, and Hastings?”

“Yes?”

She held open the door. “If she threatens to cut off your balls with a chainsaw, I’m not interfering. You deserve it.”

Chapter 22

Breaking Point

Juliette wiped sweat from her forehead. Moonlight spilled into the empty garage. Abandoned wrenches cast long shadows across the floor, which reached for her with ghostly fingers. She glanced at her phone. Twenty past eleven. She had two missed calls from Baz, as well as a text from Cap: If you’re not back at the hotel by midnight, I’m ringing the police.

Juliette texted him, then pocketed her phone.

She circled her race car. The engineers had repaired most of it, but she’d blown a hole through the body, and dragging it around the track for ten laps hadn’t helped. She should have retired after the crash.

Her phone dinged. It was a picture of Cap and Baz in the hotel room, eating burgers—no pizza, obviously—and playing what appeared to be an F1 video game. Cap’s side of the room was littered with napkins and a half-drunk bottle of soda; unsurprisingly, Baz was using a glass and coaster, because he was a proper adult.

Cap: Come join us.

Another ding.

Cap: Baz says the virtual version of you sounds like a drunk Mary Berry.

Juliette pocketed her phone. Her brother was right; she ought to go back to the hotel. Rest. Face the media shitstorm tomorrow.

She eyed the car.

The trouble with almost crashing was that it was a lot like an infected blister: The longer you left it, the worse it became. Better to pop it immediately. Apply antiseptic before it had time to fester.

Right.

Best to get it over with.

Juliette hopped into the car, hissing out a breath as her ribs gave a twinge. Mostly whiplash, according to the medical team. She’d been lucky to get away with it.

She started the engine. The air was thick with the oncoming storm, and it settled on her skin like warm soup. Her breath was ragged. One lap. Then she’d call it for the night—

“And just where,” a low voice said, “do you think you’re going?”

Juliette jumped, swearing as her bruised ribs gave a twinge. She knew who it was even before she turned. “Oh, good.” Her voice was cool. “It’s the idiot who ran into the back of my car.”

Dominic’s expression was shadowed. “You’re in no condition to drive.”

He was still dressed in his race suit, the top half unzipped to reveal a white T-shirt beneath. So he hadn’t been home. Interesting. Her gaze flicked to the bandage on his forehead, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction. Good. She hoped it hurt. Where did he get off, running her off the track? And all because of his stupid rivalry with Sinclair.

“I’m fine,” Juliette said shortly.

She shifted gears. Dominic stepped in front of the car.