Chapter 36 Jacked Up
Jacked Up
Dominic took a bite of his apple.
The team garage was a madhouse today. Pit crew scurried across the floor, armed with wrenches and wires. The sound of drills whirring competed with the eager buzz of the crowd outside, and his pulse rocketed. He couldn’t remember ever being this nervous for a qualifying session before.
Still.
Better to think positively.
He polished off the apple, mentally going through the Las Vegas track.
Not that it was easy, with Juliette right there.
Dominic snuck a glance; she was bending over the car, fiddling with something on the steering wheel.
They hadn’t spoken this morning. Juliette seemed determined to ignore him, and Dominic wasn’t about to force a delicate conversation. Not before qualifying anyway.
“You look like shit,” a male voice drawled.
Dominic opened his eyes. Anthony Sinclair stood in front of him, sipping the sort of vomit-inducing smoothie that probably contained spirulina and samphire and several other expensive greens that he couldn’t pronounce.
“Sinclair.” Dom stretched an arm. “Shouldn’t you be off somewhere shouting at your footman?”
Anthony smirked. “That was poor, even for you.” His eyes flicked over Dom’s face. “Rough night?”
Dominic’s jaw tensed. “I’ve had to interact with you for more than twenty seconds. So yes. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
Anthony blocked his path. “She’s too good for you, you know.”
Dom stilled. “What?”
“Juliette.”
Dominic’s heart sped up. Even hearing the bastard say her name…“If you had more than one working brain cell, Sinclair, you’d leave me the fuck alone today.”
“Ah,” Anthony said smugly. “So you have slept with her.”
Dominic’s mouth tightened. He made to push past Anthony, who blocked him again, sipping that disgusting smoothie. Fury swelled like a hot fist, and Dominic felt something inside him give. “What the fuck is your problem, Sinclair?”
Anthony drained his smoothie. “My problem?”
“You clearly have an issue. So spit it out.”
Anthony dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.
Monogrammed. Of course it was. “You want to know what my problem is? My problem is that everyone thinks that you’re god’s gift to humanity.
Saint Dominic. The Prince of Racing.” His lip curled.
“But you’re not. You’re just another arsehole with a trust fund. Like me.”
“Are you done?”
Something flickered in Anthony’s eyes. “You can give up on Juliette. She’s already chosen me.”
Dominic couldn’t help it; he actually laughed. “Marchmont would rather stick hot needles in her eye than go on a date with you.”
“Really?” Anthony pocketed the handkerchief. “Because it didn’t feel like that when she was kissing me in Milan.”
Wait, what?
What?
A dull ringing began in his ears. “You’re lying.”
Anthony’s smile was smug. “She tastes like strawberries. It’s hot as fuck.” He leaned closer. “Although I suppose you already know that. That interview yesterday made it sound like she’s working her way through the whole grid.”
Dominic stilled. Images of Anthony and Juliette flooded his mind.
Had the bastard kissed her during dinner on the rooftop?
If he’d done anything more…if he’d touched her in any other way…
He bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood.
A neat trick he’d taught himself when he was young, whenever his father shouted, although it wasn’t helping now.
Don’t hit him, he thought darkly. His fingers twitched.
“You know what I did next?” Anthony leaned closer, that smug smile playing around his mouth. “I took her back to my hotel, and I fucked her so loudly that the entire floor could hear her screami—”
Dominic lunged.
He had the brief satisfaction of seeing Anthony’s eyes widen before they crashed into the table.
Wrenches tumbled. Someone screamed. Dominic pinned Anthony by the throat, his fingers digging into the other driver’s esophagus.
Anthony spluttered; his face was going purple, and he slapped weakly at Dominic’s hands.
“Let—go—”
Feral rage rang in his veins. “Are you trying to say something?” He leaned closer, his fingers tightening. “Maybe you could try screaming. See if that helps.”
“Dominic!”
Ranya stormed across the garage. Several pit crew members hovered nearby, as if unsure whether to intervene.
Juliette was openly staring, a biscuit forgotten in her hand, and Dominic felt a brief flicker of unease, but it was drowned out by the heat roaring in his veins. Anthony made a choking sound.
“Let go of him.” Ranya’s voice was stern. “Now.”
Dominic gritted his teeth. “But I—”
“Now,” Ranya repeated firmly. “Before the stewards charge you with unsportsmanlike behavior. And I lose my patience.”
Reluctantly, Dominic loosened his grip. Anthony rolled to the side, coughing hard, his hands flying to his throat. His face was purple with unbridled rage. “You crazy motherfucker—”
“Enough!” Ranya thumped her cane. “The last time I checked, Sinclair, this is a team garage, and you’re not on the team. Get out.”
Anthony looked sulky. “But I—”
“Now,” Ranya snapped.
Anthony scurried off the table, muttering something about his father and the FIA.
Dominic watched him disappear with rising satisfaction.
Good. Let the bastard slink back to his garage with his pride in tatters.
He deserved it. It was only when Dominic turned and saw Ranya’s expression that any smugness vanished.
“What,” Ranya said, her voice low, “was that?”
Any remaining pit crew scampered, picking up pliers and trolley jacks with alarming enthusiasm.
Juliette cast him a searching look before getting into her car.
Dom stared at his gloves. Thank god the team wasn’t monitoring his vitals yet, or this whole damn garage would see that his heart rate was off the charts.
Dominic shoved his balaclava on. “He started it.”
Ranya looked up at the ceiling. “Look, whatever Sinclair said to you, I need you to forget about it. If you win today, we’re in with a shot at the championship. I need you on your A game.”
Dominic’s voice was sullen. “I’m fine.”
Ranya pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. Even I didn’t believe that, Hastings. Pull your shit together.” She turned. “We have a race to win.”
“Noted,” Dominic muttered.
He got into the car. His fingers were numb as he steered the car onto the track.
Anthony’s smug words played like a sick merry-go-round: I took her back to my hotel, and I fucked her.
It couldn’t be true, obviously. Juliette had stayed on the rooftop in Milan.
Things had happened between them. Monumental, earth-shattering things.
And yes, she’d gone back to her hotel alone afterward because she’d wanted space, but it wasn’t like she’d seek Sinclair out.
Would she?
Unless Anthony had lured her to his hotel. Unless the bastard had invented an emergency with Cap, and Juliette had gone, and then he’d gotten her drunk and taken advantage of her emotional state and he’d…he’d…
Dominic gritted his teeth.
“Hastings?” His radio crackled. “Can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” It came out as a grunt.
Blake, his race engineer, was typing something. “Steady into turn one, okay? Your tires will take a second to warm up. That track is cold as a well-digger’s ass.”
Dominic’s smile was hollow. Normally, he found Blake’s Americanisms amusing, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh today. “Not sure the broadcast channels are going to appreciate the language, mate.” Five lights flickered on. His foot hovered over the gas pedal. “Here we go. Wish me luck.”
Blake slurped. Back on the sweet tea, no doubt. “Slow and steady, buddy. We need a good qualifying today.”
The lights went out.
Dominic shot forward. Cars slid. Wheels locked up.
He swore, scrambling for the wheel. They might as well have been driving socks on a hardwood floor, for all the grip he had.
He skidded into the second corner, and the crowd groaned.
He wondered distantly if his father was watching from the team garage.
The commentators, he thought grimly, must be having a field day.
An agonizing lap passed.
Two.
Dominic gritted his teeth.
Blake came on the radio. “Q1 is almost done. We need to put in a good lap.”
“We’re in the drop zone?”
A pause. “We are.”
Well. That wasn’t good. Dominic gripped the wheel. There were three sectors in qualifying, with five drivers eliminated after each sector; if he wanted a shot at winning the race tomorrow, he needed to make it to Q3 and qualify in the top ten.
Alas.
“On it,” Dominic muttered.
He punched a few buttons. A red car blinked into view, with the number 1 emblazoned on the back. Anthony sodding Sinclair. Dominic gritted his teeth. A pulse pounded in his forehead. Those same smug words played on repeat: She tastes like strawberries.
Red flooded his vision.
Dominic slammed on the gas, tearing left.
Sinclair moved.
Dominic realized what was about to happen a half second before it did.
Their cars collided. The world toppled. Dominic was spinning, and there was the sensation of a teacup ride, the same dizzying, vomit-inducing vertigo.
There was a crunch from behind. The world stopped moving, but something warm trickled down his side.
Blood? Smoke assaulted his senses. His engine must have been on fire.
Move, Dominic thought dizzily, but his body wouldn’t respond.
A speaker crackled.
“Hastings?” Blake demanded. “Hastings, can you hear me?”
Dominic rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Something warm trickled down his cheek. He hoped it was sweat. “The bastard hit me.”
“I saw.” Blake’s voice was terse. “We’re already contacting the stewards. He has to move out of your way during qualifying. Those are the rules.”
Dominic closed his eyes. “The car?”
“Damaged.”
“How badly?”
A long pause. “Badly.”
“And Sinclair?” Dominic asked shortly. The bastard could be in the wall, and he wouldn’t give a shit, but it felt polite to ask.
“He’s fine.” Blake didn’t sound happy about it. “Minimal damage. Just swiped you from the side and spun off.”
“But I thought…” Dominic frowned. He was almost certain a car had rear-ended him. “Was there another vehicle involved?” A long pause. He could hear Blake’s breathing, as well as a whispered conversation. “Blake?”
“Can you get out of the car?”
Something cold trickled down Dominic’s spine. “Blake? Who was in the other car?”
Another pause. Dominic gripped the wheel.
“Marchmont,” Blake admitted.
Dominic was out of the car, stumbling onto the track.
Smoke spiraled into the gray sky, filling the air with the scent of burnt rubber.
Two identical cars sat on the track. They reminded him of chewing gum, Dominic thought numbly, great blue wads stamped under impatient feet. Juliette wasn’t in her vehicle.
“Where is she?”
His heart rocketed. More whispering over the radio.
“Blake.” His voice was a whipcrack. “Where the fuck is she?”
“The hospital,” Blake said. “But, Dom, don’t—”
Too late.
Dominic was already running.