Fast & Wet (The Fast 2)

“Move in with me when we get home,” I blurt out as I tighten my chin strap.

Her hand falls from her face as her eyes flutter.

“I don’t like you driving all the way from Cambridge every day, you spend the night at my place every night anyway, and I want you there. Don’t argue.”

“I wasn’t planning on arguing,” she grins. “But you should know I’m only using you for your kitchen.”

“Just my kitchen?” I pull her against me.

“Maybe other things, too.”

“Time to get your ass kicked, lover boy,” Dante slaps my helmet as he walks past and starts to climb in his car.

I want to ask her how the conversation with her parents went earlier. I find it hard to believe they aren’t making her life hell if they know we’re together. Even if they don’t know now, they’re going to when she moves in with me.

But it’s race time, and that’s not going to be a quick conversation, by any stretch of the imagination.

We’re not even half-way done with this race yet six cars have already retired. They’ve spun out, crashed together, the track is more akin to a pond, and I’m going to ram my fist down James’ throat.

“Change to strat-mode four, please,” James tells me over the radio.

“Four? No way, there is no grip now. That isn’t going to work,” I yell back and try not to hydroplane off the track in a corner.

The rain is coming down in buckets, and it’s a wonder the race hasn’t been red-flagged yet. We’ve had safety car after safety car.

“Correct, mode four is faster.”

“I won’t be going very fast when I’m in the wall,” I lose my patience. “I’m telling you, the tires are shot, and there is no grip.”

This circuit is unforgiving under the best of conditions. One slip up and you’re in the wall with few run-off areas and no margin for error. The storm has made the night race even darker, the rain reflecting off the Singapore city lights makes everything blend together even more chaotically.

“Concordia rated them for another eleven laps. The wear on them looks fine on my end.”

“I don’t give two shits what Concordia rated them as or how they look on your end. Put Emily on.”

“Negative. Strat Mode four, please.”

“Are you listening to me? I’m telling you, whatever your data is saying, it isn’t working on my end. You know, the guy actually inside the car.”

Then there’s long silence where James simply refuses to answer me.

Another car spins out in the meantime, and, in my side mirror, I see him smack up against the wall, powerless to stop the slide. At least it was a slow impact, not enough to hurt anyone, just enough to ruin your day.

I’m in third place, and I know the team wants the points.

Hell, I want to win more than anyone, but what James is telling me makes no sense. This is the problem when you don’t trust your engineer. You’re in no man’s land trying to navigate, plan ahead, develop strategies, and—minor detail—keep the car on the track in the middle of a monsoon.

I don’t have much choice but to switch the engine mode to mode four since James is giving me the silent treatment, and I can’t see what’s on the engineer’s computer screens. My only other option is to box for an unscheduled pit stop, which will piss Silas off and I’ll lose track position.

Traction is immediately worse.

Shocker, James. You prick.

Just ahead of me, Alessi Cruisinallo, from the Anora team, slides sideways through a corner, which lets me catch up to him, but now we’re both coming up to backmarkers.

We’re trying to navigate through this traffic—I’m trying to pass, he’s trying to defend—and neither of us can see shit through the spray coming off all the other cars.

“Push now,” James says.