Chapter 42 Lights Out
Lights Out
Juliette got into her car.
Her fingers felt numb. She started the engine on autopilot, punching buttons and adjusting settings.
A terrible throbbing sensation beat at her temples.
Liêm’s timing couldn’t have been worse; there was absolutely no way she’d be able to concentrate on the race.
Not with all the shit he’d just told her.
Dominic hadn’t wanted to end things. His father had made him. Not because Vance had threatened Dominic’s career but because he’d threatened to destroy her. Dominic had insulted her in that art gallery to protect her. He’d said those things for her. And she…
Juliette slammed her head lightly against the steering wheel. She’d thrown his biggest insecurity in his face just to—what? Regain some pride? You’re just a scared little boy who hides behind his father’s money, she’d said. No wonder he hated her.
Her radio crackled. “Juliette?”
She paused. “Hamish.”
“Are you trying to concuss yourself again?”
“No?”
“Right.” Hamish sighed. “I’d stop that, then. Make me proud, lass.”
A lump rose in her throat. “I will.” If she could concentrate long enough to get out of last place, which was looking increasingly unlikely.
Five lights flickered on overhead.
Juliette took a deep breath. Her hands gripped the wheel.
Lights out.
She shot forward. Engines whirred. Metal scraped. Two cars collided, sending up sparks and a roar from the Vegas audience, and Juliette swerved. Her heart hammered in her chest. Who was that? She couldn’t see.
Calm down. Her pulse hammered in her chest. Lose control of yourself and you’ve lost the goddamn race.
Frantic crunching filled the radio. Hamish was stress-eating crisps. “We’re P16. Let’s keep pushing.”
Right.
Juliette slammed on the gas pedal.
Kabir Chaudhury’s taillights came into view. A pulse beat in her throat, and Juliette gritted her teeth. Everything was a muddle in her head. Dominic. Paris. The interview. The backlash. Shoving the emotions down wasn’t working; they only punched back harder, like a beach ball held underwater.
Time to change tactics.
Juliette drew a breath. Then she let the emotions flood her.
She thought of the Sunday morning she went shopping at IKEA for a new bed with her mother. Juliette had wanted a blue race car bed, and the saleswoman had shaken her head, her hand jumping to her throat. “Oh, no, honey,” she’d said. “That one’s for boys. How about the princess bed?”
Her grip on the wheel tightened.
Juliette barreled into a turn, overtaking Kabir. The Las Vegas crowd roared. Blood pumped through her veins, hot and fast.
She could do this. She had to do this.
She overtook at pace: Gunther Wagner and Zuri Gudeta, Ross McDonald and Alex Forth…A commentator was shouting, his American accent carrying across the racetrack. The crowd was a coiled spring.
“Thirty laps to go.” Hamish’s voice was tense. “You’re in P11.”
Juliette punched a button. “Hastings?”
“Two positions ahead.”
So Dominic was in the points. That was good, at least. Thinking of him brought a fresh wave of pain, but she welcomed it, letting it scorch through her veins like liquid kerosene. Fuel was made to burn. Every driver knew that.
“DRS available,” Hamish offered. “You know what to do.”
Yes. She did.
She overtook Igor Petrov next, then Matteo Sanchez. Liêm flipped her off as she passed, although she could have sworn he was grinning. She edged closer to Frederick Von Galen; his blue car was a feral dog, snapping at the rear of the car ahead of him.
Hamish sounded incredulous. “I can’t fucking believe this. P8. Let’s keep pushing.” A pause, followed by a heated exchange of whispers. When Hamish came back on the radio, his voice had flattened. “Change of plans. Robert wants you to pit.”
Juliette’s heart plummeted. “Now?”
“Aye.”
“But we’ll lose the advantage. It’d be better to wait and then—”
“Box, box.” Hamish sounded resigned. “That’s an order, I’m afraid.”
Juliette let out a string of curses. She tore down the pit lane, screeching to a stop by the team garage.
Crew rushed out with tires. Juliette drummed her fingers on the wheel.
Every second was a fresh agony. Robert turned to look at her from the pit wall; even from this distance, she could see that he was smiling.
Smugly.
The team stepped back. She tore out of the pit lane, shooting onto the track.
“Where are we?”
Hamish paused. “P14.”
Juliette’s chest tightened. So she’d lost six places. All because Robert hadn’t wanted her to overtake his son.
Well. No, thank you.
Juliette shot forward. Her tires ate up the track, a snarling beast released from its cage.
She overtook those same drivers again, then passed James Astor for good measure.
Von Galen’s car drew closer, still gnashing at the next car ahead with sharp teeth.
A whispered argument sounded over her radio.
“What is it?” Juliette demanded.
The whispering paused. She clutched the wheel.
“Hamish?”
“Robert wants—” Hamish caught himself. “The team wants you to slow down.”
Fresh fury filled her. “Why?”
“To hold up traffic.” His words were clipped. “So that Hastings can get ahead.”
Juliette’s mind raced. Was she missing something? That made no sense; Dominic was three places ahead of her. Strategically, it made more sense for her to overtake a few cars and then slow down.
You know what?
Fuck it.
Juliette stepped on the gas. Her radio crackled. That goddamn whistling began, almost offensively indifferent, and she gritted her teeth.
“Juliette?” Robert asked.
Her foot pounded the gas pedal. The whistling stopped.
“Slow down. That’s an order.”
Juliette zipped past Kit Tomlinson. Blood sang in her veins. Her vision narrowed to the back of Von Galen’s car, disappearing around a corner. Her fingers itched on the steering wheel. She was going to overtake the bastard.
Even if it killed her.
“Juliette,” Robert snapped. “Are you listening to me?”
“Here’s the thing, Robert.” Her voice was icy. “I’ve been a very good team player. But now I’m going to win.”
“If you don’t slow down right now—”
“What?” Juliette actually laughed. “You’ll sack me?” She was being booted off the team anyway. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.
Robert swore. “You smarmy little bit—”
There was a crash from the pit wall. Robert let out a muffled cry, and there was the sound of a stool creaking. Her radio crackled.
“Juliette?” Hamish asked breathlessly.
“Hamish?”
“Sorry about that. Robert’s gone outside.”
Juliette bit back a smile. “Did you hit him over the head with a crisp packet?”
“No.” Hamish paused. “Just the shoulder.”
Juliette barreled into a corner. Von Galen was inches ahead of her. She held her breath, analyzing the angle of the car. Slightly left, which meant that Frederick would move right, just like he always did.
Juliette moved.
Frederick went right. She passed him on the left.
The crowd roared. She passed Ethan Johnson for good measure, tearing down a straight. Hamish was grinning; she could hear it in his voice. “Good lass. You’re up to fourth.”
Juliette white-knuckled the wheel. “How many laps to go?”
“Thirteen.”
She exhaled. “Bloody hell.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Hamish said. “Give them hell.”
Cap was next. Juliette chased her brother into a turn; her tires whined in protest, and the g-force felt like a hand throttling her neck. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. It was all she could do to cling to the wheel. Black spots burst in front of her eyes.
Cap glanced sideways.
Her brother was calculating angles, just as she was.
What side would she pass on? Would she wait for a turn, or do it down a straight?
It was like dancing with your shadow, Juliette thought, like trying to outsmart the image of yourself in a mirror.
She and Cap had shared a womb. Her brother knew her better than anyone.
That was her advantage.
She wanted to go left. Which meant that—normally—she’d go right. And Cap would know that. Hopefully.
Her radio crackled. “Juliette.” Hamish’s voice was tense. “It has to be now.”
She bit down on her lip. Her car hugged the curve. Left or right? Overtake or undertake? Cap made no sign of moving. Leaving it to the last second, just like she was. The ultimate game of chicken.
“Juliette,” Hamish warned.
She went left.
Cap dove right. She sped past him.
The crowd roared. Hamish let out a whoop, and she could hear the excited buzz of the team garage. Several people were singing. Tears pricked at her eyes. She’d done it; she was up to third place. Only Dominic and Sinclair to go now.
“Fucking brilliant stuff,” Hamish said, raising his voice over the singing. “You’re on the podium.”
Juliette swallowed. “Hamish?”
“Yeah?”
“Just to confirm.” Saliva gathered in her mouth. “Whoever wins this race takes the championship.”
“Aye.”
Juliette shook her head. “I think I might be sick.”
“I’d advise waiting,” Hamish said cheerfully. “Can’t imagine it’ll feel nice throwing up inside a helmet.”
Juliette opened her mouth to reply when the cars up ahead caught her attention.
Navy and crimson. Dominic and Sinclair. They scrapped like seagulls squabbling over a fish carcass, each determined to take the kill.
Impossible to say who would win. Dominic was more agile, but Sinclair had the aggression of a battering ram.
Still, Dom was going for the overtake, Juliette realized, her heart speeding up.
She gripped the wheel.
Come on, come on, come on—
Dominic shot past.
The crowd roared its approval. Relief punched her in the chest, and Juliette couldn’t stop the grin spreading over her face.
He’d done it. Dominic was in first place.
And if she finished third, then Toro Significa won both the Drivers’ and Constructors’ Championships, which was the best outcome they could have possibly hoped f—
There was a bang.
Smoke exploded. Something blue careened off the track. Dominic, Juliette realized, her heart jumping to her throat; Sinclair had rammed into his car.
And Dominic was spinning toward the wall.