Chapter 3 Full Throttle #2
She guided the car toward the garage, unable to bring herself to look at the stands.
She could imagine Cap leaning over to explain it to her dumbstruck parents.
Must have taken a corner too fast…yeah, the way it bounced and then gave was definitely the rear suspension…
Her family would be kind about it, of course, but that was the problem.
The Marchmonts were fixers. Lost your job?
Have a cup of tea. Going through a divorce?
Here’s an ice cream. Sadness was treated as an affliction that could be cured, and just for now, she wanted to stew in self-pity.
She parked in the garage, her hands trembling as she switched off the engine. God, what a mess. How had she even blown the rear suspension? If she hadn’t known any better, she would have said that it had been—
A terrible thought occurred to her.
No. That wasn’t possible.
Was it?
She leaped out of the vehicle. A young mechanic in an oil-speckled uniform sprung to his feet, hastily setting down a House he was doing a poor job of hiding it.
Clyde trotted in after him and unceremoniously began dismantling the nearest toolbox.
The mechanic let out a cry, leaping for the tools.
“What are you doing?” Cap asked.
Juliette set down the wrench. “Someone fucked with my car.”
“Call off your dog,” the mechanic said desperately, attempting to wrestle a box of shims out of Clyde’s mouth. “And your friend, while you’re at it.”
Cap surveyed her. If it was anyone else, Juliette thought, they might chalk up her outburst to being a sore loser. But her brother just looked thoughtful. “How do you know?”
“A hunch.” Juliette dug around the car. “I felt the suspension give, and—Ah!” She drew back her hand, triumphant. “There’s the little bastard.”
“What is it?”
“The wishbone.” Juliette nodded at the V-shaped titanium. “You see how the leading arm is damaged?” She ran a hand over the bent metal. “It’s almost like someone struck it with a…”
Her eyes fell on a hammer.
Cap circled the car, assessing. “It could have just broken.”
Juliette frowned. That was possible. Titanium was strong, but not infallible; if she’d hit the curb at an unusual angle and then braked heavily…But she hadn’t.
Not once.
“No.” It was the mechanic who spoke. He was kneeling as he patted Clyde, holding a drool-covered box.
“Do you know how much each part of that car is worth? We rigorously test everything.” He was pale as he looked at the bent wishbone.
“I don’t understand. I checked the car yesterday and it was fine. ”
Juliette rose, her ears ringing.
Oh, she understood perfectly.
This was sabotage. And she knew damn well who’d done it.
“Knock, knock,” a cheerful voice called.
She turned. Frederick Von Galen pushed his way into the garage. His bleach-blond tips were sweaty, and a bottle of half-drunk champagne was tucked under his arm. So he’d officially won, Juliette realized hollowly. Of course he had.
“Oh, dear,” Frederick drawled. “Car problems?”
He leaned against the hood. Juliette’s fingers twitched.
“You did this.”
She felt as if she were watching the scene from far away, like a spectator in the stands. Frederick smirked.
“Did what?”
Juliette balled her hands into fists. “You know what.”
Tampering with her car. Rigging the race. And wait, hadn’t he sat next to her at dinner last night? He could have even switched her phone to silent.
Frederick leaned closer. “And what if I did?” A smug little smile played around his mouth. “You’ll never be able to prove it.”
White-hot rage filled her.
She had the sudden urge to smack him, which was exactly what Frederick wanted, of course.
The academy would give her the boot, which would really put a damper on any career prospects.
Robert Von Galen—Frederick’s father—was the head of race strategy at Toro Significa, the feeder team for Taurus; if she attacked his son, she might as well cut up her driving license.
Frederick was still smirking, leaning against her car as if he owned it. Slowly, Cap removed his baseball hat, and the mechanic made a choking sound, releasing Clyde’s collar. The dog gave a bark of delight and pounced on another box of tools.
“Holy shit,” the mechanic breathed. “You’re Capulet Marchmont.”
That got Frederick’s attention. He spun around, and his shit-eating grin vanished. “Capulet. I was just taking the piss. I’d never actually…” He glanced at the broken wishbone. “I didn’t touch her car.”
Cap crossed his arms. “Oh, I believe you.”
“You do?”
“Sure,” Cap said. “You strike me as a smart man, Von Galen. I bet you only touched the hammer. You probably even wiped your fingerprints off the handle.” He removed his sunglasses. “But that’s my sister you’re fucking with. And if I need to place a call to the director of Taurus, then I will.”
Frederick gripped his pink bracelet. “It’ll be your word against mine. And my father’s on the board.”
“Well,” Cap said. “I guess we’ll see.”
Baz stepped into the garage, his eyes flicking between the three of them. “What’s going on?”
Juliette swallowed; if she spoke, she was going to cry, and she refused to give Frederick “I’m a prize dickhead” Von Galen the satisfaction. “Nothing. I was just congratulating the winner.” Her smile was barbed. “Even if he is a piece of shit.”
Baz frowned, his gaze flicking toward the damaged car. He exchanged a loaded look with Cap. It was the same look they’d exchanged over countless Christmas dinner tables and summer barbecues. A look that said “yes, it is exactly what you suspect and I will fill you in later.”
She looked away. Technically, she’d met Baz first, on their first day in class.
He’d been dumped at the academy unceremoniously by his grandfather, who’d taken one look at the eleven-year-old child he’d been saddled with and bolted for Magaluf, armed with Baz’s meager inheritance and a taste for whiskey and women.
“But it’s cool,” Baz had said, reaching for a pencil.
“I got a scholarship to the academy, so it worked out.” After that, Baz had begun joining the Marchmont family for Christmases and summer holidays; he and Cap had bonded over a shared love of pub quizzes and darts, and now they texted every day, which was great for them.
Lovely. Really. She was in full support.
Still. At moments like this, she wished they’d stop exchanging furtive glances and do something helpful, like assisting her in murdering Frederick Von Galen and then hiding his body in the Scottish woodlands.
Frederick dropped his voice to a murmur. “No need for insults, sweetheart. There are better ways to put that pretty little mouth to use. If you want to find out what winning tastes like…” His hot breath tickled her ear. “You know where my room is.”
Juliette pulled a face. Honestly. Gross. “Come on.”
She steered Baz and Cap out of the garage, marching them toward the castle. Baz glanced over his shoulder. “What was that about?”
Juliette stripped off her gloves. “He tampered with the rear suspension on my car.”
“What?”
“That’s why it blew.” She doubled her stride. “He must have broken into the garage last night.”
Baz exchanged a look with Cap. “You have to tell someone.”
Her mouth tightened. “No.” She rounded on Cap. “And you won’t say anything either. Not to anyone.”
Cap’s eyes narrowed. “Why not?”
Something tightened in Juliette’s chest. A good question.
Why not? Because she’d never wanted a ladder when Cap and Baz were climbing trees.
Because she wanted to do as many press-ups as Baz could, to drink as many beers as Cap could.
Because, she thought with dark humor, she had the borderline insane desire to prove that she could do anything a man could do. Even if it killed her.
“I don’t need their pity,” Juliette said. “I can become a champion on my own.”
Baz rubbed his forehead, muttering something distinctly uncomplimentary. “Dios mío, Lettie. You always do this.”
Cap sighed. “So damn stubborn.”
Juliette frowned. “I’m not—”
“Juliette!” a voice called.
They turned. A man stood outside the castle. He wore a crisp gray suit, his expression stern, and her stomach dropped. Headmaster Simmons was meant to be at the trophy ceremony. The fact that he was beckoning her over…
Yeah.
Not good.
“My office.” The headmaster’s voice was clipped. “Now.”