Page 55 of False God

“Do you want to race?”

Her forehead wrinkles. “What are you talking about, Charlie? Weareracing. This was your idea, remember?”

I exhale, trying to expel some of my frustration. “Tell me if youwantto do this or if you’re only doing it because of a stupid bet.”

“Yourstupid bet.”

I blow out another long breath. “Lili …”

She props a hand on her hip. “Is this your idea of an intimidation tactic? Because it isn’t working.”

I yank my helmet off so I can rake a hand through my hair. “I’m being bloody serious!”

“Then, get in your car because I don’t want you claiming I had a head startwhenI beat you,Your Grace.”

Lili knocks her visor down, so I’m staring at my own distorted reflection in the tinted plastic.

I swear under my breath, then turn and walk back to my car.

Most stubborn woman I’ve ever met.

Beatrice Campbell—Granny’s favorite for granddaughter-in-law—would have started picking out china patterns if I’d expressed any concern about her safety.

Bea wouldn’t have agreed to race in the first place.

I climb in the Lamborghini and adjust into the low seat that requires practically lying down, pushing thoughts of Lili far away. I have to trust that she knows what she’s doing—that she wouldn’t put herself in harm’s way, stubborn or not—and focus on not crashing myself.

Everyone’s watching—from the chief instructor to the catering crew.

I hang a hand outside the cockpit and spin my index finger around in the air. The roaring engine fires. I rev it three times.

The cars get rolled onto the track, and then the green flag swishes to signal the start.

The clutch has been modified to make it easier for amateurs to use. I switch gears without stalling out and ease on the gas as I approach the first straightaway. Flashing lights on the wheel signal when to shift. Three greens, then a red. I pull on the right paddle.

When the first curve approaches, I hit the brakes hard at the fifty-meter mark. I oversteer, exiting the turn, but manage to correct while easing off the gas some. Once it’s straight ahead, I switch gears again and accelerate.

My stomach gets left behind as my head snaps back from the force of the sudden momentum.

Adrenaline spreads through my system, sharpening my senses. It’s a rush I’ve never experienced before, a high I didn’t know existed to chase.

I’m flooring the throttle, my body pushed back against the seat by sheer speed. I shift until I’m in sixth gear, going flat out, the surrounding stands flashing by at an alarming rate. The spinning tires eat up the straightaway faster than I would have thought possible as I fly toward another curve. I stand on the brakes, pressing down as hard as I can, then take the turn and start accelerating again.

This is dangerous. Not just the driving. But also the thrill of speed that could so easily become an addiction. The freedom of escaping everything.

I’m ahead, but I push harder.

Three laps.

Four.

Five.

A broad smile spreads across my face when I cross the finish line first at the end of the sixth lap.

Not simply because I won.

But because ofwhatI won.

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