Page 32 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The lights of Jeddah smeared across my visor like streaks of neon, but I didn't blink. Thirty-one laps down and my gloves were soaked, my jaw locked, my pulse so loud I could barely hear my own engine.

"Gap to Fraser, one point one. He's managing brake temps and letting the engine cool. This is your shot." My engineer's voice came through clear but calm. As if this wasn't everything to me.

Brake temps. Overheating. He was fighting his car, not me. That was all I needed.

I leaned into the next corner, chased the grip, and felt the tires bite. My hands were steady, but I was already overtaking him in my head. I'd been trailing him since lap twenty-five, waiting, matching pace. Every tenth he stole, I wrenched back.

Now it was my turn.

“Use the tow,” the voice came again. “He won't defend hard.”

Maybe not. But Callum never gave anything up easily. He could have smoke pouring out of his brakes and he'd still try to block.

The next corner came fast. I nailed the exit, foot flat, activating DRS when we hit the zone down the straight.

His rear wing glinted under the floodlights like bait.

I took it. The car surged forward, engine screaming as I caught the slipstream.

He shifted inside, half-hearted. Defensive enough to make a point, but not enough to stop me.

I didn't flinch.

I braked late—toolate—threaded the car through the inside, and dove for the apex. Our tires were inches apart, one breath from disaster.

He saw me. I know he did, and he yielded. I took the corner. I took him.

By the time we hit the next straight, he was in my mirrors. I didn't breathe until my engineer came back on comms. “Position update: you're P4. Callum's P5.”

I exhaled, grinning into my helmet. My heart was still sprinting. I felt wired and weightless.

The chances of me snagging P3 were practically nonexistent, which meant no podium and no champagne. But I didn't care. I'd just overtaken a four-time world champion. For once, he was the one chasing me.