“Press the green button,” Mac says in an unsteady tone. “Count thirty seconds, then press the red button. We’re not going for a full tank here. Just enough to get us through to the next refueling stop.”
I want to tell her to hurry because we’re about to run out of curve, but there’s no point. Thirty seconds of fuel is what the GT needs. Less than that and we’ll lose more time than we actually gain by doing this. Doesn’t mean it isn’t the worst thirty seconds of my life. My fingers gripping her jeans lose all sensation by the time Zamara says she’s got it and inches her way back into her seat.
I’m vaguely aware of Mac praising Zamara and Screw saying something about seeing us at the second refueling station. The truck breaks away and promptly disappears when we reach the summit of Mount Mega.
“RC,” my navigator says as we begin our descent.
“Hmm?” I glance at her.
Her gaze drops to my hand still on her jeans. “You can let go now.”
I try but my fingers won’t budge. “I think I’m going to need a little help.”
With a satisfied smile she fails to hide, Zamara slowly uncurls my fingers from the seam of her pants. One finger at a time. My knuckles actually pop from the effort it takes to disengage their grip. Once the final finger is off, I open and close my hand to pump blood back in. Tingles rush over each digit like a tickling case of pins and needles. Then I engage the antilock braking system before returning my hand to the stick and shifting down a gear.
“You owe me a kiss.”
Wincing at her smugness, I say, “Don’t make me regret my promise.”
“Oh, I promise you….” She resettles into her seat and replaces the tablet that fell to the floor earlier on her lap. “You won’t regret it.”
I flick my gaze to her lips. Then a flash of yellow catches my attention. A grin as feral as the wild cats roaming Terra One curls the corners of my mouth.
“Our refueling gamble is about to pay off.” The words come out of me as soon as the GT90 picks up speed. “Oh, he’s seen us.”
“Slipstream,” Zamara whispers reverently. “He’s a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year.”
I tsk. “How he can drive in his condition is crazy. I don’t know what’s going on in that mind of his. And I don’t know what Mistress Anne is thinking letting him participate this year.”
“Yet you’re gripping the wheel like you can’t wait to pass him.”
I show Zamara my full-blown smile. “You’re learning.”
She’s so taken aback that all she does is stare when I hit the break and execute my first drift down the mountain. The downhill pass of Mount Mega isn’t as bumpy as the climb. At least I hope the reports are correct. The GT’s ABS engages, and I slip into the straightaway cleanly. This race is a power for power battle. It will come down to whoever controls the car best. I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to race Slipstream in a professional setting since he officially joined the Gathering. My heart leaps as the GT chases after the GT90.
The air in my car calms. I choose to believe Zamara understands what I must do and stays quiet. With ten hairpins, three inclined straights, and a host of S corners to tackle, concentration is key. The low, throaty growl of Slipstream’s GT90 calls to my own, pushing me onward.
As we enter the first set of hairpins, all I can do is marvel at Slip’s skill as he tackles the corners with ease. The power of the V12 engine is surely paying off. And the downhill is working with the weight of the car. His fingers must be numb from the vibrations that car is sending through the steering wheel. All I can do is match him, executing parallel drifts and applying pressure at every straight by tailgating him.
Pretty soon I notice him struggling with oversteer. His tires are losing their grip. The way he drifts into the last corner is twitchy. If he’s having a hard time initiating a drift with such a powerful car, it tells me he doesn’t have total control of that three-thousand-pound monstrosity. It could be the race is getting to him. Going into this not 100 percent physically is starting to show in the unstable line his car is taking down the mountain. I apply more pressure by kissing his bumper with my own through the next set of curves. He’ll eventually make a mistake, and when he does, I’ll be there. I just have to be patient.
Heading into the second inclined straight, he pulls away. Those 720 horses under the hood are helping him stay in this race. My GT is undaunted, matching his speed with a burst of my own. Slipstream enters the next corner too fast. If my gut is right, and it usually is, he’s feeling the pressure I’m applying. Soon it will drive him into the mistake I’m waiting for.
“What’re you doing?” Mac scolds in my ear in time with the squeal of my tires as I tackle another corner. “Quit messing around and pass him. We still have two more mountains to climb before this is over.”
I shift to third, forcing oversteer on the rear tires so the car enters sideways into the curve, nose facing the apex. Then I press two fingers on the earpiece. “Will you tell Screw I’ll need a tire change before we make the second ascent?”
“You’re worrying about your tires? RC!”
At the exit of the corner, I grin. “Unclench your ass, Mac. I have this.”
The rear end of the
