Glad it was me.
Before I could respond, he slipped out, door clicking shut behind him.
I stared at the closed door, stomach flipping, heart pounding against my ribs.
Griffin Michaels was going to be the death of me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
GRIFFIN
P9 to P2. The fight had been brutal. Aggressive overtakes, defensive moves that flirted with disaster, every gap disappearing a second before I could lunge. But I made it work. Forced my way through, carved my path forward until only one car sat between me and the win.
Callaghan.
He blocked the inside line, hugging the racing line with expert precision. He knew I was quicker. He knew I would take it the second he slipped.
Al’s voice crackled back. “Box, box.”
My hands locked on the wheel. “No.”
“Griffin, we need fresh tires.”
“The tires are fine.”
“They’re not. Box now or we lose time.”
Rage burned through my chest, but I yanked the car into the pit lane, tires screaming as I braked. The team swarmed, a blur of red and black, slick efficiency honed over thousands of stops.
2.3 seconds.
Fast. But not fast enough.
I launched out of the pit box, gunning it down the lane. “Where’s Callaghan?”
“One-point-eight seconds ahead.”
I slammed my foot down, the car roaring as I rejoined the track. One-point-eight seconds. That was too much.
Singapore wasn’t a circuit where you could just reel someone in on raw pace. You had to force mistakes. Push them into dirty air, pressure them into braking too late, make them crack before you did.
But Callaghan didn’t crack.
I knew that better than anyone.
The gap hovered at 0.8 seconds. Then 0.7.
“Blue flags ahead, Turn 7,” Al said. “Watch out for backmarkers.”
Perfect fucking timing. I was closing on Callaghan, DRS range right there, and now I had to navigate around cars getting lapped while avoiding the marbles off the racing line. One mistake, one moment on the dirty side of the track, and I’d lose all the momentum I’d fought for.
Callaghan got through clean. I had to brake, swerving wide to avoid Nakamura, the car twitching as the rear stepped out on the dirty rubber.
Gap: 1.0 second.
Fuck.
I took a deep breath, forcing my hands steady on the wheel. Every muscle in my body wanted to attack. Dive-bomb him. Send it from a mile back. Make it stick.
