Page 3 of Full Throttle

A rush of triumph filled him. “Thank you.”

Dominic slammed down on the pedal. The car shot forward. White spray pelted him, and he took a deep breath, guiding the car into the turn. Inside or outside line? He calculated the angle, where Sinclair would go.

Then Dominic moved.

He shot past Sinclair, and the crowd roared. Some cheered. Some booed. Not that it mattered; adrenaline sang through his body. His radio crackled.

“That’s P1. Bloody well done, mate. Great driving.” Jeremiah tapped keys, presumably checking whether he was about to spin out and die. “Half a lap to go. And it’s all clear air from here, so try to create some distance.”

“Copy.”

Something hit the back of his car.

Dominic swore, fumbling blindly for the steering wheel. Colors burst: red, green, blue…For a terrifying moment, he wondered if this was it—if he was about to decimate both his spine and career on national television—and then the car stopped moving. He was still on the track, he realized; he’d just spun. Sinclair sped past, and a rush of fury filled him as he kicked the car into gear. Bloody typical of Sinclair. He was like a child in a sandbox; if he couldn’t make the biggest tower, then he’d smash yours to pieces.

“Did you see that?”

“I saw,” Jeremiah said.

The steering wheel dug into his fingers. “What the hell is he doing?”

“The race stewards are looking into it.”

Blood roared in his ears. “He needs to give back the position.”

“Just focus on the drive, Hastings.”

Dominic gritted his teeth. Oh, he would.

He pushed the car until it trembled. He’d lost seconds—precious seconds—but Sinclair’s taillights were back in sight. Good. He was going to make Anthony Sinclair regret ever taking up this sport.

Dominic moved closer. His radio crackled.

“Careful,” Jeremiah warned.

Dominic ignored him, pushing the car faster. Faster. He was drawing level with Sinclair now, close enough that his nose could have kissed the other car. They were hurtling down a straight. The checkered flag loomed in the distance, and the crowd roared as they gunned toward the finish line.

He moved left. Sinclair blocked him.

He swerved right.

Sinclair blocked him again.

White-hot fury filled him. For fuck’s sake. How was he meant to get past Sinclair if the bastard wouldn’t budge a goddamn inch? The finish line hurtled toward them. Fifty meters. Twenty. Dominic veered toward the wall. His heart pounded against his breastbone, so hard that it was painful.

Fine.

Sinclair wouldn’t give him any room?

He’d make room.

Dominic hurtled toward the wall. Jeremiah’s voice was a roar.

“Hastings.”

There was the sound of grinding metal. Dominic closed his eyes. The car let out a high-pitched whine. Sparks flew from the right side, falling like exploding stars. The metal frame of the car shuddered as he struck the wall, and then he was rotating, rotating, the world a children’s carousel of colors. His jaw cracked together. He was going to die. He was going to die, and all of it would be for nothing, and his last meal would be those bloody oysters, which had honestly been subpar at best—

His car shot forward.