Chapter 21 Drive Me Away
Drive Me Away
Vance’s red uniform was freshly washed, which Dominic found oddly comforting.
He could recall thinking the same thing at his mother’s funeral, when his father had showed up in a designer suit, the cufflinks polished and gleaming.
It can’t be that bad if Baba used a lint roller, Dominic had thought with some relief, and it was still true now, as if Vance’s pristine wardrobe were a barometer for exactly how terrible the situation was.
Whatever his father wanted, it couldn’t be that bad.
Vance stopped short, his dark eyes blazing. “What were you thinking?”
Okay. Scratch that. Maybe it was bad.
“What do you mean?” Dominic asked carefully. He was painfully aware of the entire garage listening on, although most people had the good grace to pretend to watch the race on the overhead television.
Vance’s eyes flicked to Dominic’s head. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s just a scratch.”
Vance’s mouth tightened. “That girl brake tested you.”
That girl. He was surprised by how quickly his body heated, at the burning urge to lash out and defend.
Still, he couldn’t risk it. If he pissed his father off…
His stomach tightened. He hadn’t forgotten about what Vance had threatened to do in Paris once.
Just because his father hadn’t done it then didn’t mean he wouldn’t do it now.
“I don’t think so,” Dominic said carefully. “She was swerving to avoid Sinclair. She had no choice but to brake.”
He’d played the incident in his mind again and again, analyzing it from every angle.
Could he have left Juliette more space? Was the overtake too dangerous?
Could he have braked in time? Every time, he had drawn the same conclusion: It was nobody’s fault.
Not even Sinclair’s, who he would have dearly loved to blame.
Vance took off his headset. “Sinclair was giving her plenty of room.”
“I don’t think he was.”
“I’ve seen the footage.”
And I was on the track, Dominic thought. “It was a racing incident. Nobody’s fault.” He climbed from the car. Why had Vance come, anyway? To review their team race footage? To pin this on Juliette in case the FIA started blaming Sinclair? He needed to talk to Blake. “If you’ll excuse me—”
Vance massaged his temples. “I knew this would happen. I warned the FIA that having a woman on the track would change things. There needs to be precautions in place. Rules and procedures.”
Something inside him prickled. “She earned that seat.”
“I never said she didn’t. But she changes the dynamic. There are too many…emotions, where Juliette Marchmont is concerned.” Vance waved a hand toward the television. “Just look at her brother. He’s dropped six positions since she spun out.”
Dominic crossed his arms. “She’s a damn good driver.”
“You should have been paying more attention.”
His irritation increased. Ah. So they were doing this now, were they? Analyzing it, like some sort of messed-up training session. “I was trying to overtake Sinclair.”
“With no success. I taught you better than that.”
“Well,” Dominic said coolly, “it’s a good thing that I’m not your problem anymore.”
Vance blinked: the only betrayal of his father’s surprise. Dominic clasped his hands behind his back. This was the closest they’d come to confronting the whole thing, he realized. All it took was one push to send them toppling over the cliff edge.
“Have someone look at your head,” Vance said finally. “Not someone your team employs. A real doctor.”
Dominic stiffened. “Our medical staff are fine.”
Vance took out his phone. “I’ll transfer you. For the expense.”
And it was that—more than anything—that pissed Dominic off. “I don’t want your money.”
His father’s fingers kept moving. “Your mother wouldn’t want your face scarring.”
Scratch that.
That pissed him off the most.
My mother, Dominic thought, his heart pounding furiously, would be appalled that you’re a fifty-eight-year-old man who dates college girls.
His father had a wild past—the women he’d slept with before Colette could have packed out a small cinema—but Vance had always drawn the line at sleeping with anyone who couldn’t remember VHS tapes.
Until recently, anyway.
Dominic’s fists tightened in his pockets. “I’ll take my chances.”
His father held his gaze. When it became clear that Dominic wasn’t going to move, Vance stuffed his phone away. “You left a few boxes at the flat in Paris. I’ll have my assistant send them to your new address.”
There was no sign of his father’s earlier discomposure. His face was wiped clean, like a skating rink that had been smoothed over.
“Thanks,” Dominic said. “You can bill me for it.”
Vance adjusted his headset. He looked on the verge of departing when Ranya appeared, swinging her cane like a sword. Several pit crew members scurried out of her way, although she didn’t seem to notice; the hem of her salmon-colored dress was dirty, as if she’d run through mud to reach them.
Ranya slowed. “Vance. I heard you were in the garage.”
His father’s expression was equally cool. “Ranya.”
“I hope you’re apologizing to my driver,” she said. “After Sinclair ran him off the track.”
“Your drivers ran each other off the track.”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Just like you to shirk accountability.” She turned. “Dom. The medical team wants to see you about that head wound.”
Chairs scraped. Dominic looked up as pit crew members lumbered toward the coffee machine, speaking in subdued tones. A quick glance at the screen told him that the race had ended two minutes ago. Juliette had finished last. His stomach tightened. God, she really was going to kill him.
“Where’s Marchmont?”
“She’s fine.” Ranya leaned on her cane. “The medical team cleared her. Just some minor bruising to the ribs.”
Sweat trickled down Dom’s neck. “Where is she?”
Ranya looked at his forehead warily. “I’ll tell you after you get that assessed.”
“I’m fine.”
“And I don’t give a rat’s arse,” Ranya said pleasantly. “If I let you wander around the paddock looking like that, the FIA will have my head on a chopping block. And I have better things to do than paperwork.”
“Let me see Marchmont first.”
Ranya’s face tightened. She looked as if she seriously regretted ever becoming a team principal.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dominic,” Vance said. “Go see a doctor.”
Ranya’s mouth puckered. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with your father.” She said father as if the word tasted like slimy vegetables left in the back of the fridge to rot. “Let the medical team look at you, and then I’ll point you in Juliette’s direction. How does that sound?”
Dominic considered this. It was, he supposed, a more viable option than threatening Blake into giving up her location.
He held out an arm. “Lead the way.”
Ranya sighed. “Oh, and Hastings?”
“Yes?”
She held open the door. “If she threatens to cut off your balls with a chainsaw, I’m not interfering. You deserve it.”