Chapter 14 In the Fast Lane
In the Fast Lane
Over the next three weeks, Juliette hardly slept.
Hill sprints, racing simulators, neck exercises, watching old race footage…
Every waking hour was devoted to training.
During her lunch breaks, she traced Bahrain’s track on a napkin, memorizing the layout: Hard into turns one, two, and three.
Long straight. Turn four. Careful exit from the pit lane because it led directly into a braking zone.
She dreamed of the race. Sometimes she’d wake up covered in sweat, her panicked hands grasping desperately for a phantom steering wheel. Then she’d get out of bed, throw on gym clothes, and meet Dominic for a morning run.
She had to begrudgingly admit that Dominic was a consummate professional; he showed up every morning with coffee—cappuccino for him, dirty chai latte for her—and then they began the usual training routine. Sprinting. Swimming. Dynamic stretching. And ice baths.
Admittedly, the ice baths wouldn’t have been a problem if it wasn’t for the fact that they required minimal clothing.
And while Dominic was, in her opinion, still an insufferable arsehole, she couldn’t deny that he was an insufferable arsehole with abs.
And a chiseled jawline. Which he knew. Obviously.
Dominic squatted by the tub, leaning his arms against the cold metal. “Where’s the first chicane in Monza?”
He was dressed in loose shorts and a baseball cap. No shirt. Hard stomach muscles contracted as he breathed, and Juliette looked away. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking. Not even once.
“Turn one. Variante del Rettifilo.”
Dominic shifted. Allegedly to reach for the cold-water tap, but probably just to give her a better view. “And the first DRS zone? You know where that is?”
It was quite hard to give someone an imposing stare when you were developing frostbite in your pinky toe, but she did her best. Obviously she knew where drivers could activate their drag reduction systems on track; it essentially allowed any car within a second to temporarily gain superspeed, which meant it would be easier to overtake her.
And she wasn’t about to let that happen.
“Between turns seven and eight.”
“What about Bahrain?” Dominic prompted, and then shifted closer, damn him. She trained her eyes on the ceiling. “What’s the gear shift into the first turn?”
Juliette flexed her toes. Her feet were numb, and her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. “How long do I have left?”
“Answer the question.”
She squinted. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Marchmont.” He clucked his tongue. “This is a test of mental fortitude. You’re not complaining, are you?”
“Depends,” Juliette muttered, flexing her frozen fingers. “You’re not purposely being an arsehole, are you?”
Dominic glanced at his watch. “Why don’t you stew on that for an extra minute in the tub?” He rose. “Don’t make it two.”
And on and on it went. Juliette collapsed in bed every night, her muscles aching, her head throbbing with new information.
Don’t forget that F1 cars are bigger than F2 cars; you need to watch that you don’t clip the wall.
Remember that you’ll get a time penalty for exceeding track limits.
She felt as if parts of her were breaking down and re-forming, like broken bones knitting together.
And then, suddenly, the three weeks were over.
Bahrain qualifying passed. She placed twelfth, which wasn’t terrible for a rookie, but not good enough to keep her seat on the team.
Still. Making up two places wasn’t impossible.
She could do it. Dominic, unsurprisingly, placed fifth, which went to show that you really could behave like an arsehole and get away with it.
She’d wanted nothing more than to go back to her hotel and soak in the tub, accompanied by an episode of that television show where a couple had to decide whether they wanted a mortgage on a French chateau or a million-pound wedding, but alas.
The universe had other plans.
“I hate these things,” Liêm muttered.
He peered around a black curtain. Juliette shifted her weight.
Whoever had planned this post-qualifying interview hadn’t accounted for there being six male drivers crammed into a narrow space backstage.
No amount of antiperspirant could hide what was, she estimated, enough sweat to cure a small drought in sub-Saharan Africa.
Cap looked up from his crossword. “Which part?”
“The audience,” Liêm said, dropping the curtain.
Cap nudged him. “But you love people.”
“In small numbers.”
“It’ll only be a few minutes.” Cap leaned over Liêm’s shoulder, waving at Baz, who was sitting in the third row. “Then we can go for burgers.” He tapped his pen against the crossword grid. “Also, does anyone know a five-letter word for an immature domestic pigeon?”
“What about pizza?” Juliette asked.
Cap frowned. “No, that’s not—” His face lit up. “Wait, I’ve got it. Squab.”
Juliette tilted her head as he scribbled. Sounded like the name of an indie band. “I meant pizza for dinner.”
Cap made a derisive noise. “Good one.”
Liêm raised an eyebrow, and Juliette added, “He hates pizza.”
Liêm stared. “What kind of monster hates pizza? No, wait.” He held up a hand. “I can’t think about food. I might be sick.” He scanned the backstage area, pausing on Juliette’s pink cowboy boots, and she turned her feet protectively inward.
“No.”
“What?” Liêm looked innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to. These are expensive.”
“I’d only need one of them,” Liêm offered.
Juliette took a step back. No mean feat, given the limited space. “Don’t touch my boots.”
Something hard struck her shoulder. She turned, only to find herself face-to-face with Dominic, who had seemingly materialized from the shadows. Sweat and something spicy clung to his clothes.
“Easy,” he murmured.
He steadied her, his fingers burning through the cloth, and she had the sudden, violent urge to shrug him off.
“Juliette!” a voice called.
Anthony was shouldering his way through the narrow space. He looked miraculously put-together for having just driven for forty-five minutes in extreme heat to claim first place in the race tomorrow; his blond hair was combed, and he’d showered and changed.
“Congratulations,” he said. “That was one hell of a drive.”
Juliette glanced at the stage. “Thanks.” The producer held up two fingers. Two minutes. “Well done on pole position. The car looks good.”
Anthony shrugged. “Depends on who’s driving it.” His eyes flicked to Dominic, but the movement was so quick that she wondered if she’d imagined it. “What are you doing after the race tomorrow?”
“Oh.” She paused. “I’m not sure.” Probably eating shawarma with Cap while they FaceTimed their parents, who were currently visiting a Shakespearean festival in a two-piece donkey costume. Not that she was about to admit that.
Anthony toyed with his signet ring. “You should come out for dinner.”
Wariness filled her. “Who else is coming?”
She could already see where this was going, and honestly, no thank you.
She’d gotten involved with a Formula 1 driver before and look how that had turned out.
It was amazing they hadn’t brained each other with a wrench yet.
As if he could sense her thoughts, Dominic’s stance shifted.
He wasn’t looking at her, but he was listening.
Undoubtedly so he could mock her mercilessly for this later.
Sure enough, Anthony smiled. “I was thinking it would be just us.”
“Like a date?” Juliette asked, just to be sure.
He nodded. “I know a great seafood restaurant by the water. Live music, candlelight, a beautiful view of the sunset…”
Dominic’s voice was cool. “She’s allergic to shellfish. So unless you’re trying to kill her, I’d pick somewhere else.”
Silence fell, broken only by the polite clapping of the audience.
Highlights from the qualifying session were playing on a screen.
Juliette stared. Where the bloody hell had that come from?
Was Dominic really so eager to pick a fight with Anthony that he’d pretend to care who she dated?
Cap lowered his crossword book, his gaze flicking warily between the two men.
“Chaps. Perhaps we shouldn’t—”
“Shame about fifth place,” Anthony said. “Tough start to the season. I can only imagine how disappointed you must be.”
Dominic shrugged. “Anything can happen tomorrow.”
“I was sorry to hear about the car. Went up in flames during testing, didn’t it?”
Dom’s smile was easy. “A lot like your career by the end of this season then.”
“Shut up,” Liêm muttered, massaging his temples. “Both of you.” The music swelled, and he tensed. “That’s our cue.”
The stage lights were blinding, exploding in popcorn flashes, and Juliette smiled for the cameras as they took their seats. From the third row, Baz gave her a nod and mouthed, “Dirt. On your cheek.” She touched her face and found that he was right. Brilliant. A promising start to her media career.
“So, Capulet.” A female interviewer leaned forward. “Let’s start with you…”
And so the questions began. What was the car like this season?
What kinks did they need to work out? How was the new engine performing?
Juliette shifted in her chair. Eventually, fifty minutes of the hour-long interview had elapsed, and no one had asked her a question.
She probably ought to feel offended, but all she felt was relief.
“Dominic.” The interviewer turned. “This next one’s for you. You’ve spent your entire career racing on your father’s team. How did it feel to be in an unfamiliar car today?”
Dominic draped an arm over his chair. “I’ve loved working with a new team. Ranya has been fantastic, and everyone at Toro Significa has been exceptionally welcoming.”
“There’s no awkwardness?”
He shook his head. “My father has always been very supportive of my career.”
“Surely there’s been a bit of tension.” The woman leaned forward. “No arguments around the family dinner table?”