Throttled: Dirty Air (Book 1)(23)

“Thank you.”

Part of my heart melts at the sight of him winking before he closes the door.

I lean against a wall and wait for my heart to stop racing. Once I finally relax, I enter Santi’s room again.



Liam leads the group today with pole position. Finally, a change of pace from Noah’s usual P1 spot, with my brother as runner-up, and Noah in P3. A third-place qualifier for Mr. Slade. What a tragedy. Bandini and McCoy outperform other racers every time, which seems unfair since money makes all the difference in a sport like this. Top teams hire the best engineers and crew. A couple others follow close behind, working toward upper grid positions and better cars.

Racers take off down the course once the lights fade from above the grid. The smell of fuel fills the air, strangely calming me. My hands clap as cars drive by. I love standing near the track’s safety fence, feeling the vibrations of the engines as the cars rip past the lane, metal rings trembling underneath my fingers as I clutch the barrier.

On TV, cars may look like they hit normal speeds. But in person, F1 race cars rush past in a blur of colors and a burst of air, the roar of engines rivaling the crowd’s cheers. My dark waves blow in the wind as Bandini’s red cars fly by. The fast pace makes it difficult to tell which car Noah drives versus Santi, making me tune in to the speakers for race standings. Sparks fly as cars brush up against the pavement. Others cruise by, a mix of colors ranging from gray to pink. Race car models vary from sleek to clunky. I film the event from the sidelines today, wanting to stand at a popular turn overlooking the finish line.

No significant hiccups occur within the first twenty minutes. During the twelfth lap, a driver runs into a barrier, his car hitting protective blockades. Water splashes against the road from exploding plastic jugs. The driver unbuckles himself and yells expletives before throwing his helmet. He ends up kneeling next to his wrecked car, his body tense and shaking. Fans underestimate how emotional racers get when they crash. A failure to complete a Prix. After all the hard work and sacrifices from the team, they retire with no points for the Championship.

I turn my camera back toward the racetrack, getting fantastic shots of McCoy and Bandini cars rushing by, metal frames nearly touching as they try to pass each other. The howl of the engines brings a smile to my lips.

Liam and Noah fight it out for first and second place throughout the forty laps. Excitement has yet to wear off after the first hour of watching them compete against each other, the crowd’s still yelling chants and cheers. My legs cramp at standing for an hour and a half. In hindsight, I should have packed a chair and snacks.

By lap fifty, my brother tails Noah’s race car. Santi’s defensiveness keeps me on edge. I grip the fence as they careen down the track, Noah holding his lead. Santi’s car hangs uncomfortably close to Noah’s. Too freaking close. During a straight stretch, my brother speeds up before he swerves while trying to get around Noah.

I gasp as the front wing of my brother’s car hits the back of Noah’s race car. Santi spirals out behind him, both cars trembling as they drag across the pavement. My brother has crashed into Noah at about one hundred and eighty miles per hour. The Bandini cars spin around like two red yo-yos across the track, the drivers unable to do anything about the loss of control. My stomach lurches. The crowd quiets and listens to the grating sound of metal, a path of sparks and smoke trailing behind the Bandini cars. Their cars finally stop near a side barrier. Smoke plumes from both engines and billows up into the blue sky.

Shit. Noah and Santi climb out of their cars. The safety team ensures that the drivers remain uninjured while a tractor picks up the messed-up Bandini cars with a crane. Noah flails his arms around at my brother. He throws his helmet off to the side while he grabs my brother by the race suit and pushes him. My brother catches his footing before he falls over.

I take in a deep breath, relief rushing through me that they both are safe. The risk of crashing always hangs over the heads of drivers in this sport. Some have died during crashes like today. But most racers get out of their cars unharmed because of all the safety precautions like fireproof race suits, helmets, and the bar above the car that protects the driver from barrel rolls. This crash proves why F1 has safety protocols in the first place.

The broadcaster announces how Noah and Santi will retire for the Prix, the worst news for the Bandini team. A major loss since neither racer will receive points for the Constructors’ Championship. Plus, it’s a strike against my brother’s confidence.

I wait for them in the pit suites, in the same hallway where I ran into Noah earlier. Noah and Santi make their presence known the moment they enter.

“What the fuck were you thinking? What type of reckless, amateur shit are you trying to pull here? That crappy move cost us everything today.”

My body stiffens at the way Noah talks to my brother. I peek around the hall’s corner, wanting to get a look of the scene. Noah’s back faces me while my brother looks furious, a rare happening for him. He has flushed cheeks, narrowed eyes, and pinched brows.

My brother’s eyes flare. “I already said I’m sorry twice, Slade. Do you want to kiss and make up?”

Last-name dropping and the sarcasm dripping from Santi’s voice is never a good sign.

“If you want to prove your worth, try to do it without crashing a million-dollar car. It’ll serve you better in the long run. But if you wanted to ride my cock, all you had to do was ask nicely.” Noah’s hard voice carries through the halls.