Chapter 38 Put on the Brakes
Put on the Brakes
Juliette leaned her head against the cool glass.
The hospital was quiet at this hour; the only sounds were the squeak of shoes and the clattering wheels of a gurney.
Her room was empty apart from an overnight bag, which was half-spilled across a gray chair.
Juliette tucked her knees into her chest. From her position on the window seat, she could see the Las Vegas skyline unfurling like a glittering sea of stars, nestled in the bosom of shadow-drenched mountains.
Juliette rested her chin on her knees. She’d loved this city, once. The buzz of the gambling halls, the theatrical fountains, the cookies the size of your face…but this year had changed everything. Now it felt like a cheap gold necklace, chipping away under her thumb.
She unlocked her phone.
The social media comments were as horrible as she’d expected, but she forced herself to read a selection anyway.
If the Anthony situation had taught her one thing, it was that burying your head in the sand only came back to bite you.
Anyway, she couldn’t deny that reading the comments gave her a sick sort of pleasure, like pressing on a bruise.
Maybe it was a condition of the human heart to look for things that could hurt you.
Or maybe she was just a masochist. Either was possible.
Someone named Paul_The_Tennis_Guy had written, “Knew she had to be putting out to get a seat lol.” Another person had posted, “Plot twist: she’s sleeping with all her sponsors too.
” And then there were the gleeful headlines, the British tabloids that had spent all season building her up just to tear her down with feral joy.
“Marchmont silently seethed for most of the interview before storming off set, where she was overheard launching into a tearful rant,” a journalist had written.
A female journalist, no less. Juliette had put down her phone after that.
She could recall reading a study that the more successful a woman became, the less likable she was perceived to be. Perhaps it was true.
There was a knock on the door.
Juliette glanced at the clock. Ten past midnight, so well past visiting hours. Dom, she thought stupidly, although of course it wasn’t him; he’d already been and gone, according to Baz. It was probably just a nurse monitoring her overnight for signs of concussion.
“Come in.”
The door swung open.
Ranya slipped into the room. She wore a silk skirt, her dark hair swept into a neat knot. Her cane made tapping sounds on the floor. “Posh room. It’s nice to see that you’re actually spending your salary. Although I would have gone for a nice pair of earrings myself.”
Juliette frowned. “How did you get past the front desk?”
“Bribed a nurse,” Ranya offered.
“No. Seriously.”
“Have you ever seen me joke?” Ranya leaned against the cane. “What’s the damage?”
Juliette swung her legs from the window seat. “Severe strain to the cervical spine.” Ranya eyed her blankly, so she added, “It’s a fancy way of saying whiplash.”
“Concussion?”
“Not yet. A few things were foggy, so they’re monitoring me.” Apparently she’d asked for Dominic over and over again as they’d loaded her into the ambulance, which was an indignity that she was glad to forget.
Ranya nodded. “Can you drive tomorrow?”
Juliette gave her a small smile. “Does it matter?” The last time she’d seen the car, it resembled a ten-pound note that had gone through the washing machine. Twice.
“We can fix the car,” Ranya said. “Or get it operational, at least.”
Something like hope swelled in her chest. But…“I’m starting in last place.”
“Well.” Ranya paused. “You could still finish the race.”
“Comforting.”
Ranya settled into a chair. She looked tired, Juliette observed, although she’d done well to cover it; it was only the slight waxy concealer beneath her eyes that gave her away. Not that Juliette blamed her. Between the broken pirate ship, the on-track fighting, the crashes and clashes…
It had been a hell of a season.
Juliette’s voice was quiet. “I’m going to lose my seat, aren’t I?”
Ranya’s mouth tightened. “Nothing’s decided yet.”
In other words, yes. “It’s okay. You can say it.” And then, just to lay her cards out on the table: “I get the sense that Robert hates me.”
Ranya’s mouth had all but disappeared. “Robert hates all ambitious women.”
“And here I thought I was special.” She looked out at the shadowy mountains. “Is that why the female drivers’ academy will never happen? Because the world isn’t ready for ambitious women?”
“Who says it won’t happen?”
“Experience.”
Ranya shifted her cane between her legs. “You got here, didn’t you? You’re proving to the world that women can drive a race car. You drive like hell is on your heels. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Thank you,” Juliette said. “But…”
“What?”
She leaned her forehead on the cool glass.
But it was hard, she thought, to be “the female driver.” A privilege, yes, but also terrifying and overwhelming and so goddamn tiring.
What people didn’t understand—what she couldn’t find the words to explain—was that every woman was different.
Asking her to represent an entire gender was like cooking only with basil and claiming that you understood spice.
You were missing out on so many flavors. So many wonderful nuances and layers.
“Sometimes,” Juliette said, “I wish that you’d seen a dozen of me before.”
Ranya looked away. “I have to ask you something. That interview,” she said, and a sliver of ice lodged in Juliette’s throat. “Is it true? I’m well aware that I happened across the two of you in quite a…compromising position, but I’d expected you to break things off after Monaco.”
Juliette paused. Ah. She thought she’d gotten away with avoiding this conversation. Ranya hadn’t mentioned anything before qualifying that morning, but that was before both she and Hastings had put multimillion-pound race cars into the wall.
So, you know.
Fair enough.
Juliette raised her head. “It’s true.” The oddest urge to laugh filled her, although it wasn’t funny. “I think…I’m pretty sure that I’m in love with him.” A lump rose in her throat. “No, I do love him. I know I do.”
For god’s sake, how was it possible to love someone who had hurt her so badly? That cooked with bee pollen as a hobby? But Dominic was kind, and clever, and when he looked at her with that half smile…A lump rose in her throat.
She’d messed all of this up. So badly.
The moonlight cast Ranya’s face in shadow.
“You’re certain that you love him?” She looked away, and Ranya exhaled, as if that was all the confirmation she needed.
“I see so much potential in you, Juliette. But I don’t need to tell you that relationships and racing don’t go together.
In the end, there always has to be a sacrifice.
So I’m asking you: What do you love more? ”
A cold ache spread through her chest. “You want me to break things off.”
“I don’t want you to be distracted,” Ranya said. “And that’s what Dominic will always be. A distraction.”
Juliette swallowed. “And what if you’re wrong?”
“About what?”
“My potential.”
The words came out more mocking than she’d intended.
But perhaps, Juliette thought, her chest heavy, those men were right.
Perhaps she didn’t deserve her seat. Didn’t her own brother say as much?
Didn’t people see her as a diversity hire, something new and shiny, a token that the industry held up to show progress in gender equality?
Maybe she hadn’t earned her seat.
Maybe, Juliette thought dully, she’d gotten it simply by being a woman. The only woman qualified to drive a race car.
Ranya’s dark eyes were sharp. “I’m going to say something now, and I need you to listen to me.
” She leaned forward. “You’re talented, Juliette.
Not just for a woman. Not just because you’re a woman.
You have the sort of raw talent that could define our generation, and it has nothing to do with the body that you were born into.
” She paused. “All you need is a little more self-belief.”
Juliette looked away. She could feel pressure building behind her eyes. “Thank you.”
Ranya rose. “Get some rest. I’ll see you on the track tomorrow.”
A thought occurred to her. “Ranya?”
She paused. “Yes?”
“Will you tell me something?”
Ranya pursed her lips. “Depends what it is.”
Juliette waved a hand. “That thing you do, where you just seem to make objects appear…How do you do that?”
Ranya observed her, as if deciding something.
“Like this,” she said.
She unscrewed the top of her cane. Then, to Juliette’s incredulity, Ranya began to pull objects out: chewing gum, anti-inflammatory cream, pain medication, tensor bandages…The cane was hollow, she realized. Like a secret pocket.
“I got this cane last year.” Ranya shoved the objects back inside. “Saves me from having to get up when my leg’s hurting.”
Juliette whistled. “Clever.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s like throwing a dummy.” Juliette nodded.
“Your cane, I mean.” One of her favorite maneuvers in the sport: tricking another team into thinking you were coming into the pit lane, so they’d do the same, allowing you to bypass the other driver.
It was a fake-out. A risky one, admittedly, but satisfying when it worked.
Ranya considered this. “A bit like throwing a dummy, yes.” She turned the door handle. “Juliette?”
“Yes?”
Her face was very serious. “What makes a man’s career will ruin yours. Remember that.”
Juliette straightened. Sudden realization struck her with the force of a car slamming into the barriers: Ranya’s repeated warnings about relationships with other drivers, the fact that she’d hired Dominic Hastings when no other team would, the conspiratorial looks between them, as if they shared a common enemy…
“Ranya?” Juliette’s mouth was dry. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“The man in the photographs. The one you were caught in a compromising position with. Who was it?”
Ranya’s smile was sad. And somehow, Juliette knew what she was going to say even before she said it. “Vance Hastings.”
She slipped out the door, the tapping of her cane fading down the corridor. Juliette closed her eyes. The twinkling city felt cold, like looking at lights at the bottom of a great sea. Ranya was right; nobody was worth giving up a trophy for.
She knew what she had to do.