Page 83 of Full Throttle

Dominic paused.

Anthony Sinclair stepped into the street. He was wiping his hands on a napkin, and his blond hair gleamed in the late evening sun. The scent of expensive cologne hung off his clothes, as if he’d recently reapplied it.

“Stay here,” Anthony said. “I’ll go after her.”

Dominic almost laughed. Right. That explained the cologne. “I’ve got it.”

Anthony tilted his head. “She doesn’t even like you. You know that, right?”

Dominic’s pulse sped up. Right. He didn’t have time for this. Juliette could be anywhere by now, phoneless and without her house keys. He was about to start in a random direction when Anthony spoke.

“That’s right, Hastings.” Anthony’s voice was a taunt. “Walk away, just like you walk away from everything. You’re used to that, aren’t you? Always hiding behind your father’s money. Your father’s team. The entire world’s been handed to you.”

Dom stilled. His heart pounded so fast that he felt sick. And even though he knew better than to rise, he was already turning. “Funny.”

“What?”

“You struck me as the sort to enjoy staring at your own reflection. Turns out you need to look in a mirror.”

Anthony’s smile was sharp. “We’re not so different, you and I. Born with natural talent and the connections to make it happen. That sort of thing would be wasted on other people. But not us. We know how to harness it.”

The scent of rotten eggs drifted up from the city gutters. Dominic wrinkled his nose. “No. The difference between you and I, Sinclair, is that I don’t throw around my checkbook like it’s a substitute for a personality.”

“Sure,” Anthony said softly. “You tell yourself that.” He stepped closer. “You’ve never had to fight for anything. You don’t know how to.”

Anthony didn’t sound boastful. He sounded as if he were reciting facts from a textbook, and it was that certainty that chilled him. It couldn’t be true, could it? Yes, he’d had a head start in life, but he’d still put in the hours. Tennis balls in the yard, hill sprints at six o’clock in the morning, concussions and scrapes and fractured relationships…He’d made so many sacrifices in the name of racing. Given up so much.

Dominic thought of Juliette, shivering in her sodden white dress as she spoke to the maître d’, and he clenched his fists. Yes. He’d sacrificed more in the name of racing than Sinclair could ever know.

Anthony’s smile was feral. “You won’t last a second by yourself.”

“Funny,” Dom said mildly. “Lasting is something that I’ve never had a problem with. I’m assuming you can’t say the same. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

Anthony seized his shoulder. His face was white with rage, his lips thin and bloodless, and a shiver of anticipation went down Dominic’s spine. So he’d finally managed to push his buttons. Good.

Let him try.

Anthony’s breath smelled of sour wine. “It’s tough, isn’t it, when Daddy cuts you off?” He waved a glittering hand. “At least your mum isn’t around. You can still pretend that she loves you.” His smile was smug. “Especially since Juliette never will.”

The words landed like a blow.

Dominic took a deep breath. The fire was an inferno, scorching a path through his chest. He had the sudden urge to grab Anthony’s collar, to slam his head into the wall, but he was painfully aware of passersby eyeing them curiously. Someone was surreptitiously raising their phone.

Dominic’s smile was breezy. “Fuck off, Sinclair.”

He shook him off, starting down the street. Twilight settled over the city in gossamer clouds of lavender silk, which would have been beautiful if he didn’t feel like his chest was on fire. He took a sharp left at a laundromat, only stopping when he’d reached a brick alleyway. His breath came in gasps. He had the sudden urge to tear into his own chest, to smother the blazing fire with his naked hands.

Dominic cocked his arm back.

Then—almost experimentally—he drove his fist into the wall. Pain rocketed up his wrist. He swore, shaking his fingers, his fist pulsing like a second heart. But his head felt clear. That was something, at least.

“That looked like it hurt,” a female voice said.

Dominic whipped around.

Juliette was leaning against the laundromat, half-shaded by the striped awning. Her damp hair was curling at the ends. Dominic’s hand gave a painful throb; the knuckles were cracked and bleeding. Embarrassment washed over him, and he resisted the childish urge to hide his hand behind his back. Too late. She’d already seen it.

“I thought you’d left.”