chapter 15

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Matthew didn't see Lucas for most of the morning.

He spent the morning on edge. Matthew couldn't concentrate on stretching, or meeting with sponsors. He glanced over his shoulder as he signed autographs. He blanked on a reporter's name. Normally, a reprieve from Saint Lucas was a godsend, but today, Matthew was itching to see him.

And possibly smash his face up some more.

Finally, Matthew found Lucas in the garage.

The other boy was leaning against his car, already dressed in his red Ferrari suit, angrily drinking Gatorade. Matthew hadn't been aware that one could angrily drink Gatorade, but that was what Lucas was doing. Loudly. He was also, Matthew noted, sporting a large purple bruise over his left eye.

Good.

The bastard deserved it.

"Carr," Lucas said, not looking up. "How's your hand feeling?"

"Justified." Matthew smiled. "How's the face?"

"Still prettier than yours."

"Strange," Matthew said cheerfully. "Your ex-girlfriend doesn't seem to think so."

It was a low blow. Matthew knew it. He felt guilty about bringing Isla into it — mostly because she would have disapproved — but he was also pissed off and tempted to slam the nearest wrench over Walsh's head.

He still might.

"Ready, boys?" a voice called.

They both turned. Alek strolled towards them, a headset looped around his neck. He wasn't smiling, but then again, Alek never smiled. Their Team Manager was allergic to anything involving cheer.

"What happened to your face, Walsh?" Alek barked.

"Fell down the stairs," Lucas grunted.

Matthew looked at him sharply. It wasn't like Lucas to lie. It was even less like Lucas to lie to protect Matthew.

Something was off.

"Yikes." Alek whistled. "Tough luck." He clapped him on the back. "Just make sure you can see out of your other one, yeah?"

From there, things moved quickly.

Cars were pushed out of garages. Drivers suited up. And then Matthew was sitting in his bright red Ferrari, staring up at the chequered flag. He'd placed second during qualifying, so he was right behind Lucas. Again.

He caught sight of Cedro a few cars over. The Italian shook his head. Behave today, Cedro mouthed.

Matthew grinned and put on his helmet.

Cars started. Engines growled. Lights flickered ahead, blinking out one-by-one. A familiar sense of calm settled over Matthew, adrenaline so raw that it felt like peace. His foot moved to the gas automatically.

The lights went out.

Matthew slammed on the gas. The crowd roared. Monaco was a hard track — a narrow circuit with tight corners, difficult to pass — but Matthew liked it. It took a madman to win in Monaco. He liked his odds.

Two laps passed. Five. Ten. Lucas was only a few meters away. Matthew pushed his car so hard he thought it might explode with the sheer effort of it.

A car crept up behind him.

Noah, Matthew thought grimly — after all, Mercedes was the only team that had a prayer of catching the Ferraris — but no. The car was blue.

Matthew started.

Good god. It was Cedro.

The crowd was going mad, hooting and stomping. Matthew didn't blame them. An Alpine in third place? Cedro was driving fiercely, taking hairpin turns, his car singing in harmony with them. Matthew was torn between terror and pride.

"Carr?" His radio crackled. "That's Cedro behind. Block him."

Irritation swept through him. "Block him from reaching Walsh, you mean?"

"Just block him," Alek said.

The radio went silent.

Matthew let out a string of mental curses. He swerved around a corner, his heart purring in time with the engine. They did fifteen laps. Twenty. Thirty. Cedro was still breathing down his neck, but Matthew wasn't worried. He could hold him off. Nobody was insane enough to try and overtake around corners in Monaco.

Well.

Nobody but him.

Matthew revved his engine. Lucas was close — tantalizingly so — and he seemed to be flagging slightly. His eyes narrowed. No, scratch that; Walsh was flagging a lot. His car was decelerating, enough that Matthew was almost level with him.

"What's wrong with Walsh's car?" Matthew demanded.

His radio crackled to life. "Nothing." Alek sounded puzzled. "We're having the team look at it. Engine troubles, maybe?"

"He's slowing."

"I'm aware." Alek's voice was wry. "Stay focused, Matthew. We're looking into it."

The radio cut out again.

Matthew exhaled hard. His pulse was a drumbeat in his ears. Finally. He was finally going to beat Walsh. He slammed on the gas, moving to overtake.

Something crashed into him.

Matthew swore viciously, yanking on the steering wheel. The crowd groaned. His car shuddered. Recovered. It took him a moment to realize what had happened, and when he did, a strange ringing began in his ears.

Lucas had hit him.

"What the hell?" Matthew demanded. "What's he playing at?"

His radio crackled. "Stay calm, Matt. It was an accident."

"That was no accident!"

Alek sighed. "I'm sure—"

Lucas slammed into him again. The hit was harder this time, and Matthew had to swerve to avoid hiding the barrier. He cursed like a sailor, clinging to his steering wheel, praying that his car would listen. Miraculously, it corrected itself.

"What the fuck?" he demanded.

Alek swore creatively in several languages. "I'm speaking to Lucas now, Matthew. We're going to try and sort this out."

"He hit me!"

"We're sorting it," Alek repeated.

Matthew laughed humourlessly. "Good luck. Sorting Walsh's attitude problem requires several years of therapy and a personality transplant."

"Carr?"

"Yeah?"

"Stop being cute," Alek said, "and focus on driving."

Matthew scowled. He didn't bother asking about any damage; he could see that his front wing was dented. Not that he cared; so long as the car still had a cockpit and an engine, he was winning this goddamn race.

Lucas sped up.

Matthew stared. What the actual hell? His engine wasn't working. His—

It struck him.

Lucas's engine had always worked. He'd slowed down the car to tempt Matthew to overtake. He'd lured him into a trap.

Anger boiled his blood.

Matthew shot forward. His car smashed into the back of Lucas's car, sending it careening sideways.

The crowd gasped.

"Carr," Alek snapped in his ear. "Do not retaliate. I repeat, do not retaliate!"

"But he—"

"I don't care," Alek growled.

"That bastard." Matthew clenched the wheel as Lucas manoeuvred back into place, speeding around a corner. "I'll kill him, I swear."

"Box, Matthew," Alek ordered.

"Now?"

"Yes. You both need to cool off."

"I'm not doing anything!" Matthew protested. "Walsh is the one that—"

Lucas stopped abruptly. Matthew collided with the back of his car again— this time, harder — and he swore creatively as his front wing crumpled. Fuck. At this rate, he'd have to retire the car. All because Saint Lucas woke up on the wrong side of the bed.

Matthew smacked his wheel. "God damn it!"

Lucas flipped him off.

It was the last straw.

Matthew saw red. He accelerated hard, taking a hairpin turn. Then he jerked his steering wheel sideways, careening straight into Lucas.

Their cars shot off the track.

The world became a kaleidoscope of colour. Burnt orange. Crimson. Buttercup yellow. Something slammed into him. A board? Matthew's car came to a shuddering stop, smoke rising from the engine.

The crowd was utterly silent.

Next to him, Lucas was climbing out of his car, swearing so loudly that even Matthew could hear it. He yanked off his helmet.

"I'll kill you, Carr!" His face was bright red. "You sick bastard, I swear to god I'll—"

Matthew's headset crackled.

"Both of you in my office," Alek said flatly. "Now."

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