Page 114 of Crash Course

It’s nervy but I trust him and the car. He fixes my hands and seat.

On a straight, I floor it.

It’s exhilarating. I’ve gone fast before, but never like this. I feel totally free, not because of the speed but because I’m the one in control.

I laugh, breathless. For a few perfect seconds there’s no academy, no fallout waiting back home.

When I glance over at Jameson, he’s watching me.

Not the track, not the car. Me.

Speed isn’t Jameson’s obsession. It’s his love language.

And right now, he’s sharing it with me.

“I’m actually good at this,” I crow after a new fast lap.

“Not bad.” He leans an arm along the back of my seat.

“And in a dress, no less.”

“I noticed.” His gaze drops down my body. Jameson’s smug grin makes me want to hit him. And other things.

“There’s a hotel suite waiting for us. We should probably head there. In case we need to check for spiders.”

We start to drive back to the Strip, when a row of cars, hoods popped, catches my eye. I buzz down the window and heavy bass music streams in.

“They’re drag racing,” I say, leaning out. “Pull over!”

Jameson hesitates but parks, drawing more than a few admiring looks for the Ferrari.

I shift in front of Jameson when we both get out, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt. Then the cuffs, rolling them up around his arms.

“Am I approved?” he drawls.

“Yes.” I’m way overdressed, but past caring.

The hoods are all up and we walk down the street, admiring cars and feeling buzzed. We’re just two people who love cars.

A woman with bright pink hair is commenting to another racer. “Ugh, she’s spinning off the line every time. I don’t know what’s wrong.”

I’m already scanning the engine bay first, then the stance of the car. The nose sits high, the rear squatting hard even at idle.

My eyes flick to the back wheel well.

There it is.

The rear shock adjusters are cranked soft. Way too soft.

“Rear damping’s the problem,” I say. “You’re dumping weight instead of planting it.”

“What?” a guy standing near her scoffs.

“You’re unloading the tires off the line,” I continue, already crouching.

“Who the fuck are you?” the guy asks me.

Jameson steps between us. “Someone who knows what she’s doing.”