Page 57 of Redline
I adjusted my grip on the bear, squaring my shoulders to meet his gaze head-on. If we were going back to games, I could do that. I was better at friction than whatever "this" was.
“And ifIwin?” I asked, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He shrugged. “What do you want?”
I took a breath, thinking of the way my dad’s face had looked after the last race—the exhaustion and the quiet sting of being ignored. “For you to start listening to my father. Or at the very least, stop dismissing him before he even finishes a sentence.”
Dominic’s expression soured instantly. A flash of genuine distaste flickered in his eyes, his lip curling just enough to show me exactly what he thought of taking advice from someone he’d already written off.
“Fine,” I snapped, moving the goalposts. I went for the hard ball. “Tell me what was up with your hands the other day.”
The atmosphere shifted, but not in the way I expected. Instead of a scoff, a look of profound, physical pain crossed his face—the kind of expression someone might make if they had to choose between jumping into a pit of vipers or actually hearing my father out.
His eyes thinned, his pupils sharpening into needles. The intensity broke for a fraction of a second as his gaze flicked, scanning the nearby area and the lingering fans to ensure my question hadn't traveled farther than the space between us. It was a clinical, heavy silence. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he weighed the two options. On one hand, he’d have to unlock a door to his life that was clearly reinforced with steel plating and 'No Trespassing' signs. On the other, he’d have to let my dad finish a sentence.
He actually looked like he was considering which one would hurt less.
The fact that he didn't immediately laugh me off was terrifying. He was genuinely doing the math on how much he hated my father's input versus how much he guarded his own secrets—and for the first time, his control was losing the battle.
“Fine,” he said, his voice dropping low. “I’ll tell you what happened. But I’m modifying my win. You still keep the bear,but you also have to join my team. Officially. No more staying just far enough away to pretend you’re not part of it.”
“No way,” I shot back. “I’m not becoming a pawn.”
He just shrugged again, that frustratingly calm demeanor returning. “Then the deal is off.”
He started to turn away, the ultimate power move. He knew he had me. He knew the curiosity was eating me alive, and he knew that for all my talk of hating the sport, I was already knee-deep into this world. I was a sucker for the truth, and he was dangling it just out of reach like a carrot. I hated how easily he read me, but I hated the idea of walking away without an answer even more.
I looked at the simulator, then at the hard line of his back. “Fine,” I bit out, the word tasting like lead. “Deal.”
The "race" was over before I even had a chance to get comfortable in the seat. Dominic didn't just beat me; he dismantled the track.
I kept waiting for the familiar kick of the clutch, the vibration in my teeth that told me exactly where the tires were biting. Instead, I got the resistance of a spring-loaded wheel and a screen that felt two-dimensional. I was wrestling with a machine that didn't talk back, over-steering into corners and hunting for a weight transfer that never came.
Dominic didn't hunt for anything. His hands were a blur of twitchy, micro-adjustments—the kind of muscle memory that only comes from staring at a monitor until your eyes bleed. He wasn't driving; he was inputting commands. He took lines that would have shredded real rubber, clipping apexes with a surgical indifference to the physics that usually governed my world. Every time I glanced over, his face was bathed in the harsh blue light of the display, his pupils tracking the digital curves with a terrifying, rhythmic flick.
When the screen flashed his victory in bright, mocking red, he exhaled once, a slow release of tension. He didn't just climb out; he uncoiled, the adrenaline leaving him in a visible wave. He didn't look triumphant. He looked like he’d just finished a shift at a desk he’d sat at every day for years.
He moved closer to where I stood, the quiet settling back in to fill the gap left by the digital whine. He reached out, his fingers grazing the bear that was now mine, officially. He didn't spare a glance for the game, the crowd, or the chaos; instead, his focus settled on me with a weight that felt like a binding contract being signed.
A slow, satisfied curve touched his mouth. “Welcome to the team, Shortcut.”
Chapter sixteen
Dominic
The cockpit is the only place where the world makes sense, but today, the sense is leaking out of it.
The machine beneath me is tight lines and controlled aggression, and usually, it answers exactly how I ask. But as I sit on the grid, the sun baking the asphalt of the circuit, the car feels... restless. Or maybe it’s just the airport tarmac still pressing in on me.
I’d watched them from the window of the terminal lounge days ago. I saw her board the team charter with her father and Marco, Carter’s shoulders squared, looking like she belonged in that sea of team gear even if she didn’t believe it herself. I’d told myself I needed the private flight for "focus"—to avoid the chatter and the cramped energy of a handful of engineers in one cabin. I’deven reached for my phone to tell Marco to hold the boarding, to say I was coming early with them.
Then I’d remembered who I was. I’d let the jet take off without me, choosing the silence of my own cabin instead. Now, sitting here with the engine vibrating through my spine, that silence feels less like a luxury and more like a wall I built too high.
I adjust my gloves, the fire-retardant fabric pulling tight over my knuckles. I don’t look toward the pit wall. I know exactly where she is. I’d taken the extra step, ensuring someone on the team had Carter’s credentials filed underJunior Systems Technician—a redundant role that kept her exactly where I could see her, safely away from the heavy lifting but close enough to hover the periphery of my vision. It cost me three heated arguments with the credentialing office for the short notice, along with a hundred-thousand-dollar carnival just to get her here; and yet, I’m the one vibrating with irritation.
The grid marshals clear the track. The tire blankets come off. The world starts to narrow.
The lights overhead begin their sequence. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
