Chapter 3 Full Throttle
Full Throttle
If you asked Juliette if she was often late, she would have said that lateness often happened to her.
Train delays, a faulty car engine, trousers that split as she was dashing out the door…
She’d even been late to her own birth, arriving four minutes after her twin brother, Capulet.
Still, Juliette was prepared to admit that—this morning—there was nobody to blame but her own idiocy.
And, possibly, whatever company designed her alarm clock.
“Move!” she called.
Startled students leaped out of her path. Her footsteps echoed off the stone. A low buzz of voices carried over the fields, and Juliette doubled her pace, ignoring the burn in her thighs. Damn. They were starting without her.
She broke into a sprint.
Left. Right. Another left. She’d lived at this Scottish castle for eleven years; nobody knew the training academy like she did.
She darted through the kitchens—upsetting a tower of cream puffs—and then burst through a small door.
The track loomed ahead, a twisting serpent of asphalt, along with a set of risers.
Thirteen drivers stood on the track with helmets in hand.
Juliette fetched up near the tallest one, who gave her a look of astonishment.
Or a look of astonishment for Baz, at any rate, which was the twitch of an eyebrow.
“Where were you?” Baz demanded.
Her friend was facing forward, his brown hair mussed with wind. The cold January air had whipped color into his cheeks. Or he was nervous. Impossible to tell with Baz.
Juliette pulled on her balaclava. “Overslept.”
Baz’s eyebrow inched a fraction higher. “You didn’t set an alarm?”
“No,” Juliette said mildly. “Thought I’d enjoy the adrenaline rush.” She shot Baz a look. “Of course I set an alarm. It didn’t go off.”
“I called you,” Baz said. “Twice.”
Juliette glanced at her phone. There were indeed two missed calls, spaced about two minutes apart. “Weird. My ringer’s on silent.” She pocketed the phone. “You didn’t knock?”
“Didn’t have time.” Baz’s gaze flicked sideways. “Frederick bloody Von Galen was kicking up a fuss in the mess hall. Apparently, a first year ate the last piece of bacon. It would have come to blows if someone didn’t step in.”
Juliette glanced down the line to where Frederick Von Galen stood, holding his helmet to his chest as he sang the national anthem.
His bleach-blond tips shone in the watery sunlight, and he was wearing a pink rubber bracelet.
He had a lovely baritone for someone who was—and this was objectively speaking—evil incarnate.
Her eyes flicked to the stands, where hundreds of people packed into the rickety seats, sporting cardboard signs and cameras. Juliette scanned the first row, but the crowd was a blur of faces.
“Are they here?”
Baz nodded. “Over there.”
She followed his gaze to where her family sat.
Her mother was speaking to her father, who was sporting a Shakespeare T-shirt that said, I Put the Lit in Literature.
Her eldest brother, Benvolio, was blowing on a beverage that was almost certainly black coffee.
Her sister, Rosaline, gave an enthusiastic wave.
“Capulet?” Juliette asked, although she already knew where her twin brother would be, and the grimace on Baz’s face confirmed it.
“Doubt he’ll get leave. They’re testing soon.”
Juliette looked away. Obviously Cap would be preparing for Bahrain.
You couldn’t exactly miss preseason testing when you drove for the best Formula 1 team.
Not that she spoke to her brother much about racing, because that inevitably led to discussing his teammate.
And the idea of discussing Dominic Hastings…
Her stomach tightened.
No.
Not thinking about that.
The anthem ended. Drivers flocked toward their cars, exchanging good-natured slaps and fist bumps. Juliette pulled out a sleeve of biscuits from her jacket pocket. Baz looked at her as if she’d produced a severed head.
“Are you eating?”
She popped a biscuit into her mouth. “I missed breakfast.”
Baz ran a hand over his face. Freckles of blue paint decorated his fingers. “I can’t believe you’re eating shortbread right now.”
“Technically,” Juliette said, “they’re Viennese whirls.” She extended the sleeve. “Want one?”
Baz shook his head. “I’m good.”
He pulled at his sleeve: the only sign of his nerves.
She’d become accustomed to looking for it over the years, usually before public speeches or doctor appointments.
She’d only seen Baz cry once, on the first anniversary of his parents’ death.
Even Baz’s breakup last year hadn’t been enough to shake him.
But the sleeve pulling…that was a giveaway.
Baz pulled at the other sleeve. Juliette crumpled the biscuit wrapper.
“You’ll do well.”
Baz dropped his sleeve. “So will you. You’re the best driver on that track.”
Juliette shoved the wrapper into her jacket pocket. It was just like Baz, she thought, to try to reassure someone else when he was nervous. “I guess we’ll see.”
Baz paused. “Hey, Lettie?” He nodded at the stands.
She followed his gaze. A ripple of movement went through the crowd. Someone wearing a baseball cap was jostling down the front row, attempting to steer a yellow Lab that was happily snatching at people’s popcorn. A warm feeling spread through her chest.
“He came.”
Baz gave a small smile. “I thought he might try.”
From the stands, Capulet gave her a thumbs-up.
He was flushed, as if he’d run the short distance from the car park, and he looked on the verge of saying something when his dog Clyde lunged for a woman’s purse.
Juliette turned away, fighting a smile. The marshal gave a signal, and she squeezed Baz’s shoulder.
“Good luck.”
Baz nudged her. “You too.”
Juliette started for her car. Goldilocks, as she’d affectionately deemed it, primarily because of the navy-and-gold exterior that all Taurus cars shared; the academy models were smaller than the F1 versions—topping out at about 210 kilometers per hour—which made them easier to drive.
Allegedly.
“Marchmont,” a male voice drawled. “Nice of you to join us.”
Juliette didn’t bother to turn. “Von Galen.”
She hopped in the vehicle. Frederick leaned against the hood. His pink rubber bracelet read Be Kind, and Juliette suppressed a snort. “This is why women never win races. You’re always late to the track.”
Juliette started the car, feeling the familiar hum of the engine. Frederick leaned closer.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You got distracted by some fancy shoes?”
Juliette jerked her head. “Your car’s that way.”
“Or shiny jewelry?”
God. The least he could do was be creative. “Here’s an idea,” she said pleasantly. “Move. Or I’ll run you over.”
Frederick smirked. “Second place isn’t bad. As a woman, you’ll be lucky to finish at all.”
Juliette’s voice was sweet. “I’m sure most women feel that way around you.” She started the engine. “Three seconds. Then I’m driving.”
Frederick eyed the car warily. For a moment Juliette thought he might protest just to mess with her, but the marshal gave the last signal and Frederick zipped up his race suit. “I’ll wave at you in my rearview.”
He disappeared toward his car. Juliette exhaled, flexing her fingers on the wheel. Sweat pooled in her balaclava. Bloody Von Galen. He’d been a thorn in her side for eleven years now, but it would all be worth it after today.
One light flickered on.
Two.
She pulled down her racing goggles. The hum of thirteen cars filled the air, a swarm of agitated bees.
Three lights.
She’d been competing against these men since she was eleven years old. She knew how to beat them.
Four lights.
Third place, she thought, wasn’t a terrible place to start. She just had to overtake Baz and Frederick. Then she’d win.
Five lights.
For the first time, Juliette let herself consider it: winning the race. Becoming a Taurus driver. She’d be the first female driver in F1 history. Everything she’d worked for came down to this.
The lights went out.
Juliette barreled forward. Navy-and-gold cars whizzed around, sending up smoke. She pushed her car hard into the first turn. Baz was an incredible driver, but he hesitated at the beginning; if she was going to overtake, it had to be now.
She shot to the left. Baz made to block, but it was too late.
Juliette soared past. The crowd roared.
She slammed on the throttle. The force of it rattled her teeth, and she could feel her muscles screaming in protest. One lap passed. Two. Five. They were racing for ten laps—about a sixth of an actual race—which left little time to overtake.
Juliette passed the finish line.
Seven laps. Three to go.
She needed to get into first place now.
Frederick Von Galen came into view. He was careening around a corner, his tires burning dark paths in the track.
Unsurprisingly, he’d knocked out two drivers already; Frederick’s racing style could best be described as “feral dog snapping at your heels before it attacks.” He snuck up and then lunged.
Juliette’s smile was grim. She doubted he’d like it much in reverse.
She lunged. He blocked.
Frederick twitched to the left. A classic bluff; he did that just before he went right. Her heart sped up. True to form, Frederick dove right, and she stomped down on the gas pedal, her fingers choking the wheel. Just a little more—
She shot past.
Frederick made an angry hand gesture, and she bit back a smile.
Good. Let him sweat.
Juliette shifted gears. The finish line was drawing closer, racing up at speed. Her eyes burned. She was actually going to do it. She was going to become a Taurus Formula 1 driver. The first female Formula 1 driver to earn a full-time seat in history, the first woman to—
Something blew.
Juliette swore. Smoke choked her lungs. Red lights flashed up on the screen, and the car came to a shuddering halt. Frederick flew past, punching his fist in the air. The crowd roared.
Numbness swept through her.
He’d won.
He’d actually won.