Chapter 22 Breaking Point
Breaking Point
Juliette wiped sweat from her forehead. Moonlight spilled into the empty garage.
Abandoned wrenches cast long shadows across the floor, which reached for her with ghostly fingers.
She glanced at her phone. Twenty past eleven.
She had two missed calls from Baz, as well as a text from Cap: If you’re not back at the hotel by midnight, I’m ringing the police.
Juliette texted him, then pocketed her phone.
She circled her race car. The engineers had repaired most of it, but she’d blown a hole through the body, and dragging it around the track for ten laps hadn’t helped. She should have retired after the crash.
Her phone dinged. It was a picture of Cap and Baz in the hotel room, eating burgers—no pizza, obviously—and playing what appeared to be an F1 video game.
Cap’s side of the room was littered with napkins and a half-drunk bottle of soda; unsurprisingly, Baz was using a glass and coaster, because he was a proper adult.
Cap: Come join us.
Another ding.
Cap: Baz says the virtual version of you sounds like a drunk Mary Berry.
Juliette pocketed her phone. Her brother was right; she ought to go back to the hotel. Rest. Face the media shitstorm tomorrow.
She eyed the car.
The trouble with almost crashing was that it was a lot like an infected blister: The longer you left it, the worse it became. Better to pop it immediately. Apply antiseptic before it had time to fester.
Right.
Best to get it over with.
Juliette hopped into the car, hissing out a breath as her ribs gave a twinge. Mostly whiplash, according to the medical team. She’d been lucky to get away with it.
She started the engine. The air was thick with the oncoming storm, and it settled on her skin like warm soup. Her breath was ragged. One lap. Then she’d call it for the night—
“And just where,” a low voice said, “do you think you’re going?”
Juliette jumped, swearing as her bruised ribs gave a twinge. She knew who it was even before she turned. “Oh, good.” Her voice was cool. “It’s the idiot who ran into the back of my car.”
Dominic’s expression was shadowed. “You’re in no condition to drive.”
He was still dressed in his race suit, the top half unzipped to reveal a white T-shirt beneath.
So he hadn’t been home. Interesting. Her gaze flicked to the bandage on his forehead, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of satisfaction.
Good. She hoped it hurt. Where did he get off, running her off the track?
And all because of his stupid rivalry with Sinclair.
“I’m fine,” Juliette said shortly.
She shifted gears. Dominic stepped in front of the car.
“Marchmont. Stop.”
Juliette narrowed her eyes. “Get out of my way.”
“I’m not an expert,” Dominic said, his jaw tensed, “but it occurs to me that the treatment for bruised ribs isn’t going for a joyride in a car that has an issue with the hydraulic braking system.”
She whistled. “Long sentence. Good for you.”
If her childish insults irritated him, Dominic showed no sign of it. “Who gave you permission to take the car out?”
Nobody. But he knew that. “I’m only going to ask you one more time. Move. Or I’ll run you over.”
“Out,” Dominic growled. “Now.”
“Or what?” Her irritation was growing, fueled by a sense of righteousness. He didn’t get it; she needed this. Needed to prove to herself that she was a good driver, that she was capable of more than smashing into walls. “Or you’ll report me?”
“Or I’ll carry you out myself.”
Juliette snorted. “Typical.”
“What?”
She glanced at her mirror. “You, making decisions for the both of us.”
She let the sentence hang, like a grenade thrown between them. Dominic looked up, as if praying for patience. “I don’t have time for this today, Marchmont. Out. Now.”
She set her chin. “No.”
“Last chance,” Dominic warned.
“I said—”
Her body went airborne. Juliette swore, kicking out wildly, but Dominic was immovable; one moment she was in the car, and the next her back was striking the wall.
He yanked her shirt up. His dark eyes were assessing, his hands firm but clinical.
Hot blood rushed through her, with annoyance quick on its heels.
“Hastings!” Juliette twisted in his grip. “What the hell are you doing?”
He moved her bandages. “Checking your bruising.”
“Stop pawing at me!”
“Hold still,” Dominic growled.
Indignation rose in her chest. “My injuries are none of your goddamn concern—”
“Well, it has to be someone’s concern,” Dominic said tightly, “because clearly you don’t give a shit about your own well-being. You’re so goddamn stubborn.” His gaze flicked over her bruising, and he inhaled sharply. “This is nasty.”
Juliette yanked her shirt down, her cheeks burning. “That’s your official medical diagnosis? Nasty?”
She’d glimpsed the bruising earlier, and it had reminded her of moldering grapes, the way the skin became squishy.
Her hair was falling out of its hold, and she was almost positive she had oil on her face.
It doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, she told herself firmly, but it was pointless. She cared. She couldn’t help but care.
Dominic’s dark eyes were burning coals. “Does Ranya know how bad it is?”
She glared. “None of your business.”
Dominic exhaled. “In other words, no.” He ran a hand over his face. “You shouldn’t race next weekend.”
Something vicious filled her. “Oh, yeah. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? A chance for me to get replaced by a reserve driver. Well, guess what?” She stepped closer, fire burning in her chest. “Not fucking happening.”
Dominic let out a growl of frustration. “For god’s sake, that’s not what I—” He closed his eyes, as if trying to regain control of himself. “You’re going to run yourself into the ground, Marchmont. And for what? To prove a point?”
“To protect my seat,” she fired back. “To win a championship.”
“At the cost of your well-being!”
She wanted to laugh. This, coming from the man who had famously run his own car into the wall to win a race. “Like you have a leg to stand on.”
Her breath was ragged. For the first time, she realized how close Dominic was standing: His arms were braced on either side of her head, and she could count every water droplet clinging to his eyelashes, every vein that jumped in his forearm.
Violence raged in his eyes. Rain swept into the garage, and she shivered.
Dominic half closed his eyes. “You are the most stubborn, infuriating—” Water droplets slid down his face, tracing the shape of his mouth. “I want to throttle you sometimes.”
“Do it.” She raised her chin. “I dare you.”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. There was something dark and hungry there, and heat bloomed in her stomach. She could feel Dominic’s heart racing through her paper-thin shirt, feel the heat of him radiating in waves.
“Did you go home with him?”
It took a second for the words to penetrate. “What?”
“Sinclair.” Dominic’s eyes were flat. “Did you go home with him?”
Incredulity rose. “That’s what you want to know?”
“Answer the question.”
Honestly. The nerve of this man. As if he had any right to know after the way he’d behaved last night at the casino. “I don’t know.” Her heart pounded. “Did you go home with that girl?”
It was a killing blow. She expected him to bristle or to pull away, but Dominic’s gaze was steady. Unflinching.
“No,” he said in a low tone. “I didn’t.”
Juliette’s heart pounded. The light flooding out from the garage haloed Dominic’s face, masking his expression, but she knew somehow that he was telling the truth, and that threatened to undo her. I know you, she thought desperately. Even after all this time, I know you. How is that possible?
She looked away. “I saw you leaving the casino together.”
“Oh, we left together.” Dominic’s smile was dark.
“I took her all the way back to my hotel room, and when I had her undressed, you know what I thought? I wanted you.” His laugh was humorless.
“I’m so hung up on you that even the idea of kissing someone else makes me sick. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
Juliette wasn’t sure she was breathing. The pounding of the rain was a feral thing, an animal howling in the darkness.
“I didn’t go home with him either,” she said. “I couldn’t.”
She hadn’t wanted to take Anthony home. Not even for a moment. No, what she’d resented was that Dominic had told her not to do it, that he’d thought—even for a moment—that he held some sort of power over her.
Mostly, she thought tiredly, she hated that he was right.
Dominic’s voice was ragged. “Say it again.”
Their mouths were a whisper apart. “I didn’t go home with him.”
Dominic made a sound at the back of his throat.
Something very close to a groan. They were standing so close that she could feel it vibrate through her chest. His body was hot through his damp T-shirt, his muscles hard and toned from years of exercise, and she squeezed her eyes closed.
How could she ever forget how her body responded to him?
This had to be some form of sick torture.
“Marchmont,” Dominic murmured. “Look at me.”
She raised her gaze, then immediately wished she hadn’t.
Flecks of gold burned in his eyes like midnight stars.
Dominic’s gaze flicked to her mouth, and the fire in her chest blazed brighter.
“We shouldn’t,” she whispered, but she was already rising on her tiptoes.
Straining toward him, like a winged creature to flame.
Dominic’s lashes swept over his cheekbones. “I thought you hated me.”
“All the more reason not to.”
He lowered his head. Their mouths brushed.
It was the ghost of a kiss, but she felt it all along her spine.
Dominic made a pleased sound low in his throat, then he was kissing her properly, his warm hand sliding into her hair.
He tasted of rainwater and mint, and Juliette felt some part of herself liquefy.
Oh, she thought; so it was just as world-shattering as she remembered.
That was unfortunate. She kissed him back fiercely, her wet palms spanning his hard chest, and he shuddered.
“The way you taste…” His voice was ragged. “It’s exactly like I remember.”
Her voice was embarrassingly breathless. “It’s—”
“Strawberry.” Dominic nipped at her lip. “I remember. It drives me insane.”
Droplets clung to his dark lashes. She ran a hand over his chest, mapping his body over his wet T-shirt: the scar where he’d fallen from a dirt bike, the birthmark just above his navel…
She paused at the tattoo on his forearm, lingering over the fresh ink, but then Dominic was kissing her again, and she abruptly forgot what she’d been thinking.
His mouth was hungry and unrelenting. Thunder rumbled, and the vibrations sang through her veins.
Juliette closed her eyes. She’d tried so hard to make herself forget what kissing Dominic was like, but her body remembered; she knew the exact curve of his mouth, the feel of him under her hands.
Every piece of him was imprinted on her bones.
I never forgot you, she thought, and the realization stung.
Dominic’s hot mouth dropped to her neck, and desire swept through her, burning away any common sense.
“Watching you with Sinclair…” His voice was raw. “I couldn’t stand it.”
Juliette closed her eyes. “There’s nothing going on there.”
“I know.” Dominic’s mouth found the sensitive skin just above her collarbone. “But the thought of anyone else touching you…” His eyes were so dark that they looked like ink, bleeding past the edges of his pupil. “It fucking kills me.”
Juliette’s throat tightened. “I didn’t realize you cared.”
“Care,” Dominic repeated, his lip curling. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”
Her heart hammered. “And what’s the other?”
Dominic closed his eyes. She felt that they were standing on the edge of something.
Every muscle was braced to jump. “This feeling I get…” His mouth tightened.
“I’ve never been a jealous person. I used to laugh at men who worried when their girlfriends went out in tiny skirts.
So weak, I thought. So foolish.” His lips curved like a blade.
“But now I’m just like them. I’m unbelievably jealous when it comes to you. ”
Juliette stared. She wasn’t sure that she was breathing. “You don’t even like me. We don’t like each other.”
She clung to that certainty, like a drowning swimmer gripping a buoy. She couldn’t forget the insulting things that Dominic had hurled at her when she’d last allowed herself to get close to him, the things she’d said back. If she forgot that, she was done for.
Dominic’s smile was mirthless. “If you knew half the things I’ve thought about you…all the filthy things I’ve imagined saying to you, or doing to you…” His mouth brushed the corner of her lips. “I like you too much, Marchmont. That’s always been the problem.”
She shivered. “But I—”
Someone cleared their throat.
Juliette whirled.
Ranya stood in the entrance to the garage. She was leaning on her cane, her eyes swiveling from their soaked T-shirts to their swollen mouths and flushed cheeks. Juliette stiffened. Dominic’s breathing was ragged, but he made no move to release her. For a terrible moment, nobody spoke.
“My office,” Ranya said. “Now.”