Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (15 page)

Somehow, I manage to get up in time for the preliminary the
next day. Enzo and Harrison both have great runs, and unfortunately Marques
does just as well. The rest of the pack is so far behind in time and points
that no one even bothers to mention them anymore. That’s all well and good,
except that now all the media attention in the world is on the trio of Enzo,
Harrison, and Marques. And with me now wrapped up with each one of them, even
if only through rumor, I’m right in the heart of the media circus.

I can barely leave my hotel room without being hounded by
someone with a microphone. It makes me miss the days of standing in the
background of Dad and Enzo’s photo ops, to be honest. It would be one thing if
reporters wanted to talk to me about strategy or F1 as a sport, but all anyone
wants to know is who I am and am not screwing. I’ll pass on those little
conversations, thanks. 

The night before the qualifier, I have to physically remove
myself from the vicinity of my laptop to keep from working myself to death.
Harrison’s right—I’m not going to move any mountains by the time this race is
over. I’m only one woman, after all. Unfortunately, that’s never been reason
enough for me to rest on my laurels before. I’ve always harbored the notion
that I’m capable of anything I put my mind to, after all. And so, swallowing
the fact that I might not singlehandedly bring justice raining down on this
sport is a bit rough for me.

Though Enzo’s knee deep in strategizing tonight, I make my
way to his hotel room regardless. I know that most of the F1 young people will
be living it up in some rowdy Dallas bar, but we Lazio’s don’t have that
luxury.

Just as I suspected, Enzo’s sitting amidst piles of notes
and statistics with a heavily furrowed brow as I slip into his hotel room. He
looks up, as if surprised to see another living human being. I smile to
myself—we really are so alike. Both driven, untiring, and a little bit out of our
minds with ambition. I suppose that’s what we get for being raised by a world
champion driver. For better or worse, we’ll always try and be at our best.

“Hey bro,” I smile, going to Enzo.

“What time is it? Am I late?” he asks frantically.

“Relax,” I tell him, sinking down onto the sofa beside him,
“you’ve got hours yet before the qualifier.”

“Thank god,” he mutters.

“What are you even doing, looking over notes?” I ask him,
“At this stage in the game?”

“You can never be too prepared,” he says fervidly, shuffling
through his research.

“I beg to differ,” I tell him gently, taking the papers from
his hands. I’m alarmed to see that his fingers are trembling.

“Enzo?” I say, concern flooding my heart, “Are you OK?”

“I just...I can’t lose, Siena,” he says quietly.

“Enzo,” I murmur, placing a hand on his.

“I started this season like a champion,” he says, unable to
meet my gaze. “Winning races, focused, on top of my shit. But I’ve let
everything get so messed up.”

“Enzo, things have
gotten
messed up. You didn’t do anything—”

“Sure I did,” he scoffs, “I let myself get wrapped up in all
this shit that doesn’t concern me. I let myself get worked about Davies, and
you, and Shelby. I lost track of everything. And now I could lose the whole
championship.”

I sit silently beside my brother, feeling my heart strain as
I take him in. Enzo talks such a tough game that I can forget sometimes how
sensitive he really is. At the end of the day, he’s just a loyal, driven man
who wants to make the people he loves proud.

“Dad has to see me win a world championship,” Enzo says
softly, “I have to take home first place. For him. For all of us.”

“You can’t put that on yourself,” I tell my brother,
brushing my thumb against his hand. “Do you have any idea how proud Dad is to
have you following in his footsteps? No matter what happens on Sunday—”

“No,” Enzo says firmly, “there’s only one thing that can
happen on Sunday. I have to take first. It means everything to me, Siena.”

“I know,” I tell him, “I know, Enzo.”

The sound of someone clearing his throat interrupts our
intimate conversation. I glance up at Enzo’s open door only to find Harrison
there. I can tell by the look on his face that he’s overheard our heartfelt
words.

“Sorry,” he mutters, “I didn’t mean to...Um. Gus is looking
for you, Siena. Rather frantically. When you weren’t in your room, I thought I
might check—”

“There you are!” calls Gus’s voice. The Ferrelli team
manager bursts into Enzo’s hotel room, out of breath and flustered.

“Is this just communal space now?” Enzo grumbles,
embarrassed to be caught acting the slightest bit vulnerable. He stands up,
agitated, and turns his back on the rest of us.

“What is it, Gus?” I ask, dragging myself to standing.

“I’ve just gotten off the phone with the team ownership,” he
says, laboring through his words, “Siena...they’re—they—”

“Spit it out,” Enzo groans.

“What did they want, Gus?” I ask, “I can’t fit any more
press events into the next couple of days. It’s bad form to be distracting Enzo
with that kind of thing when he has a race to run.”

“It’s not that,” Gus says, “Siena, I don’t know how to tell
you this...”

“I can handle it, Gus,” I assure him, “tell me what the
owners want.”

“Well...They want...” Gus begins, “with all the media
attention, and all the rumors that are still going around...they don’t want you
to be at the track for the qualifier tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry?” I say, my voice hollow.

“Or...at the race on Sunday.” Gus goes on, “They want you to
sit the rest of the tour out, Siena. They said that if you show up at any of
the Grand Prix events from here on out, they’ll make sure that you don’t become
a shareholder in your father’s place. You have to stay away, Siena, or it’s all
over.”

The dead silence that fills the room in punctuated only by
the sound of my heart breaking into a thousand scattered pieces.

Despite Harrison’s strong arms around me, I don’t sleep a
wink the night before the qualifier. When dawn breaks, I drag myself out of bed
and into the bathroom, wincing at the sight of my flushed face, my puffy eyes
that are all dried out from weeping bitterly through the night. I’m devastated
by Ferrelli’s decision to ban me from the rest of this Grand Prix. Of all the
betrayals that have come to pass since Barcelona, this one cuts the deepest of
them all.

“Siena?” I hear Harrison’s sleepy voice call.

“In here,” I mutter, letting my head hang low.

I hear him pad across the hotel room, see his broad, built
form edge into the doorway. I let my eyes swing toward his, and feel my
splintered heart ache anew at the worry in his gaze.

“Did you sleep at all?” he asks.

“Not a wink,” I admit, smiling lamely.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, reaching out to brush
a stray curl off my face. “You’re allowed to be sad, Siena. It’s bullshit, what
Ferrelli’s doing to you.”

“I just don’t understand,” I tell him, feeling my throat
thicken with new tears. “I’ve been a part of this team since the day I was
born. Why won’t they stand behind me?”

“Not everyone is as concerned with keeping this sport honest
as you are,” Harrison says. “Some people will always be more worried about the
bottom line and appearances than they are about what’s right, it's business.”

“We’re not exactly upstanding citizens ourselves these
days,” I laugh sadly, “look how much drama we’ve stirred up since we met.”

“I won’t apologize or feel guilty for falling in love with
you, Siena. Or for feel pressured to hide our relationship. And neither should
you.”

“I just wish I could be there to cheer you and Enzo on
today,” I say softly, wrapping my arms around Harrison’s waist.

“Me too,” he says, planting a kiss on the top of my head.
“I’m never better than with you by my side.”

“Maybe I can change their minds before tomorrow?” I say,
willing myself to be hopeful. “That is...maybe I could, if they’d just talk to
me about all of this. But I’m being totally stonewalled. I’m not even allowed
to do my work for the team until after the season is officially over and
everything’s been sorted out.”

“It’s bullshit,” Harrison growls, “don’t they know you’re
one of their greatest assets?”

“I could be, if they’d let me,” I sigh, “I’d be an amazing
strategist. Hell, I could manage this team if they let me.”

“I know you could,” Harrison says, “And if that’s what you
truly want, I don’t think anything can stand in your way. You’re scary
competent, Siena. I’ve never believed in anyone as much as I believe in you.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” I tell him, raising my lips to his.
He kisses me deeply, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close. “Now get
dressed,” I tell him, with the happiest smile I can manage, “You’ve got a
qualifier to run.”

* * *

The hours I spend alone in my hotel room while the
qualifying race goes down are among the longest I’ve ever known. I don’t know
how my Mom’s done it all these years—waited at home for news while the boys do
their thing. Of course, she’s a far more patient person than I. For my own
part, it’s all I can do not to chew my fingernails off in their entirety as I
wait for some news.

But when news does arrive, it’s in the form of a clipped
text from Charlie.

“Better come down to the bar,” it says.

I glance at the clock, noting the decidedly pre-happy hour,
and know at once that the qualifier must not have gone too smoothly. Not even
bothering to doll myself up or replace my jeans and tee shirt with something
more put-together, I make my way down to the hotel bar.

Representatives of every F1 team staying in our hotel mill about
the dimly lit room. Of all the bars we’ve frequented thus far on our trip, this
one is the most decidedly bleak. Dusty neon lights and a disjointed array of
half-full bottles populate the walls, cast in the yellow glow of a room hidden
from the light of day. I don’t have to look far to find Enzo and the rest of
Team Ferrelli—they’re front and center at the shabby bar, looking
none-too-happy.

“Enzo...” I say, sidling up to my brother.

He doesn’t even look at me as he takes a long swig of beer.
“Marques landed himself in pole position,” he says flatly, “he could take the
title tomorrow.”

White hot anger flashes through my mind at the thought of
Rafael Marques walking away with the championship. Marques—the arrogant,
presumptuous pig who’s never said two words to me that weren’t dripping with
sexism and disdain—doesn’t even deserve to be a part of this sport, much less a
champion of it.

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell my brother, “So what if he’s
starting from a better position? You’ll still beat him.”

“Not necessarily,” I hear Harrison’s voice from behind me. I
turn and spot Team McClain dragging their feet into the bar.

“What do you mean?” I ask Harrison.

“Dallas is Marques' best track historically,” he says, every
word filled with bile, “and given pole position he could easily beat us both.”

I look back and forth between my two boys, their matching
dejected expressions fraying my already-frazzled nerves.

“Listen to the two of you,” I say. “To hear you talk, you’d
think the race was already lost, for God’s sake!”

“It say as well be,” I hear a slimy voice drawl from across
the bar.

The lot of us snap our eyes forward in time to watch Rafael
Marques and his cohorts stroll victoriously into the room. I feel my hands ball
into angry fists at the sight of him. After all, the last time I saw Marques
was in Detroit, when he cornered and harassed me at the bar. The very sight of
him makes me want to finish what I started when I slugged him that first time.

“What are you doing here, Marques?” I hiss, “This isn’t your
hotel. What, did you come to gloat like some pathetic—”

“Oh dear,” he cuts me off, “Someone hasn’t been sleeping
very well, I see. What’s got you so distraught, Siena? Davies here not doing
his best in the sack lately?”

“Fuck off, Marques,” Harrison growls.

“Same to you Davies,” Marques laughs, “I see that beeline
you’re making toward the bar. Best not drink your sorrows away, the night
before our last big race. I wouldn’t want everyone thinking that the only
reason you lost to me was because you were hungover,
mate
.”

“The race hasn’t been run yet, Marques,” Enzo says. “You got
lucky, when so many of us didn’t, but you’re as far away from first place as me
and Davies.”

“Well, seeing as I’ve secured myself pole position for
tomorrow, that’s not entirely true,” Marques says, his voice all but bouncing
with glee.

“Just get the fuck out of here, Marques,” I tell him. “No
one wants to see your mug any more than they have to. How're those cuts
healing, by the way?”

“Did your boyfriend here coach you to tell me off?” Marques
asks, nodding at Harrison. “Maybe he got a little antsy about our photo op from
Detroit?”

“A little antsy is an understatement,” Harrison growls, “but
I’m not upset about any photo or rumor, I’m upset that you think you can
disrespect Siena.”

“Right. She’s yours to protect, I suppose?” Marques drawls.

“She’s her own woman,” Harrison tells him, “she always has
been. But a motherfucker like you doesn’t deserve to speak three words to a
woman like Siena.”

“Oh, we’ve already traded far more than that, haven’t we?”
Marques asks me.

I grab onto Harrison’s arm as he makes to step threateningly
toward the Spanish driver. Enzo stands up roughly from his bar stool, but
Shelby makes a break from the McClain pack to put herself in front of him.

“He’s just trying to mess with you,” I say to my boys. “He
knows he can’t win this race fair and square.”

“We’ll see about that,” Marques trills. “See you ladies on
the track tomorrow. I’ll be the one out in front of you.”

The deplorable man turns on his heel and stalks away,
surrounded by his snickering posse. Back at the bar, all of us from Ferrelli
and McClain seethe quietly. Damn that driver for being able to get into all of
our heads the night before the Grand Prix.

“Ignore him,” Harrison says to Enzo, “the best man will win,
no matter what.”

“You think I need advice from you, Davies?” Enzo says
roughly, “Just because we both hate Marques, doesn’t make us buddies. The enemy
of my enemy isn’t necessarily my friend.”

“I’m not interested in being your friend, Enzo,” Harrison
says. “You’ve made it rather clear that’s not going to happen. But I wish you’d
at least give me the respect I deserve as a fellow driver.”

“I wish I could, Davies,” Enzo mutters, “I wish I could.”

My brother hurries off with Shelby at his heels as the rest
of us stare after him. I'm torn between feeling sorry for Enzo and being wildly
frustrated with him. We should all be banding together in the face of Marques’s
ascent, not cutting each other down.

“Well,” Harrison says gruffly, “I believe this is my cue to
buy us all a round. God knows, we need it.”

A meager laugh goes up among the crowd. I give Harrison a
lot of credit for keeping up his spirits, even if he requires spirits to do so.
I settle down onto a stool a few paces away from the action. I rest my elbows
on the smooth wooden bar, lost in thought. I don’t know how I’m going to
survive tomorrow, not being able to be at the race. But I can’t start worrying
about that. Not now.

“What’re you doing all the way over here?” Charlie asks,
settling down beside me.

“Huh?” I say, taken off guard by his presence. “Oh. I don’t
know. A little overwhelmed, I guess. What’s up, Chuck?”

“Oh, you know,” he says, taking a sip of his beer, “trying
to keep up with this crazy sport while falling head over heels for a certain
friend of yours.”

“It’s going well then? Between you and Bex?” I ask, feeling
genuinely happy for the first time today.

“Very well,” Charlie smiles, “in fact, I don’t think I’ve
ever had a better feeling about a relationship in my life.”

“That’s wonderful, Charlie,” I say, laying a hand on his
shoulder.

“I know this isn’t great timing,” he goes on, “what with the
tournament going the way it is, but I was thinking that tomorrow after the
Grand Prix, I might just—”

“What’re you guys talking about?” Bex asks, bounding over to
us at the bar.

“Us? Nothing,” Charlie says quickly, taking a swig of beer.

I look back and forth between my friends, trying to make
sense of their frenzied energy. I guess that’s what uninhibited love does to
you. Not that I’d know. My own relationship is about as fraught as humanly
possible. It’s so unfair that we can be so perfect together, yet surrounded by
so many imperfect circumstances.

“The course of true love never did run smooth,” I mutter.
“Kind of like this season, when you think about it.”

“What are you mumbling about, Siena?” Bex asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her, “you two have a good night. I’m going
to fetch my driver.”

I make my way to Harrison and tug on his sleeve. He detaches
from the team, and I tow him toward the bank of elevators in the lobby. I think
we could both use a little pre-race relaxation. And I know just the kind I have
in mind.

Luckily, Harrison is quite on the same page as me tonight,
and unworried about keeping me from sleep. We duck into his hotel room and let
go of our worry and fear. Tumbling onto Harrison’s bed, feeling the weight of
him above me, I feel as though I can finally breathe.

For hours, we block out the rest of the world and revel in
each other’s company. My whole world is filled with Harrison’s staggering body,
the form that I’ve come to know so well since we first touched in Barcelona.
I’ve been all over the world with this man, come to know him in so many ways.
He is my comfort and my strength, and I am his. No matter what happens tomorrow
at the race, we’ll both have come out of this tour as winners. We found each
other, after all.

By the time we lapse into stillness, utterly spent, it’s
late in the evening before the Dallas Grand Prix. I can feel the tension begin
to creep back into Harrison’s body as we drift off to sleep. I only wish there
was something I could do to ease his worry.

“I don’t know how I’ll be able to stand not being there
tomorrow,” I whisper, as slumber tugs us toward Dreamland.

“What can we do?” Harrison yawns. “Your team said—”

“I know,” I murmur sleepily, “I just wish there was another
way. Harrison? Harrison, baby, are you awake?”

But I’m met with nothing but the deep, gentle sound of
Harrison’s breathing. He’s fallen asleep. And I’m right behind him, much as I
dread the day to come. Curling up against his sculpted body, my mind finally
quiets, and I fall asleep.