Page 55 of Overdrive (Speed Demons #1)

The garage was its own ecosystem as I zipped up my race suit and pulled my helmet on. The humming of power tools and clipped instructions from engineers was as familiar as the back of my hand.

Home.

This was my home.

And my head was finally fucking clear.

Marco leaned against the pit wall, his helmet tucked under his arm, exuding the easy confidence of someone who’d been here many times before. His eyes caught mine, and his smirk deepened, that trademark mix of camaraderie and competition shining through.

“You ready for this, mate?” he called over the buzz of the garage.

“Always,” I replied, pulling on my gloves with a sharp tug. The action steadier than I felt.

“Good,” Marco said as he pulled on his helmet. “Because I’m not holding back.”

“You never do,” I shot back, climbing into the cockpit of my own car.

Sliding into the cockpit felt like slipping on armor.

The seat cradled me, the harness and HANS device strapping me in so tightly it was as if the car and I were one.

My gloved hands gripped the wheel, the tactile grooves grounding me in the present.

The controls in front of me blinked to life, an array of lights and numbers that I could read like a second language.

Marco’s car rolled out first, disappearing down the pit lane. I followed seconds later. The crowd’s roar was distant, muted by the sound of the engine.

“Radio check,” my engineer’s voice chirped in mycomms.

“Clear,” I replied, adjusting the brake bias with a flick of my thumb.

I completed my out lap without a hitch, Marco passing me as he did a flying lap. I turned my radio on. “What’s Marco’s pace?”

“Purple in sector one,” the engineer confirmed. “He’s quick throughTosa. Morel’s running a tenth behind him, andDuboisis closing in on her flying lap.”

Of course she is. A flicker of something uncomfortably close to admiration swelled in my chest.

The first lap felt disjointed, the car twitching beneath me as I fought to settle into the rhythm of the track.

Tamburello loomed ahead, the corner that had haunted me all week and well into the weekend.

Practice had gotten me comfortable on the track, and yet I still braked late, the tires screeching as I struggled to hit the apex cleanly.

“Sector one’s off pace,Callum. Three tenths down on Marco,” the engineer’s voice buzzed in my ear.

“Copy that,” I muttered, gritting my teeth as I shifted focus. I adjusted the rear suspension mid-straight, the subtle change finally settling the car.

By the second lap, I began to find it—the flow that turned the car into an extension of myself. The vibrations through the chassis synced with my heartbeat. Marco’s car appeared ahead of me, a flash of crimson and black as he barreled throughVarianteAlta.

“He’s purple again,” the engineer updated. “Two tenths up on Morel and holding.”

I grunted. Marco’s lines were flawless, his exits clean. It wasn’t just from a championship-winning car. He’d earned that pace, every bit of it. He was a contender for theWorld Driver's Championshipthis year—much to my dismay—and we were currently first in the Constructor’s Championship.

The third lap was when everything clicked.

The car responded to my every move with precision, the tires gripping the track like a lifeline.

Tamburellocame up again, and finally, I nailed it—late braking, perfect turn-in, a clean exit that shaved fractions off my time.

I adjusted the differential coming out of the corner, allowing the rear tires just enough slip to maintain control without scrubbing off speed.

ThroughPiratella, I tightened my line, hugging the curb to maximize the exit speed onto the downhill straight.

“Purple in sector one,” the engineer said, his voice rising. “You’re gaining on Marco.Duboisis three tenths behind.”

I could feel the pressure building as each sector lit up with green and purple. Marco was still ahead on the timing sheets as we entered the final session, but I knew I had one perfect lap left in me.

The telemetry on the straight lit up—clean traction, optimal braking intoAcqueMinerali.

My hands were steady on the wheel as I feathered the throttle through the double-right, the car skimming the edge of grip without losing stability.

It was the kind of balance that made a car come alive, and I could feel it in every muscle.

Every movement was instinctive, second nature.

The final moments ofQ3were chaos after pit stops—Marco was flying, putting in a blistering lap that had him provisionally on pole. Morel’s time wasn’t far off either, making him a threat.

Later, I’d watch Qualifying and see thatDuboishad been sharp throughQ1andQ2, but inQ3, something faltered.

She ran wide atRivazza, the car skidding just outside the white line.

Her lap time was deleted for exceeding track limits.

She boxed early, leaving her inP9—the lowest starting position of her season so far.

I didn’t need to hear her radio. I could feel it—how that one wide turn would claw at her for days, how she’d bury herself in data tonight trying to make sense of it.

I’d been there—when you give everything, only to have the clock and the stewards strip it away.

I could imagine that fire of hers looking like it was going to consume her.

I focused on my own final lap, every nerve and instinct sharp. This was every reason why I was a four-time champion.

“Final sector,Callum. Push,” the engineer urged. I saw the sectors on my dash light up green, then purple again, fractions of a second ticking off my time .

I held my breath throughRivazza, braking later than I dared, the car dancing on the edge of control as I aimed for the apex.

I floored it out of the corner, carrying the momentum down the main straight.

My arms burned, the G-forces pulling at my chest as I crossed the line.

The checkered flag flashed, and the time updated on my dash.

“P1!” the engineer shouted, his excitement crackling over thecomms. “Two tenths ahead of Marco. You’re on pole.”

I finally exhaled, the tension melting into satisfaction. My body ached, the strain of the final sector making itself known as I slowed the car on thecooldownlap.

I drove the car into the pit lane, the team swarming as I climbed out. Marco’s car wasn’t far behind, and he stepped out with a shake of his head, pulling off his helmet.

“Damn it, Fraser,” he said, grinning despite himself. “That was a lap.”

“Good luck catching me tomorrow,” I shot back.

Morel rounded out the top three, his gaze cool and calculating as he exchanged a nod with Marco and me. The paddock buzzed with the fallout of qualifying, but my eyes foundAurélienaturally. She stood at the edge of her team’smotorhome, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

She didn’t move, didn’t say anything. But the weight of her attention hit me harder than the G-forces throughVariante Alta. It wasn’t admiration, not exactly. It was something more complicated, and for the first time in a hot minute, I didn’t try to figure it out. I just let myself feel it.

She met my gaze, holding for a beat too long before she turned away.

Something stirred in me that I couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t just her determination. It was the way she carried moments like these, refusing to let them break her.

I’d been there before, and I knew what it took to pick yourself up and fight again.

Maybe that was it, or maybe it was just her.

It wasn’t the finish she’d wanted, but I knew that she wouldn’t go quietly intoP9.

Marco clapped me on the shoulder, his spirits high. “Enjoy the moment, mate. Tomorrow’s another story. And keep an eye on Morel—guy’s a shark when he smells blood in the water. He’s not going to make it easy for either of us.”

I nodded. “He’s quick,” I admitted. “But he doesn’t have the patience to play the long game. He’s been in the sport for twenty years, and with two titles under his belt, his ego will get the best of him.”

Marco chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s why he’s dangerous. He’ll risk it all just to get ahead, and someone else usually pays the price for it. Keep an eye on him tomorrow.”

“I plan to. Besides,” I added, “there’s a reason we earned a one-two lockout.”

He nodded as we touched knuckles. “Exactly. I don’t fucking trust him, though. He’s pushedDuboisoff the track a few times now and gotten her lap times deleted. I’d be fucking pissed if I were her.”

I frowned. This was a recurring issue? I was under the impression it had only happened once, and yet hearing that wasn’t the case didn’t sit right with me.

The thought of Morel pushing her off again—blocking her dirty driving, risking her race, jeopardizing her fucking points—itched under my skin.

But I pushed it down, buried it beneath the satisfaction of pole position.

Right alongside our night together, because I couldn’t spend any more time thinking about that.

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t want to be inDubois’sshoes tomorrow,” he continued. “Midfield chaos and Morel if she battles her way up? It’s going to be a bloodbath back there.”

My fingers flexed, but otherwise, I didn’t outwardly react.

My eyes drifted back toAurélie’sretreating figure as she disappeared into theLuminisgarage.

If anyone could claw their way to the front of the grid, it was her.

I could already imagine her relentless charge through the midfield, taking risks that would make even seasoned drivers hesitate.

Part of me was frustrated for her. Another part couldn’t wait to see her do it .

I couldn’t focus on her for long, though, as people came up to congratulate me on my impressive final flying lap, and then I was herded over to the media to discuss the conditions of the track, my strategy, and the car’s performance.

For now, though, I let myself have this. This moment. This win. Before everything else came crashing back in.