Page 64 of Redline
I don't realize I've moved until my finger is tracing the sketched line of the chassis. "It’s the rake," I say.
The words feel like a reflex, something pulled from a deep, dusty drawer. "Look at the angle. If you’re running the rear that high to chase the downforce, you’re stalling the floor when the car bottoms out under load." My hand gestures toward the floor of the sketch, miming the airflow. "The air isn't moving. It’s choking."
He goes dead still, before he sets the mug down with a softclink, his eyes finally lifting to mine.
"If I drop the rear, I lose the aggressive turn-in," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "Dominic won't like the understeer."
"Then compensate with the front flap angle." I don't think; I just do. I grab a stray pencil and point to the front wing on the diagram. "Give up a little bit of the initial bite to keep the car from snapping at the apex. It’s a cleaner exit. The tires won't scream every time he touches a curb."
He reaches for his own pencil. "And if we adjust the dampers to—"
I flinch.
I look at the writing instrument in my hand, then at the notebook, and suddenly the room feels too small. The memory of every dinner ruined by "aerodynamic trade-offs" and every holiday spent in a grease-stained garage crowds the air surrounding me.
The pencil falls from my grip. It clatters against the counter and rolls away.
"I don't know, Dad," I say, my voice turning brittle. I grab my keys, the metal digging into my palm. "I'm just guessing.”
He looks at the page, then at me. The professional spark in his eyes flickers and dies, replaced by a heavy, quiet sort of something I refuse to delve further into.
"I gotta go," I say, and the word is a wall. I shove my keys into my pocket and grab my travel mug. "I’m already late. I have a presentation."
He nods, sliding back into that unbothered, quiet version of himself. "You working at SHIFT today?"
"No. Just class. Then the practice course." I tug on my cardigan, smoothing the knit over my ribs as if I could hide the person who just solved a suspension crisis in seconds.
"So you’re coming in early," he says. It’s not a question.
I pause at the door, my fingers tightening on the handle. "Yeah."
He nods once, a short, mechanical movement. He doesn't look back at the notebook. He just picks up his mug and stares into the dark surface of his coffee, his shoulders dropping just a fraction.
"Good luck with the presentation," he says quietly.
The morning air is a sharp, cool reset. It smells like damp grass and sunshine. I’m moving fast, trying to force my mind toward derivative analysis.
I round the corner of the driveway, my head down, and that’s when I hit him.
I collide with a solid wall of muscle and expensive cotton. My coffee jerks violently.
"Shit!" I hiss. I watch, almost in slow motion, as a dark brown arc of liquid leaps from the mug and paints a disastrous, steaming stripe straight down the front of my cream cardigan.
I look up, my apology dying in my throat.
Dominic is standing there with a duffel slung over one shoulder. He’s wearing sunglasses, pushed just low enough that I know he’s watching. The light catches the hard planes of his face, his posture looking maddeningly composed for someone who spent the night being "selfish."
He looks at the spreading stain on my chest. Then at my face. Then back at the stain.
"Take off your shirt, Shortcut," he says. His voice is a low, unbothered drawl, completely aware of the weight of the words and entirely too comfortable with them.
I pause, my brain stalling. The memory of his hands on me the night before—the blunt, demanding force of him—flashes behind my eyes like a strobe light.
I cast a frantic look toward the main house. The pool house is right around the corner. Not to mention the grounds crew currently trimming the hedges fifty yards away.
"Absolutely not," I hiss, my voice low and sharp. "My dad is twenty feet away, the staff is everywhere, and you've clearly lost your mind."
He snorts, his gaze traveling down the front of me with a slow, clinical laziness that makes my skin prickle. He doesn't look concerned about the scandal; he looks bored by my hesitation.
