Chapter 20 Spinning Out
Spinning Out
Now
Dominic looked at an oil can and wondered briefly whether it would make a suitable vessel to be sick into.
Pit crew scurried around the team garage, carrying wrenches and tires. The sound of drilling burrowed deep into his skull and he grimaced, massaging his temples. He was never drinking again. Especially on a race weekend. This was the hangover from hell.
He looked up. Juliette was speaking with Robert Von Galen, gesturing at a computer monitor.
She seemed remarkably perky for someone who had ingested half a bottle of whiskey last night; her dark hair was in a neat ponytail, and she was sipping something that looked vaguely like battery acid.
As if she sensed his gaze, she looked up.
Then she leaned closer to the computer monitor, gesticulating more forcefully.
So Marchmont was ignoring him.
Fine.
He didn’t care.
Dominic looked at the oil can. The oil can looked back at him.
“Oh no,” Ranya said. “Not you too.”
Their team principal was frowning, holding her cane as if deciding whether to whack him with it. He surreptitiously moved the oil can closer with his left foot.
“What do you mean?”
Ranya’s frown deepened. “You’re hungover.”
“I’m not hungover,” Dominic said indignantly.
“Then what would you call this?”
He thought for a moment. “Severe dehydration.”
Ranya muttered something under her breath that sounded distinctly like ducking unbelievable. “At least you had the good sense to get half the grid drunk with you.” She ran a hand over her face. “Yang is vomiting into a plant pot.”
Dominic spared a brief thought for Liêm, who had never done well on tequila, even at boarding school. “It won’t affect my performance. Trust me. I’ve been told that I always perform well, even on alcohol.”
Ranya looked up at the ceiling. “If that was an innuendo, Hastings, I swear to god…” Painkillers materialized in her hand. “Here. Take two of these.”
Dominic stared. “Seriously. How the hell do you do that? Are you a magician or something?”
Ranya ignored this. “Juliette! Come here, please.”
Slowly, Juliette released the computer mouse. She looked about as thrilled as a prisoner marching toward a chopping block. Ranya launched into a ten-minute talk about race strategy, and Dominic—who’d memorized all the race strategies last week—spent ten minutes staring at Juliette.
She looked tired.
Unusually tired?
Dominic picked up the oil can, turning it over in his hands.
There were dark circles under her eyes, but her skin was fresh and smelled vaguely of strawberry bodywash.
So she’d spent the night at her place. Interesting.
But did she have company? Had Anthony stayed the night? Even the thought of that…
A wave of nausea struck him, and Dominic leaned over the oil can.
Bloody hell. He really might be sick.
“Hastings,” Juliette said.
He clutched the oil can. “What?”
“You’re staring.”
Dominic blinked. He hadn’t even realized Ranya was gone, which didn’t bode well for the race in twenty minutes. “You have smoothie. On your face.”
Juliette wiped the green smudge away impatiently. Her expression was impossible to read, and that, Dominic thought, was coming from someone who could regularly decipher the bottom row of letters at an optometrist’s office.
“You left early yesterday,” Juliette observed.
Dominic set down the oil can. “Good job I did.” And then, because he was a nosy bastard: “And you?”
“Shortly after you.”
Dominic paused. He had no idea what that meant, and it wasn’t like he could ask. “You’re upset with me.”
Juliette raised an eyebrow. “Why would I be?” She zipped up her race suit, turning for the door. “Anyway, it’s nice to hear that you showed your companion a good time last night. Even with the alcohol.”
Cold realization gripped him. Fuck. She’d seen him leave with that girl, and then after what he said to Ranya…“Marchmont—”
“Hope you didn’t stay up too late,” Juliette called. “I’d hate for you to fall asleep at the wheel and crash.”
She slipped out the door. Dominic stared, his ears ringing.
He hadn’t realized she’d been watching him that closely.
Or maybe he’d hoped she’d been watching.
Even now, he couldn’t deny that some part of him was pleased at the thought of it.
Mind you, she didn’t seem jealous so much as pissed off, but the two went hand in hand, surely?
He was distracted as they stood for the national anthem, his mind racing as he climbed into his car.
He hadn’t even slept with that girl. He’d brought her back to the hotel, and then he had—for the first time—experienced a wave of something that could only be described as complete apathy.
I don’t want this, he’d thought, and the realization had rattled him more than he cared to admit.
So Dominic had sent her home in a taxi.
And now…
He drew a deep breath. Focus, he told himself sternly. Hand to steering wheel, foot to pedals. Punch the correct buttons. It was a routine he’d been doing for years. He knew it better than brushing his own teeth.
His speaker crackled. “Hastings?”
“Hi, Blake.”
The race engineer slurped something. Sweet tea, no doubt. He drank the stuff by the gallon. “Are you ready?”
Dominic strapped himself in. Was he ready? Difficult to say. What he knew was that he didn’t have a choice. “Let’s go.”
A light flickered overhead.
Two.
Three.
Sinclair’s lights glowed red. Twin monstrous eyes. Dominic bit down until his teeth ached.
Four.
Dominic could see Juliette’s car behind him. He closed his eyes. Please, for the love of god, say she didn’t go home with him.
Five.
Briefly, Dominic wondered if she was nervous for her first race in Monaco, then dismissed the idea. Juliette held the world in her palm, examining it as if it were an apple that she intended to eat. She wasn’t scared of anything.
Lights out.
And away they went.
Dominic slammed on the gas. But Juliette was faster, shooting past him on the first turn, and he cursed under his breath.
This was where distractions got you.
He barreled into the second turn. Monaco was one of the hardest tracks of the season.
Everything’s designed to kill you, his father used to say.
The narrow track, the hairpin turns, the other drivers…
It was a miracle if you overtook another driver in Monaco.
An even bigger miracle if you did it in one piece.
“Careful into turn five,” Blake warned.
Dom turned the wheel, and the car jerked, half sliding across the track. Blood pounded in his ears. “Where are we?”
More radio crackling. “P6.”
Dom whipped around the fifth corner, taking a hairpin turn into the next.
His neck ached with the effort of keeping his head up.
The force of the acceleration pinned his body to the seat, and he could feel every bump on the road.
Every twist and turn. You are the car, his father used to say. The car is you.
“How’s the balance?” Blake asked.
“Not bad.” It was bad. Worse than any other car he’d driven, by far. “I’ve got some understeer around the corners.”
“Noted.”
Dominic took a hairpin turn. Pink buildings and terra-cotta tiles whizzed by in a symphony of color.
Monaco had been his mother’s favorite city to photograph; a picture of the Port de Fontvieille had hung in their living room.
The first photograph that his father had pointed out when he’d stepped into her gallery, according to his mother.
“I like the way the sun’s hitting the water,” Vance had said.
“It reminds me of a song.” Even now, Dominic had difficulty imagining his father speaking so poetically.
His mother, on the other hand, had spoken about everything as if it were poetry.
An apple was a fallen star. A washed-up boat was the skeleton of some great animal.
She’d sit in her darkroom, holding up photographs.
Look at the light, mon cher. Do you see how it drapes over the table?
Sinclair’s lights glowed ahead. His radio crackled.
“DRS available,” Blake said.
Dominic hit the gas. “Got it.”
He sped into the straight. Juliette was ahead, neck and neck with Sinclair, their cars barreling into the fourth turn. Dominic jerked the wheel. The car bucked beneath him, and the red exterior of Sinclair’s car—his old car—winked mockingly in the fading sunlight.
His father’s words echoed in his head. His data is better across the charts. He wins more races. Sinclair’s the better driver.
He thought of Sinclair at the casino. The smugness in his voice. I’m going to take her home and fuck her tonight. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.
Dominic gritted his teeth.
Sod.
That.
He shot forward. Close. He was so fucking close, one breath from overtaking Sinclair. Everything narrowed to the sound of his heartbeat. He hammered the gas pedal. Juliette moved to block him, but he could squeeze past, he could—
Blake’s voice was alarmed. “Dom, don’t try to—”
Juliette slammed on her brakes.
Tires screeched.
Dominic swore, swerving hard, but too late: His car skidded into the gravel. He guided the car back onto the track. Lights flashed up on screen. Big, angry lights. Not that it mattered; he could have told you that he’d fucked his front wing without even looking at it.
“Are you all right?” Blake asked.
“Fine. Marchmont?”
There was the clatter of keys. A low exchange of voices, and the clatter grew louder. Dominic’s head swam.
“Blake? Is Marchmont okay?”
A pause. “Still in the race, but now in last place.”
Fuck. She was going to kill him for that. “Is she hurt?”
“Bring the car in,” Blake said. “There’s no point in trying to drive it in that condition.”
He’d already figured as much; he was limping the car into the pit lane. “And Marchmont’s not hurt? You’re sure?”
Blake made a humming sound. “Your vitals look a bit unstable. Wait in the car for the medical team to assess you, all right?”
Screw that. “Marchmont. How is she?”
Keys clacked. If he didn’t know better, Dominic would have sworn the other man was trying to give him an early aneurysm. A pulse beat rapidly in his throat. Juliette was probably fine, but what if they were just trying to keep him calm? To keep him focused on delivering the car in one piece?
“Blake,” Dominic said. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Give me a second,” Blake said, and he had the nerve to sound exasperated.
“We’re just trying to sort her race strategy.
” He must have sensed that Dominic wasn’t exactly in the mood to be patient because his tone shifted.
“She’s fine, Dominic. I promise. Stay in the car. Don’t move until someone tells you to.”
There was a click. Dominic yanked off his helmet, staring at the microphone in disbelief. The bastard had disconnected him.
What the hell?
He sprang from the car, fully intent on marching over to the pit wall and demanding answers, but his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Dominic balled them into fists. Logically, he knew that Juliette was fine, but he couldn’t seem to shake the adrenaline.
It was the shower incident all over again.
He’d always had to physically feel things to make them true: It wasn’t a win until he was holding the trophy; the avocado wasn’t rotten until he cut into the flesh; his mother wasn’t dead until he’d touched the casket. That was just how his mind worked.
“Dominic?” a tentative voice asked.
He rested his head against the car. Through the narrow slat of his vision, he could see a nervous-looking pit crew member hovering.
“Er. Sorry to interrupt. It’s just that someone wants to see you.”
Dominic closed his eyes. A splitting headache had started in his left temple, and suddenly all he wanted was a cold shower. And possibly a lobotomy so he could forget the last twenty minutes. “Tell Ranya that I want to speak with Blake first.”
He was in no mood to be shouted at. Even if he deserved it. The pit crew member shifted his weight. “Er. It’s just that—”
“It’s not Ranya,” someone called. “It’s me.”
Dominic stiffened. He’d know that voice anywhere.
And sure enough, there was his father, striding into the team garage.