Overtake (Vanstone Racing #1)

Prologue

ROME

Electrifying.

That’s what it’s like to be in this seat.

I check out mentally, and for a moment, it’s just me, the track, and my car.

Unfortunately, it all comes rushing back in when I get a glimpse of blue in the corner of my eye. One of Vanstone’s drivers has been harassing me from the beginning of the race, both of us neck and neck, and with each chicane, he tries to overtake me.

My father’s voice probes the inside of my ear, and I swallow a growl. The concentration I hold is impenetrable, even with his seething tone floating around my helmet.

“You need to be more aggressive,” he says, his words thick with irritation.

“I’m ahead,” I argue.

There’s a corner coming into view, the same corner I’ve been cutting as short as possible.

“He’s struggling with the corners. Maintain your position,” he reiterates.

My heartbeat quickens with every demand, and just like every race since I was a child, I silently ask myself why.

Why do I try so hard to prove that I’m the best to a man who continuously reminds me that I’m the opposite? Why do I work my ass off, day in and day out? Why am I here? In his car?

But then, suddenly, the tires beneath me vibrate, the carbon fiber and metals of the car that surround me shake my bones. The taste of victory, so fucking sweet, sits on my tongue as the podium dangles right in front of me.

It’s the only thing in the world that has given me a high.

It’s the only thing in the world that I’ve ever been praised for, even if short-lived.

“Rome!” my father barks my name, as if I’ve gone somewhere. “Don’t brake until I tell you to.”

I grit my teeth. “I’ve been braking fine the entire race.”

“Don’t fucking argue with me on this. Do you want to win? Or do you want to be a failure?”

If it wouldn’t fuck up my focus, I’d roll my eyes. What an insolent fucking question.

The corner is in front of me, and I wait like the prodigal son that I am, keeping my foot off the brake until his demand strikes through. Except, he doesn’t, and panic claws up my throat.

My foot hovers until, finally, his barking demand cuts through. “Now!”

I brake, a snarl already on the edge of my lips from causing me to lose position with the late braking, but to my shock, I’m still ahead.

“I can’t believe that fucking worked,” I mutter, shifting my focus to keep my position.

“I told you to trust me, son.”

I recognize that tone. Pride, but something else too. Conceited yet patronizing—both things my father has been labeled as throughout the years of taking Pierce Racing to the top.

Two more times around the track, and my braking is somehow even tighter.

I’m driving aggressively, braking quicker than I ever have, taking corners sharply without colliding with the wall or, worse, another driver.

My father’s calm assurances keep me level-headed, but something red is flashing on my steering wheel that is no longer every few miles but instead a constant.

“Is my brake temp high?”

My father doesn’t answer right away. There’s whispering in my helmet, and I’ve been in the racing world for long enough to know he’s checking with the rest of the crew.

The same corner comes into view, and my hands tighten on the steering wheel.

“Yes or no?” I snap.

“The brakes are hot but stable. Brake the same you have been–”

There’s a shuffling in my ear along with another voice that isn’t my father’s. “Your brake temps are critical. Back off, back off!”

Vince?

He cuts through again. “Listen to me, Rome!”

I shake away the confusion and feel for my brake, but nothing happens.

Panic sets in, the brake seemingly gone.

“Fuck–I can’t!” I press down again. “Dad! I have no brakes–”

Fear spikes, and I brace myself for impact.

I collide against the sidewall with a substantial amount of force, my father’s and Vince Halston’s arguing echoing in my ear.

“Ah!” My brain ricochets off the inside of my skull, pain deepening in my temples as I spin around too many times to count.

White flashes in my vision, and my eyes close.

I come to a stop, and my body grows stiff. Confusion swarms in like a thousand wasps from a nest.

My dad and Vince.

They’re arguing as I chase Tessa around with Graham and Beck.

“Guys, stop chasing Tess.” Van, the oldest of the Halston siblings, always reprimands us. He’s got his glasses perched on the tip of his nose and a notebook in his hand.

“She stole my gum!” Graham argues.

“Did not!” Tessa whines as she slides in between two giant racing trailers.

“Did to!” Graham argues from behind me.

I’m faster than the rest of them, and I can catch Tessa easily.

I glance over my shoulder to see if my dad is watching, because he’ll scold me for messing around instead of paying attention to what’s really important–racing—but I stop dead in my tracks when I see his finger pointed in his partner’s face.

Vince’s jaw flexes as my dad lays into him about something, his finger getting closer and closer to Vince’s face.

“What’s going on?” Noah, the second-oldest Halston sibling, asks while sliding up beside me.

“I don’t know–”

“Stop it!” Tessa shouts.

Noah and I turn to see Graham pulling Tessa by her shirt, and off we go–Noah to pick on his sister along with Graham, and me to end up in the middle.

I cough. My throat is dry, and my lungs are tight.

The ringing in my ear subsides, and I open my eyes, pulling myself out of an old memory. Something orange dances in front of my face.

What is that–

“Fuck…” I croak.

Flames flick with wild velocity, the heat of them creeping against my body.

My movements are slow, my limbs heavy. Breathing is difficult as sweat drips down the side of my face, the salty taste landing on my lips.

There are voices in my ear. An argument mixed with cries of panic.

Sirens sound in the distance, and I attempt to climb out of my mangled car.

Someone tugs me the rest of the way, my feet numb as I try to stand. A medic sways in front of my vision, his mouth is moving, yet I can’t seem to hear what he’s saying.

My helmet slides off my head, the cool air coats my blazing skin, and then, I collapse.