Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (10 page)

“You’ve just given me a lot to think about, Siena,” Marques
says, downing his shot in one go, “You’re a fascinating woman. I’d so very much
like to get to know you better.”

I jump as Marques lays his hands on my bare thighs. I try to
shove him away, but he refuses to budge. Panic spikes in my veins at his
insistent touch.

“Get the hell off of me, Marques,” I growl.

“But I don’t want to,” he grins.

“I swear to god, I’ll end you if you don’t get your filthy
hands off me!” I shout.

“Say it again,” he says, moving his face toward mine, “I
love it when you talk tough.”

“It’s not just talk,” I spit, cocking back my fist.

I let fly and slug him right across the cheek. A howl rips
out of his throat as he staggers away from me at last, his face bleeding, cut
from the rings on my fingers.

Sorry I'm not sorry.

“Siena, what happened?” Bex says, arriving back from the bar
just in the nick of time.

“Come on,” I tell her, “We’re getting out of here, now.”

“Did you all see that?” Marques demands, “That woman
assaulted me! Just now, in front of all of you! You’re all witnesses!”

“If you want to talk assault, Marques,” I growl, “We can
discuss the many, many times you’ve sexually harassed me over the course of
this season. Do you really want to mess with me? Because I won’t hold back.”

“What are you going to so, send your thug boyfriend after
me?” Marques shoots back.

“Clearly, I can take care of myself,” I tell him, grabbing
onto Bex’s hand, “Maybe you should take some notes, Rafael.”

I storm out of the bar with Bex on my heels. I should have
known better than to think that Rafael Marques would take any warning of mine
seriously. Clearly, the only words he cares to hear out of a woman’s mouth are
“faster, harder”. Well, I won’t feel guilty if something happens to him, now.
I’ve said my peace, and it’s on him to look out for his own damn self.

I’m still vibrating with anger when Bex and I arrive back at
the hotel, stone sober. My best friend stares at me with wide eyes as I throw
myself down onto the bed, beside myself.

“What the hell happened back there?” she asks, “I walk away
for one minute—”

“That asshole tried to cop a feel is what happened,” I
growl, “I can’t believe the nerve of some people. I was just trying to tell him
to look out for himself, and that’s how he repays me? I can’t believe a man
like that is even allowed to be a part of this sport.”

“Oh yeah. A professional athlete who happens to be an
asshole. Color me shocked,” Bex says, rolling her eyes.

“Most of the drivers I know are great guys,” I say
defensively, “Harrison, Enzo—”

“Both of whom are stubborn hot heads,” she points out.

“They’re nothing like that dick head Marques. Neither are
Landers and Rostov.”

“I’m just saying,” Bex sighs, “You can’t put these guys up
on pedestals. They’ll just disappoint you.”

“Are you driving at something, Bex?” I ask.

“Just be careful,” she says, “I don’t want to see you
getting burned. Are you going to tell Harrison what Marques tried to pull?”

“No,” I tell her, “The Grand Prix weekend is going to kick
off tomorrow. He needs his wits about him if he’s going to do well.”

Bex and I trade terse goodnights, and she retires to her own
room. I lay on my back, still wrapped up in my sexy red dress, and try not to
seethe about tonight’s events. I need to bring the positive energy this weekend
if I’m going to help Enzo and Harrison do well, after all. It’s just about the
only thing I can do, since I stopped being a PR whiz and started being a PR
problem. I fall asleep, praying that this will be the weekend that things turn
around for us. It just has to be.

As the Grand Prix weekend begins, it seems that my wishes
might just be coming true. Harrison and Enzo both have fantastic preliminary
runs on Friday, their times rivaling those they reached before the Moscow
wreck. As much as I missed spending time with both of them this week, I guess
the extra practice in their renovated cars paid off. A little alone time is a
small price to pay for those kinds of results.

My boys don’t disappoint during the qualifying race, either.
They’re back to their old selves as they rip through the competition, passing
Marques' time as if it were nothing. I can’t help but be a little smugly
satisfied as Harrison secures pole position with Enzo right behind him. Marques
may have gotten a few lucky first place finishes while my brother and Harrison
were incapacitated, but in a fair race he has no chance at all. One of my boys
is going to take home the championship, I just know it.

I’m gunning for Harrison to win the Detroit Grand Prix, even
over Enzo—not that I’d ever say it loud out. He’s trailing just a bit behind in
points, and is precariously close to falling behind Marques. I wouldn’t be able
to stand it if that son of a bitch bested Harrison in this tournament. He
doesn’t deserve to be driving in same league as Harrison and Enzo. Especially
when Rostov and Landers, awesome men and drivers, have fallen so tragically out
of the race.

Just after the qualifying race on Saturday morning, I pay a
visit to Harrison’s trailer to congratulate him on scoring pole position. But
when I slip into the tiny space, I find him sitting motionless on the couch
listening to a sports radio broadcast.

“...still unclear as to what the specific injuries are, but
the prognosis is grim,” an announcer is saying, “Alexi Rostov is unlikely to
ever walk again, much less race. Sven Landers, for his part, has sustained such
serious burns on his arms and hands that prosthetics are likely to be the
favorable solution.”

Without speaking, I cross to Harrison and wrap him my arms
around his shoulders.

“It isn’t right,” he growls, “Those two men should never
have gotten hurt.”

“No driver should ever get hurt,” I tell him, “But that’s
the nature of it.”

“By why do I deserve to walk away unscathed?” he demands,
shaking free of my embrace. “Why am I still here, about to start from pole
position in the next Grand Prix, while those two lay in the hospital?”

“You got lucky,” I tell him, “I don’t know what else to say,
Harrison.”

“You are my luck,” he says quietly, “I honestly believe it.
You’re the only reason I’ve come through all this alright.”

“Don’t go jinxing it,” I warn him, “You’ve still got two
more races to run. And I’m going to need you in tip top shape so that we can
celebrate the right way.”

“The right way?” Harrison asks, “What way would that be?”

I close the space between us, laying my hands against his
chest. “Oh, I think you know,” I smile, planting a kiss just below his stubbly
jaw.

“Ah,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, “I suppose
I do.”

I tug him over toward the couch with a determined grin.
Thank god we’ve got a sure fire way to blow off steam when things get crazy
around here. Lord knows, they’re sure not going to calm down anytime soon.

“You promise you’ll always be there to cheer me on?”
Harrison asks, as I lay down on the couch before him.

“I promise,” I whisper, pulling him down on top of me,
“You’ll always have your good luck charm rooting for you. Now come here and let
me show you how much I believe in you, Mr. Soon to be World Champion.”

“That’s some pillow talk,” Harrison laughs, “But I think I
like it, Miss Lazio.”

It’s a good thing these trailers have good suspension.
Otherwise the wild rocking would totally give us away. Best not to add more
fuel to the media fire just when they’re finally losing interest in our love
story.

* * *

The next morning rolls around in the blink of an eye, and
the second to last race is upon us at last. I spend the entire morning with
Enzo, talking him up while fielding phone calls from my father. Even though
Dad’s been staying at home, trying to hide his worsening condition, he still
has plenty of wisdom to offer his kids from afar.

“Make sure you tell him to reserve some speed,” Dad says
across the line, his voice raspy and soft. It breaks my heart to hear him
sounding so much older than his years.

“I’ll tell him, Dad,” I promise.

“And you tell that boyfriend of yours not to try any funny
business,” he goes on.

“That I won’t do,” I say, “Though I suspect you’re kidding.
Right?”

“Maybe,” he says gruffly, “Your mother’s making me hang up
the phone. But you hold down the fort while I’m gone, Siena! If you’re going to
be running this team, you need to make sure everything goes smoothly today.
Think of it as practice.”

We trade goodbyes, and I turn my attention back to Enzo. I
stand in his trailer, watching him prepare. His focus is razor sharp, and I can
tell that he’s more determined than ever to walk away with first place today.

“You doing OK?” I ask.

“Fine,” he replies.

“I know it’s been a rough few weeks, with Sven and Alexi—”

“I can’t talk about them right now,” Enzo cuts me off, “I’m
already racing for Dad. And I know I’ll be racing for them, too. It’s a lot for
one person to shoulder.”

“I’m sure it is,” I say softly, laying a hand on his arm, “I
wish you’d let me take some of the burden from you, Enzo. Maybe if you just
talked to me—?”

“That’s never been the way we worked,” Enzo says, sadness
tugging at the edges of his voice, “We’ve always been so close that we never
needed to waste words explaining ourselves. But that’s all changing, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is,” I tell him, “I think this is just what
growing up feels like, Enzo. We’ve always treated each other the way we did
when we were kids. We’re just...getting to know each other again. As adults.”

“Well, it freakin’ sucks,” Enzo mutters, the corners of his
mouth twisting up into a sad smile. “You know I love you though, right Siena?”

“I know, Enzo,” I tell him, pulling my brother into a hug.
Ever since the London crash, when we found each other in the chaos that ensued
afterward, it’s like we’ve found a new understanding. It’s shaky yet, but we’re
getting there.

“Just think. In a few weeks, this tournament will be over,”
I say, “We can go back to Italy and be with Mom and Dad. Maybe Harrison and
Shelby could even come along.”

“Don’t do that,” Enzo says, slipping out of my embrace.

“What?” I ask.

“Don’t try and sneak your boyfriend into this new idea you
have of our family,” he says, “I’m not ready to let that slide, Siena.”

“I was just trying to—”

“Just trying to muscle me into being OK with him,” Enzo cuts
me off, “I’m sorry, Siena. I know that’s what you want, and I wish I could make
it happen for you. But I just can’t get over it. I can’t get over all the lies,
and the—”

“But why not?” I ask, “Why can’t you just let the past be
the past?”

“Because you’re not talking about the past!” Enzo exclaims,
“You’re talking about the future of our family. Our team. And you’re including
him in that. I can grin and bear this thing between you two through the rest of
the season for appearances, but beyond that...”

“So, what, you expect me to just break it off with him, once
the tournament is over?” I ask.

“Isn’t that what you are to each other? A world tour fling?”
Enzo replies.

“Why, is that what you and Shelby are?” I shoot back.

“I...I’m not...” he stammers.

“See?” I ask, “Easier said than done, isn’t it?”

“Siena, you’re going to be a shareholder of this team soon,”
Enzo says, “You’re going to be held to a much higher standard than most people.
I know it’s shitty, I know it isn’t fair. But how do you expect to help run the
team if you’re mooning over a McClain driver?”

“I know how to separate my job from the rest of my life,” I
tell him sternly.

“Really?” Enzo laughs, “You think it’s that easy?”

“Love isn’t supposed to be easy,” I snap.

“Love?” Enzo repeats, his eyes wide.

“I...Um...” I splutter.

“You’re really in love with Harrison Davies?” he presses.

“I...I am,” I tell him.

“Christ...” Enzo mutters, “You know, most big brothers have
the option of shoving their sister’s boyfriend into a school locker and calling
it a day.”

“But you’re held to different standards too, I guess?” I
say.

“Unfortunately,” he sighs.

“Enzo,” I say, “All I ask is that you keep trying to get to
know him. You don’t have to be best friends, but you need to promise me that
you’ll make an honest effort. Can you do that for me? Please?”

My brother opens his mouth to reply, but the trailer door
bangs open, cutting him off. Gus lumbers over the threshold, looking flustered.

“What is it, Gus?” Enzo asks.

“Are you OK?” I say, going to the Ferrelli manager.

“The Grand Prix...has been...held up...” he puffs, sinking
down onto the sofa.

“What do you mean?” I ask, “The weather is perfect. What’s
the deal?”

“Something’s wrong...with one of the cars...” Gus goes on,
struggling to catch his breath.

“That can’t be,” Enzo breathes, “Davies and I haven’t let
our cars go unwatched for a second since London. How—?”

“No, it’s not one of your cars,” Gus says, “It’s the Spanish
team’s.”

“The Spanish team?” I repeat, “You mean...Marques’ car has
been tampered with? ”

Gus nods his head, and Enzo and I exchange a weighted
glance.

“Don’t worry,” I tell Enzo, “I got a chance to warn him.
Maybe he was extra vigilant because I put that bug in his ear.”

“When did you see him?” Enzo demands.

“Oh...just before. Around,” I reply vaguely. I don’t want to
tell Enzo anything about my run in with Marques. If I do, he might go and
throttle him on the spot.

“At least they caught the problem before we started,” Enzo
says, “Maybe we can avoid another tragedy this go-around.”

“Maybe they’ll actually get some prints or something,” I say
hopefully, “Something that will finally give us a clue about who’s been mucking
up the works this whole time.”

A shadow falls across the doorway as I speak. Two figures in
the threshold of the trailer catch my eye, and I look up to see two men I
haven’t met, standing there in the open door. I notice at once that they’re
wearing the uniforms of F1 race officials, but far more disconcerting are the
solemn expressions on their faces.

“Can we help you gentlemen?” I ask, standing to greet them.

“Are you Siena Lazio?” the taller of the two men asks.

“That’s me, yes,” I say, “Is there something I can do for
you?”

“You can come with us,” the shorter man says, taking a step
toward me, “We have a couple of questions for you, regarding some damage to
Rafael Marques’ car.”

I feel the breath rush out of my lungs. “You don’t think...I
had anything to do with that, do you?” I ask.

“If you’ll just come with us, Miss Lazio,” the tall man
insists.

I look back and forth between the officials and my brother,
completely at a loss. Just when I thought this year couldn’t get any more
screwed up.

“Hold on,” I tell the men, hurrying back to Enzo. I plant a
quick kiss on his cheek before he can say a word. “In case the Grand Prix
starts without me, Good luck.” I tell him.

“Miss Lazio,” insists the short man.

“I’m coming,” I tell him, playing it far cooler than I feel,
“I’m sure this is all just a misunderstanding, after all.