Page 108 of On The Edge

Both Riggs and I lift our middle fingers at him.

“I mean, if you’re offering,” he says with a smirk and shrug before walking away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Maddix

My heart thunders in my throat as Cruz battles Bustos down the back straight. Suzuka is a technical track—at least that’s what he told me—and is difficult to race.

He gets his nose in front and then Bustos pulls up even again. The wheel-to-wheel racing is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

It’s like I want to watch and can’t watch all at the same time.

“You’ve got this,” Otis says in my ears over the race comms.

“I’m struggling with power,” Cruz says. From what Cruz has explained to me—and it took a while to understand—the “dirty air” from riding behind Bustos will affect his car’s handling.

“Your input is good. Keep pushing.”

“Understood,” Cruz says, his voice strained with concentration and the G’s on his body.

They fight valiantly. Bustos skillfully blocks Cruz on the turns as he tries to get past him. It’s a cat and mouse game for two laps before Cruz swerves out from behind Bustos on the start/finish straight and flies past him with the assistance of DRS. The crowd in the grandstands roars at getting to see the action that up close and personal.

And the breath I feel like I’ve been holding for an hour finally eeks out of my chest.

“P3,” Otis says about Cruz’s place.

“Let’s keep reeling them in. Car is strong.”

“You’ve got this.”

I can’t sit. I move about the booth. From one side to the next. I shift my posture. My arms. Anything and everything as if the movement will help Cruz get the upper hand and gain another spot. And then another.

He so desperately deserves a win.

When I lean down to grab my water, I notice Dominic Navarro at the back of the hospitality booth. His eyes are laser focused on me, scrutinizing me, and the scowl that accompanies it is no doubt for me too. The man typically stays in the garage during the race. He’s an imposing presence there. A presence it seems everyone reveres by the way they kowtow to him in sirs and an immediate berth of space.

But I’ve yet to see him here. In the booth.

I’ve yet to engage with him.

But this time I don’t avert my eyes. I meet him stare for stare and lift my eyebrows, willing the confrontation.

The more I’ve gotten to know Cruz, the angrier I’ve become at his father. At his unfair treatment of his son. At his disrespect and demeaning ways.

I’m sick of walking around here, avoiding him. Intimidated by him. Worried about what he thinks of me.

I don’t matter in this game . . . but Cruz does.

I move my headset to my neck, a somewhat invitation to engage in this impending conversation.

“Miss Hart,” he states from where he stands and I notice that conveniently, everyone has moved to the other vantage point to watch the race so that we are left in privacy.

“Mr. Navarro.” The muscle pulses in his jaw as he folds his arms over his chest. “You must be pleased to see he’s doing well. Fighting his way up the pack. Another great race after a podium last week.”

“He had a poor quali,” he says, referring to Cruz qualifying with a P8 starting position.

“And now he’s in P3.”