Page 81 of Knot So Fast
I have to roll my eyes even as I navigate the chicane at turn seventeen. Doesn't he know that telling me not to do something is basically guaranteeing I'm going to do exactly that? It's like waving a red flag in front of a bull and expecting it to politely stop and consider its options.
Right on cue, I hear Lachlan's growl through the team radio, his voice tight with frustration and what sounds like barely controlled fear. "Don't tell her not to do something or she's going to fucking do it, Harrison!"
A grin spreads across my face despite the intensity of concentration required to keep the car on the racing line. Even with my memories scrambled, he knows me. Knows mypatterns, my rebellious streak, the way I can't resist a challenge even when it's inadvertent.
"Sugar," he warns, and I can hear how badly he wants to use my real name. Wants to scold me properly, to remind me of all the reasons this is dangerous and reckless and absolutely the wrong tactical decision. But he can't, not with the entire team listening in. They might have caught on when he'd whispered my name before the race started, but that had been so quiet, so personal, I doubt anyone else really heard it. Now, though? Now everyone's holding their breath as we approach the final lap, hanging on every word exchanged between us.
"I'm not going to do it, Wolf," I tease, already calculating the angles for exactly how I'm going to do it. The car ahead of me—Dmitri Volkov in the scarlet Ferrari—is driving defensively, clearly aware that I'm faster but using every trick in the book to keep me behind him.
"Tame that spice of yours, Sugar," Lachlan argues, and I can see him pulling away in first place, his lap times getting faster like he's trying to set a new track record. Or maybe he's just channeling his anxiety about what I'm about to do into pure speed. "We don't need to show off now. Second place still keeps me in the championship."
"But how am I going to show off if I'm being all sweet and tamed?" I toss back flirtatiously, downshifting as we approach the second-to-last corner. The final turn is coming up—the sharpest on the entire circuit, a decreasing radius nightmare that's claimed more than its share of victims over the years.
Harrison's voice returns, higher pitched with stress. "They're closing in on the final sector! Be careful—Volkov is known for his aggressive tactics. He's not above contact if it means keeping position."
"Oh, I know all about Dmitri Dmitrievich Volkov," I say, the Russian name rolling off my tongue with surprising ease. "Hislittle tap-and-spin maneuver in Singapore last year was a bit much, don't you think? Putting Nakamura in a coma just to keep third place? I guess anything for the win, right?"
The silence that follows my casual recitation of details I shouldn't know is deafening. Even the engine noise seems to fade for a moment as everyone processes the fact that I apparently remember specific racing incidents but not my own career.
But there's no time to dwell on the implications. We're approaching the final turn, and Marcus and Dex are going wild in the commentary box, their voices blending together in a crescendo of anticipation.
"This is it, folks! The final corner of what has been the most surprising race of the season!" Marcus screams.
"Volkov is defending hard, but Sugar&Spice has been faster through this section all race," Dex adds, his professional composure cracking slightly. "If she's going to make a move, it has to be now!"
I chew the last remnants of the gummy, thankful that Rory had also ensured that even if they did drug test me afterward, it wouldn't show up as anything prohibited. The ingredients were all legal, all natural, all designed to keep me functional without breaking any rules. Just a little help to keep the monsters at bay while I slay the real dragons on track.
The calming effects are in full force now, wrapping around my nervous system like a warm blanket. But there's something else, something Rory had warned me about—my scent is spiking, sweetness sharp enough to cut through even the sealed environment of the cockpit. The adrenaline is fighting against the calming agents, creating a chemical cocktail that's making my Omega characteristics go into overdrive.
I push it aside. None of that matters now. All that matters is this corner, this moment, this chance to prove that Auren Vale isn't done yet.
I position my car perfectly, drawing alongside Volkov as we hurtle toward the apex at speeds that blur the advertising boards into streams of color. Dex and Marcus are both talking at once, their words tumbling over each other as they try to describe what's happening.
I take a deep breath, and suddenly everything goes quiet.
It's like someone hit a mute button on the world. The engine noise fades to a distant hum. The commentary disappears. Even my own heartbeat seems to slow to a crawl. I'm in the zone, that perfect state of flow where thought becomes action without conscious decision.
My hands move on the steering wheel with surgical precision. My right foot eases off the throttle just enough to transfer weight to the front tires. My left foot hovers over the brake, ready to execute a move that's either brilliant or suicidal.
I turn in earlier than Volkov expects, earlier than any sane person would attempt at these speeds. But I'm not feeling particularly sane right now. I'm feeling alive in a way I haven't in a year, and I'm not about to waste this moment playing it safe.
Our cars touch—just barely, just enough. My sidepods scrape against his rear wheel in a calculated bit of contact that would look like a racing incident to anyone not paying attention. But I know exactly what I'm doing. The contact unsettles his car just enough to break his rear traction on the dusty side of the track.
He takes the bait beautifully, overcorrecting in exactly the way I predicted. His car starts to slide, the back end stepping out as he fights to control it. I'm already backing out of the throttle, letting my car rotate through the corner in a controlled drift that would make rally drivers weep with envy.
We're spinning—both of us, our cars dancing a violent ballet at speeds that turn physics into a suggestion rather than a law. But while Volkov is fighting his car, I'm working with mine. I've induced this spin on purpose, using his momentum against him while keeping just enough control to come out ahead.
I hit the brakes hard, feeling the anti-lock system chattering against my foot as I scrub off speed. The spin slows, the world stops whirling, and suddenly I'm pointing the right direction while Volkov is still rotating behind me, his speed bleeding off with every degree of unwanted rotation.
The moment my car settles, I slam the throttle to the floor.
The acceleration is violent, pressing me back into the seat as all 1000 horsepower tries to tear the car in half. The traction control screams in protest before I override it, trusting my feel over the computer's calculations. The rear tires light up in a cloud of smoke that obscures everything behind me, but I'm already gone, rocketing forward while fourth and fifth place are still trying to figure out how to navigate around Volkov's spinning Ferrari.
I don't realize how close I am to Lachlan until I see the checkered flag waving above us. We cross the line together—him just barely ahead, me close enough that the timing screens will need to check the photo finish to determine the exact gap.
The noise that erupts is deafening. The crowd in the grandstands, the team on the radio, the commentators—everyone is losing their minds at what they've just witnessed. But I turn off my radio, needing silence, needing to breathe, needing to process what I've just done.
I ease the car to a stop in a cloud of tire smoke, my hands shaking as I finally release the death grip I've had on the steering wheel for the past ninety minutes. The trembling starts in my fingers and works its way up my arms, the adrenaline crashhitting me like a physical blow now that the immediate danger has passed.
