Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80321 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 402(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 268(@300wpm)
I get it. I just hate that I do.
Good thing for me, his cockiness dulls the allure. Well, mostly.
I shake my head, stepping around him. “Enjoy your night, Barnes. Try not to obstruct traffic while you’re at it.”
He lets me pass this time, but I sense his gaze chasing me the entire way back to my table.
I shouldn’t care what he thinks. He’s always been like this—superior, smug, convinced the world owes him the inside lane.
But still—
No one who looks like that should be such an insufferable dick.
CHAPTER 4
Francesca
This is it.
The moment I’ve been waiting for since I was seven years old.
On the grid, a respectable P7, and ready to start my career in Formula International. No matter the outcome, I know Suzuka will hold the most special place in my heart because today… it’s where my life starts.
The car growls beneath me, alive with controlled fury as I wind through the final section of the formation lap. The engine tone changes with each subtle shift of my throttle, and the power vibrates through the carbon shell and into my spine. The Suzuka Circuit curves ahead like a ribbon of gray silk draped across manicured grass.
Every corner is etched into my memory. Every straight will dare me to take more.
My pulse thuds in my ears, faster than it should be, a perfect storm of nerves and adrenaline. My gloves are tight, snug against my fingers as they flick the wheel toggles. The crowd is a blur of color beyond the fencing, flags waving, noise rising like a collective storm that stretches across the circuit. It’s deafening and distant all at once, like I’m underwater and the world above is erupting.
I spy a pocket of purple and white Titans’ fans standing out like a beacon against the sea of color. They’re on their feet, waving, shouting… for me, I realize. And Nash too.
A lump rises unexpectedly in my throat, and a strange, sudden warmth in my blooms within me. It’s not pride, but perhaps closer to awe.
They believe I belong here and now I have to prove them right.
Bex’s voice crackles over comms. “Tire temps in optimal window. Front left a little hot—bring it back down with a gentle scrub before the line.”
“Copy,” I say, rolling the car through the last turn and onto the start-finish straight. The cars stagger into their slots ahead. I follow Carlos through the left side of the grid, weaving side to side to keep the heat alive in the tires, the front grip responding with the delicious bite that only happens on softs when they’re just right.
P7… my final position after qualifying, but it’s not where I plan to finish.
I swing into my box and stop on the mark, perfectly aligned. I can see the red LED lights overhead out of the top of my visor. My breathing slows deliberately, one beat at a time.
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Bex’s instructions are steady. “Clutch setting two. Torque map is set. ERS full deploy on launch.”
“Got it.”
“Francesca,” she adds, quieter now, “go do what you do.”
I watch as the five red lights illuminate above the grid.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each one clicks on with metronome precision, suspended in the silence.
My fingers tense on the clutch paddle and the taut line between stillness and velocity settles over me. My heartbeat pounds.
This is it. Not just the start of a race, but the race. The one I’ve dreamed about since the first time I sat in a kart. Back then I didn’t know what oversteer meant, but I knew that whatever this was—I wanted it.
I whisper it inside my helmet, a breath only I can hear. Lights out and away we go.
Then all the lights extinguish and I release everything. I dump the clutch and the car explodes forward. The rear tires bite into the tarmac with a snarl, engine screaming as I shift into second before we even reach the fifty-meter board. Nash jumps out cleanly from pole. Lex pulls hard left. Carlos spins his wheels—slow off the mark. I dart toward the inside, box out the Bauer car and claim his space before the entry to Turn 1.
P6.
The car sticks beautifully through the right-hander. The steering is responsive—like it knows what I want before I do. I feather the throttle and carry more speed into Turn 2.
I fly into the S-curves, a flow of rapid left-right switchbacks. It’s a dance of precision and nerve, and I’m in the zone. The g-forces punch through my body as I whip the car back and forth, tires skimming the curbing. My stomach tightens against the belts with each snap of direction. My neck screams under the load, but I don’t back off.
I can’t.
Not now, because I’m on the hunt.
I’m closing in on Stefan Wagner’s Rossa Corsa GTX. His red machine flashes ahead and I track his line, searching for weak spots.