Page 89 of Redline
The silence around us becomes absolute. The whine of the air-guns, the roar of the crowd, the thrum of the idling engines—it all falls away, leaving nothing but the thick, rhythmic thud of the blood in my ears, heavy and slow like a failing engine. I watch the way his throat moves, the way the light catches in his eyes one last time before the dark pulls them under.
I’m waiting for the impact. I’m waiting for the crash that’s been coming since the moment I let him in.
He swallows, the sound audible in the charged silence between us. His lips part, and the word is a single, solid strike that ruptures everything.
“Yes,” he confirms.
Chapter twenty-seven
Carter
Race day is supposed to taste like fuel and focus. This one tastes like copper.
The track looks clean from here. Dry in the places it wants you to look. But I can see the darker patches off-line where the sun hasn’t reached—the thin, sheen lingering in the seams. The asphalt doesn’t care about the schedule. It doesn’t care about the act Dominic put on this morning.
I’m tucked into the space between worlds. The pit wall is a hard line of bodies and screens, headsets and clipped voices. Hands move over data like this is all math and no pulse. I’m half a step back, close enough to hear the static, far enough that I’m not in the way when the physics of this weekend finally collect their price.
My lanyard sits heavy against my sternum. The plastic edge digs into my skin, a constant, hitting reminder of the professional I’m pretending to be.
My dad is at the wall. He’s leaning forward, chin tucked like the track is going to confess something if he stares hard enough. I see his cheeks flex when Dominic’s voice crackles in the channel—a low, rhythmic twitch that tells me he knows exactly how close to the edge Dominic is riding.
The black car flashes past on the main straight like an animal cut loose. It looks untouchable until you remember that gravity doesn’t care about your name.
I don’t cheer. I don’t clap. My arms are crossed so tight I can feel my own pulse drumming against my ribs. Because behind my eyes, the loop won’t stop.
The truth. The engagement. The "Yes."
The way he looked at me like I was a variable he’d finally accounted for. The sound of the garage door slamming—a verdict that traveled through my bones.
I tell myself I’m here because it’s my job. But really, I’m here because I need to watch the world keep moving. I need proof that everything doesn’t stop just because I broke.
My phone sits in my back pocket like a live wire. Then it vibrates. Short. Precise.
I slide it out, my thumb hovering over the glass. I’d spent months telling myself these messages were his—that the cryptic, pressing weight of them was just another part of Dominic’s damage. I wanted them to be his. I wanted the haunting to have a face I actually liked looking at.
But Dominic is on the screen. He is a blur of paint and screaming pistons, his hands occupied with a steering wheel and a death-defying lap time. He can’t be here and there.
Unknown Number:You watching?
Something inside me turns abruptly weightless. Sharp. Like a window finally wiped clean. A wave of pure, concentrated nausea rolls through me, not because of the words, but because of my own stupidity. I should have known. The second my father signed with the Valerio’s—the second his name was back in the headlines—the shark would have smelled the blood in the water.
My hands aren’t shaking. That’s the part that scares me. The numbness has finally reached my fingertips, turning my skin into a shell.
I type. No emotion. Just impact.
Carter:Funny, Mother. I was starting to think you’d never be seen again.
I hit send. The message whooshes away—a digital footprint sent to find a monster. I’ve spent my life trying to outrun her gravity, and yet here I am, caught in her orbit the second I let my guard down.
“You’re overdriving!”
My dad’s voice, raw and biting, anchors me back to the pit wall. I look up, my vision swimming for a second as the two worlds collide. My mother in my hand; my father at the wall; the man who lied to me in the car.
On the screen, Dominic’s lap time turns purple. Fast. Too fast for a track that’s still weeping in the corners. He’s driving like he can still outrun consequences if he pushes hard enough.
“Dominic,” my dad snaps, his hand gripping the edge of the monitor so hard the plastic groans. “Bring it down. Now.”
“I need the time,” Dominic’s voice comes through, clipped and frantic.
