Page 6 of Full Throttle

“What’s the other part?”

Vance paused.

Dominic gripped the armrest. He burrowed deeper into himself, deep, deep, deep, plunging down to the bottom of the well, where only sharp stones and cold-blooded fish and half-forgotten memories lived. His face was impassive. He felt impassive. Nothing could touch him here.

“We need a better driver,” Vance said. “Someone who can win a championship.”

Not a joke, then. Dominic set his jaw. “I can win a championship.”

“The stunt you pulled last season—”

“I wanted to win,” Dominic said, and it was a testament to his urgency that he spoke over his father, which he couldn’t remember doing before. “I wanted our team to win. That’s what I was trying to do.”

“By steering into a wall?” Vance frowned. “This isn’t bloody NASCAR. It shouldn’t have worked. And even though you didn’t die”—his voice indicated that he’d been mentally selecting flowers for Dominic’s funeral—“it still cost us the trophy.”

“I took a risk.”

“You lost us two championships and incurred three million pounds’ worth of damage. That’s what you did.”

“I won the race,” Dominic said, and he hated that he was resorting to everything short of begging. Hell, he might have tried that too, but he knew his father would view it as a weakness. “If it wasn’t for that time penalty, we’d have taken the whole thing.”

“You could have tried a safer approach.”

“Trying doesn’t matter,” Dominic said. “Winning does. At any cost.” You taught me that, he added silently.

Vance held up a hand. “Enough. We’ve already finalized the paperwork. There’s no use arguing over it.”

Dom’s throat was dry. “So you’re sacking me.” Silence stretched out, broken only by the noise of the television. “Who are you replacing me with?”

“This isn’t the time or place to discuss it.”

“Just tell me,” Dominic said, although he already knew. He’d known from the moment his father brought up the subject. Still, the words were a gut punch.

“Anthony Sinclair. His data is better across the charts. He wins more races. Crashes fewer cars. Ultimately, that’s all it came down to: who’s more likely to win the championship. And Sinclair’s the better driver.”

Dominic’s pulse thundered. “And Jer?” Vance looked at him blankly, and Dominic squeezed his hands together. It was an effort to keep his voice even. “Jeremiah Phipps. My race engineer. I’ve been working with him for years.”

“Oh.” Vance flipped through the papers. “We’ve had to let him go. The team can’t have a race engineer who doesn’t know how to keep our drivers in line.”

Dominic’s stomach tightened. He thought of Jeremiah’s fortieth birthday party, the twin eight-year-old girls who had giggled, studying him shyly from behind a chair. Christ. The man had children. Was Jeremiah at least given a severance package? But his father wouldn’t care, he thought dully, a weight settling in his stomach. People called him “The Spider” for a reason. They were all just flies, trapped in his sticky web.

Vance was the kingmaker. The puppeteer of Formula 1. He’d given up a short but promising racing career at twenty-six and spent the next thirty years plowing down people with the same ferocious determination he’d once barreled down a track.

Trying to fight Vance was like trying to tear down the sun: There was no point, and you’d burn yourself trying.

“How many people know?” Dominic asked. “About my severance?”

“The shareholders,” Vance said. “Anthony Sinclair. And I told Capulet this morning.”

So Cap knew. Dom supposed he should feel hurt, but he didn’t, of course. You could only get so close to your teammate. Sure, they’d been out for dinner, or laughed over Cap’s spray tan when they were filming a sauna advert, but did that change anything? They were like two chicks in a nest: At some point, you were going to have to shove the other one out.

And Cap had got there first.

“Look,” Vance said, “I understand you might be feeling…frustrated. That’s perfectly natural.” Vance’s phone dinged, and he picked it up. “But our cars have become collateral damage, and that’s not fair to the team. Would it help to go away over the break? Spend some time at a resort? It might help you work through your…feelings.”

Vance said feelings the way that most people said warts, or chronic case of chlamydia. A sour taste rose in his throat.

“I’m fine.”