Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (11 page)

I square my shoulders and walk past the race officials,
keeping my head held high. But while my face is composed as can be, my mind is
absolutely reeling. What the hell could the F1 authorities possibly want to
talk to me about? They can’t honestly think I have anything to do with the sabotage?
It was my own brother and Harrison who were the targets of the London
tampering. What would I be doing messing with my own loved ones? But even as
the scores of questions ricochet around my head, I keep my mouth shut. Best
just to ride this one out.

As my escorts walk me across the Ferrelli camp, I see Bex
and Charlie come bounding toward me. I swallow a groan as they approach,
watching as confusion clouds their eyes.

“Siena, what’s going on?” Charlie asks, eyeing the
officials.

“I’ve just got to go sort a few things out,” I tell him,
smiling through my panic.

“What things?” Bex asks, “It’s Marques who’s been messed
with this time, not us.”

“We don’t have time for this,” the taller of my captors
says. He closes a hand around my arm, and comprehension washes over Bex and
Charlie.

“They don’t think you...?” Bex breathes.

“Get your hands off her,” Charlie growls.

“Calm down, both of you!” I snap. “I’ll be back in three
seconds. Just make sure Enzo has everything he needs. And if Harrison stops
by...”
Jesus. I don’t even know
.

“We’ll hold down the fort,” Bex promises, as I’m led away,
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Siena.”

Fat
chance of that,
I think to myself.

The race officials herd me quickly away from the action of
the race track. As the commotion dies down behind us, I spot a huge square
building up ahead. It looks like a miniature warehouse, set up just for this
occasion. I gather that the F1 offices for this particular race are inside
those gray walls. As we make our way ever closer, my nerve wavers. What if I’ve
violated some kind of rule, getting myself wrapped up with Harrison over the
course of this season? What if my relationship with him really is at the root
of all the mayhem that’s plagued this championship from the get go? Part of me
begins to fear that I am actually guilty of breaking some unspoken law of F1.
But if that’s true...then what will the consequences be?

As we approach the low, square building a door swings open
towards us. Harsh fluorescent lighting illuminates the space within, and two
more race officials step out to meet our little party. What’s with all the
muscle, here? You’d think I was some sort of dangerous criminal, the way
they’re ushering me in here. I’m about the furthest thing from a criminal there
is. I’ve never done anything worse than steal a lollipop from our local drug
store when I was five. And even then I felt so bad that I brought it back the
next day.

Keeping a friendly smile on my face, I march into the
ominous building. A maze of cubicles and office doors sprawls all around us
once we’re inside, and I’m promptly shown into a small, harshly lit room. On
the door, the words “Head of Security” are etched. You’d think that the F1
higher ups would have more important things to do right now than quiz me about
my relationship status, but what do I know? Maybe they need my help spinning
this PR nightmare into a workable narrative for the fans.

“Wait here,” the shorter of my escorts tells me. I settle
into an unforgiving office chair, and the officials step back out of the little
room. Alone, I let the charming smile fall from my lips. Something feels so
wrong, here. I haven’t even heard the full story yet, but this reeks of
misinformation, or worse. I feel as though I’ve been waiting forever when the
door finally opens again. I turn to see three serious looking men in suits come
into the office. They look at me as though I’ve just been booked for triple
homicide, but I greet them politely all the same.

“Gentlemen,” I smile, “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure
of meeting any of you before. My name is—”

“We know who you are, Miss Lazio,” says one of the men,
heavyset and red-faced. “I’m Mr. Tanner, the Head of Security for this race
track.”

“Busy day for you, huh?” I say, striving for a lighthearted
tone.

“This is no laughing matter, Miss Lazio,” says a stick-thin
man with wispy gray hair, “It’s a miracle that we caught the problem with
Rafael Marques’ car before he was allowed to race. Luckily, his team had a
backup vehicle available, so we didn’t have to hold up the event any longer
than necessary.”

As if on cue, a swell of noise rises up from the race just
outside this little building. A loud horn blares, and I know without seeing
that the race in now underway. I bury my disappointment and anxiety deep under
my skin, lest these men catch onto my discomfort.

“May I ask why you needed to speak with me?” I say to the trio
before me.

“We have reason to believe that there may be
some...animosity...between you and Mr. Marques,” says the third man, a short
and wiry short.

“I barely know Rafael Marques,” I tell him, “Before this season
began, I’d never even met the man.”

“But you have made his acquaintance since this particular
tour started?” Mr. Tanner leads, “You’ve met with Marques in situations that
were not purely professional?”

“I’ve never gone out of my way to meet Marques anywhere,” I
say, “We’ve run into each other a couple of times outside of the track, but the
same can be said of just about any young people from any team on this tour.
There are only so many watering holes in any given city, you understand.”

“Unfortunately, Miss Lazio, I do not fully understand your
relationship with Mr. Marques,” says the tall, thin man. “We received a piece
of information just an hour ago that makes this situation a bit difficult to
parse.”

“What information might that be?” I ask stiffly.

Mr. Tanner nods to the smallest man with grim solemnity. The
wiry gentleman nods back, reaching into his jacket and extracting a Blackberry.
As I look on, bemused, he scrolls through the device and pulls up a video file.
The man slides the phone toward me across the desk, and I feel my questioners’
three sets of eyes settle firmly on my face. Swallowing hard, I lower my eyes
to the phone, squinting down at the unclear video.

“So what you’re saying is that I
should watch out?” asks an eerily familiar voice, “Your brother and lover boy
are telling me to check myself?”

“In so many words,” I hear myself
reply tinnily.

My heart screeches to a halt as I
recognize the content of this video. The person behind the camera shifts the
recording device just slightly, and I spot a flash of red on the screen. My
dress. Someone was videotaping the conversation Marques and I had at the bar
before the Grand Prix, when I tried to warn him about foul play. But why would
this have landed me here? I was trying to tell him to be safe! I look up at the
three men, wanting to explain myself. But their stony gazes silence me.

“Well, what are their words,
exactly?” Marques asks in the video. There is a pause in the conversation, a
moment of grating feedback as my recorded image takes a sip of her drink.”

“We all think it would be wise of
you to watch your back,” says my voice on the screen. The next few moments of
audio are muddled and unclear, but my voice continues, “...Isn’t afraid to play
dirty. If you keep doing well, you’re going to get what...is coming to you.”

“Wait a minute,” I say to the
three men, “That’s not what I said. I was telling him that he needed to be
careful—”

“That’s not what the tape says,”
says Mr. Tanner.

I look helplessly down at the
screen, watching as Marques reaches for me. I feel a sick feeling rise in my
gut as I watch his hands graze my thighs, just out of view of the camera.
Whoever shot this did it in such a way that totally skewed the story.

“I swear to god, I’ll end you,” my
likeness shouts on the screen. The rest of our conversation, all of Marques’
disgusting come-ons, everything’s conveniently inaudible. Everything except my
own damning words.

“It’s not just talk,” I say on the
screen. In the F1 offices, I wince, knowing what’s coming next. I look on in
horror as the video captures me punching Marques across the face, a frightened
yelp rising out of him. Bex runs into the frame, pulling me away from the
driver. The last words that can be heard on the video are mine

“Do you really want to mess with
me? Because I won’t hold back,” I hear myself say, before the video cuts to
black. Silence engulfs the little room as I raise my eyes frantically to the
men sitting opposite me.

“Well?” Mr. Tanner prompts, “Do
you care to explain the content of that video, Miss Lazio?”

“Sure,” I say, “It was obviously
doctored.”

“We thought you might say that,”
the tall man drones.

“It’s clear as day,” I insist,
“You can see for yourself, whole pieces of the conversation were cut out.
Everything I say, it was taken out of context. If you’d heard the whole
exchange—”

“We heard quite enough,” says the
small man, “And what we heard was you blatantly threatening Rafael Marques.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, tamping down
my outrage as best I can, “But this is absolutely ridiculous. You can’t
possibly be taking this video seriously.”

“We’re taking it very seriously.
Another F1 driver could have been seriously hurt or killed today,” Mr. Tanner
says, “And this video captures you not only threatening but also assaulting
that same driver just before the Grand Prix commenced.”

“Have you even paused to consider
the source?” I ask, exasperated, “Who even sent you that misleading little
movie?”

“We received this tip from an
anonymous source,” Mr. Tanner sniffs.

“OK,” I say, taking a deep breath,
“So Marques and I got into a completely warranted argument at a bar. But you
have to believe me, I was trying to warn him. After what happened to Enzo and
Harrison, I wanted to make sure that he was on the lookout for foul play. It
wasn't a threat—”

“Yes, the drivers you get close to
seem to have all kinds of technical difficulties,” Mr. Tanner says, narrowing
his eyes.

I stare at the rotund man, the
corners of my vision going black with rage. “Are you...accusing me of
something, Mr. Tanner?” I ask, all but frothing at the mouth.

“Not officially,” he says, “That’s
not my place. I’m merely pointing out that your involvement with this sport is
becoming...problematic.”

“My brother
and...Harrison...almost died because of what’s been going on during this
championship,” I say heatedly, “How could you think that I have had anything to
do with—”

“It’s not my job to presume your
possible motives,” Mr. Tanner says, “It is only my job to make sure that my
track is kept as safe as possible. And right now, that means making sure that
you stay far away from it.”

“But I have to get back to the
race,” I tell him, “My team needs me.”

“Which team is that, again?” Mr.
Tanner asks, “Because it seems as though you’re close to many. So many, in
fact, that I can’t help but wonder if the team you’re really looking out for is
simply team Siena Lazio.”

“I’m not going to stand for this,”
I tell the trio of men before me, “This little interrogation is entirely uncalled
for, completely baseless! I can’t believe you had the nerve to march me up here
on nothing more than a whim—”

“A whim?” the tall man scoffs, “A
bit more than that, I’d say. This video is circumstantial evidence against
you.”

“That video is a bunch of
bullshit,” I snap back, “And I, for one, am not going to sit here and let you
all throw mud at me for something I could not have possibly been responsible
for.”

“You’re right, Miss Lazio,” Tanner
says coolly, “You’re under no obligation to stay here with us. We merely needed
to ask you a few pertinent questions. for security purposes.”

“Well, as fun as it’s been, I need
to be getting back down to the Ferrelli pit,” I say, standing up, “I’d say it’s
been a pleasure, except that it hasn’t.”

“I’m afraid we can’t permit you
back onto the track, Miss Lazio,” the small man says.

“Excuse me?” I ask, “What
authority to do you have—”

“All of it,” Mr. Tanner smiles,
“I’ve ruled you to be a security threat to this race, Miss Lazio. You’ll need
to keep away from the premises until the Grand Prix has been run.”