Chapter 30 Crossing the Line
Crossing the Line
“I’m only going to ask this once,” Juliette said dryly. “Do I want to know what that sign says?”
Baz shot her an amused look. Duro Stallion fans packed the Monza stands, a blur of red face paint and waving flags.
Someone was holding a sign that read, Mi fai sciogliere come il gelato al sole—mangia la mia panna, Cap!
She didn’t speak Italian, but the little hearts around her brother’s face suggested that the sign wasn’t actually about ice cream.
Or racing. There were times when she envied Baz’s ability to speak four languages, but she sensed this wouldn’t be one of them.
Baz ran a hand over his chin. “Depends. How vivid is your imagination?”
“Very.”
“Then no.”
Well. Fair enough. She scanned the crowd, realizing belatedly that a half-dozen banners sported her face, and her pulse kicked up.
Logically, it made sense; before the summer break, she’d placed second in Belgium.
Third in the Netherlands. Second again at Silverstone and Hungary.
Anthony Sinclair—who’d suffered engine problems—fell back to second place, and Liêm had taken the lead in the championship.
Dominic was in third place, and Juliette was now fourth.
High enough on the grid that she’d started to develop a small following.
Still.
Would she ever be used to seeing her own face staring out from the crowd?
Probably not.
Anyway, she thought, yanking on her balaclava, this was the first race after the summer break. Anything could happen. And if she didn’t outdrive Dominic, she might as well pack her bags now.
Cap appeared beside them. He was surveying the crowd, a pen gripped in his hand. “How many people do you think are watching?”
“In person,” Juliette said, “or on telly?”
“Here.”
She considered. “A hundred thousand?” Probably more, actually, but Cap was already looking pale. “Why?”
Cap smiled, waving at a pair of screaming girls. “Always good to know how many fans I’m about to disappoint.”
“You’ll do fine.”
Cap’s face tightened. “Easy for you to say. Everyone loves you.”
Baz and Juliette exchanged a look. Cap had been increasingly quiet since dropping back to fifth place, although the verbal nihilism was new. Juliette took a long sip of water. Baz, ever the peacemaker, slapped Cap on the back.
“You’ll both do well. And if you don’t, we’ll get incredibly drunk at dinner.”
Cap shrugged him off. “I need the loo. How long do I have?”
Juliette glanced at her watch. “Five minutes.”
And speaking of which…She slid the watch off, scanning the paddock for Hamish. No jewelry allowed on track, and she wasn’t about to be disqualified for something that stupid. When Cap spoke, his voice had changed.
“Where did you get that from?”
Her brother was staring at her forearm. Juliette followed his gaze to a bruise, and her heart sped up. Shit. She couldn’t even remember Dominic doing that. “Running. I fell down a hill after I picked up too much speed—”
“No,” Cap said. “The watch.”
Relief filled her. “Oh. Montessori reached out. They offered to sponsor me.” The company had gotten in touch two weeks ago and offered such an obscene amount of money that she’d rung up her publicist Zoe to check it was correct. Cap was still staring, and she frowned. “What?”
Cap looked away. “They dropped me. Three weeks ago.”
“Oh.” Her stomach dropped. “Shit. Cap, I’m sorry. If I’d known—”
“It’s fine,” Cap said. “I should go. It’ll be lights out soon.”
Her brother jogged toward the garage. Juliette touched her neck; her pulse was a live wire under her fingers.
Most children, she knew, fought with their siblings: squabbles over who got the pink bowl, or the front seat, or the biggest bedroom…
But Cap had never been like that. He’d once ignored a boy named Derek for a whole year because Derek had refused to let a girl play on their football team during break.
She never fought with Cap.
Never.
Baz touched her shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You know what Cap gets like when he feels like he’s letting the team down. And after Vance sacked his own son last season…”
“Yeah,” Juliette said. “I get it.”
Drivers vaulted into cars, pushed buttons. Baz released her shoulder. “Good luck. Not that you need it.”
Juliette jogged backward. “I’ll see you after for an aperitivo?” She forced a smile, doing her best to imitate Baz’s accent. “We can bully Cap into getting a cheese pizza? Formaggi…er…whatever the word for pizza is.”
Baz gave her a tired smile. “Wave at me from the podium.”
Juliette hopped into her car. She adjusted her headset, frowning as something crackled. Static? But no, she realized; that was Hamish, crunching on a packet of crisps over the radio. “What flavor is it today?”
More crunching. “Irn-Bru.”
“You’re having me on.”
“Dead serious.” Her race engineer crumpled foil. “They sent you a PR package. It’s a limited-edition flavor.”
Juliette debated asking Hamish if he regularly opened her mail, then decided she didn’t want to know.
“I was thinking Plan B today. Track conditions look right.” A two-stop strategy made the most sense: hard tires, then switch to softs at the end.
Even better if there was a safety car, and they could switch without losing track position.
“Robert wants to do Plan C,” Hamish said.
Juliette paused, her hand hovering over a button. Plan C was a one-stop strategy. Which…
Made no sense. On any level.
“On mediums?”
Hamish typed something. “Those are the orders.”
Even worse. She’d be driving on scraps of rubber by the end. “But—”
“We can assess later on,” Hamish said.
Juliette gripped the wheel. This, she’d learned, was code for “you’re lucky to be driving so shut up and listen to the experts.” Not that Hamish got a choice, either. But still. She swallowed any further retort, her eyes flicking upward.
Five lights flickered.
Lights out.
Juliette gunned it forward. Starting in fourth position was good, but it meant nothing in Monza; the track was called the Temple of Speed for a reason. Overtakes were common. The key was to stay focused. Don’t give anyone the room to pass you.
Ten laps passed.
Twenty.
Thirty.
She overtook Ethan Johnson, zipping up to third place.
Dominic was ahead, and then Sinclair. Both cars fought in a tangle of red and blue, like fireworks exploding, and her heart tightened.
If only Dominic wasn’t such a beautiful driver.
Then it might be easier to hate him. She passed the finish line again.
Forty laps. Thirteen to go.
Juliette barreled down a straight. A yellow flag went up, and she slowed the car, her heart racing. That meant…
“Safety car,” Hamish said. “Von Galen went off. Hit the wall and spun.”
“Frederick’s okay?” Juliette asked, purely because she felt that she should.
“Fine. Just a scratch.”
Her heart pounded. “Pit me.”
A pause. “We’re doing Plan C.”
“But there’s a safety car,” Juliette argued. “It won’t cost us any time.”
“Robert says no.”
Juliette let out a string of colorful curse words. The car was skidding, the tires bubbling like soup over high heat. There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d make it to the finish line on these. She’d be lucky to make it another lap.
“My tires are shot. If we pit now, we can switch to the softs with no jeopardy.” And then, just to play nice: “I appreciate that Plan C might have made more sense at the beginning, but we should adapt our strategy to fit the current track conditions.”
Her radio crackled. An eerie whistling filtered over the radio, and Juliette’s fingers tightened on the wheel.
“Juliette?”
The male voice was oily, the sort of thing that reminded her of sardines packed into a can. Even without the German accent, she would have known who it was. The damn whistling gave it away.
“Hi, Robert.”
The chief race strategist sounded bored. “We’re not changing our strategy.”
“I can’t perform with these tires.”
“My job is to advise. Your job is to drive. If you feel you can’t perform with the tools that we’ve given you, then I’m afraid that’s your issue.”
Juliette’s chest clenched. So damn stubborn. That’s what people always said. And they were right. She was like a dog with a chew toy in its teeth: If you tried to rip it away, she’d only cling on harder. “If you’d just listen to what I—”
“That’s my final decision,” Robert said.
A green flag waved. Cars shot forward, and the crowd cheered. Juliette’s heart sank. She stamped on the gas, wincing as her car skidded through a corner. Too late. The words were a drumbeat in her ears. Our only chance, and we’ve missed it.
She clung to the wheel. Ahead, Dominic cut through the air, his car twisting with restrained elegance. If Anthony drove like a battering ram, Dominic drove like a shark darting through water. Still. How the hell was he doing that on old tires? Surely even a driver of his abilities couldn’t…
A terrible realization struck her.
“Did Hastings pit?” Juliette demanded. “Under the safety car?”
Hamish paused. “Juliette…”
“Did he?”
A longer pause. “Aye.”
Juliette let out a shaky breath. Her car bucked, the tires dissolving like sugar in water.
Right. So Robert had deliberately pitted Dominic and hung her out to dry.
He was trying to screw her over. But why?
Because she was a woman? Because his son hated her?
So Dominic could take the position at the end of the season?
Juliette exhaled. Well.
Best of luck to him.
She shifted gears. Dominic and Sinclair were neck and neck.
It would be difficult to win, but not impossible.
She shot down the straight, calculating angles and timings.
Sinclair relied heavily on DRS to overtake; he wasn’t good at defending on corners.
If she could push Dominic left…If she could get past them both…
Juliette sped up.
One lap to go.
“Steady,” Hamish cautioned.
Juliette gritted her teeth. Her car whined in protest, the tires unraveling like spools of yarn. She might as well have been driving on ice.
Hamish’s voice was tight. “Steady.”