Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (16 page)

Two
malicious, golden eyes glint with victory as a wide, cackling mouth stretches
in an arch underneath them. A tangle of brown locks shake out as a fine haze
fills the air. The muffled sound of a thousand people cheering fills the dead
space around us as I look on, devastated. A wily, grinning man raises his arms
in triumph as his two opponents, fallen but so much more deserving, let their
heads fall into their hands.

“This
isn’t right!” I hear myself shouting. My voice is subsumed by the waves of
noise spilling out from the crowd. “He’s lying! He’s lying to you all!”

Those
gleaming eyes swing toward me like spotlights, and I feel myself rooted to the
spot. That gaping mouth begins to laugh, and the laughter itself is a dark
cloud that rushes toward me, as if it would swallow me whole. I leap out of the
way and find myself falling, faster and faster, as the ground rushes up to meet
me...

“No!” I scream, my body jerking me awake.

I sit up and look around wildly. Here I am in Harrison’s
hotel room, safe and sound. My chest is heaving as I struggle for breath, and
my body is trembling uncontrollably.

“I was just a dream,” I mutter to myself, swinging my legs
over the side of the bed, “Just a bad dream, Siena.”

But it didn’t feel like a dream. The nightmare scene was so
real. The Dallas Grand Prix had already been won, and Rafael Marques had beaten
both Harrison and Enzo. But why did he appear so much larger than life, so
gruesome in my nightmare?

The gears and works of my mind begin to whir as I remember
something I’ve heard in many a classroom. If you fall asleep thinking about a
problem, your mind will often supply you with an answer come morning. I know
that the only thing on my mind as I fell asleep last night was who could be to
blame for instilling so much fear and anxiety into us all. Who could be to
blame for all the bad that’s befallen the F1 drivers and teammates this year?

As I ponder the question now, the only face that comes to
mind is that of Rafael Marques. Of all the drivers in F1, he’s the only one
whose fortunes haven’t taken a nose dive. If anything, he’s benefitted from the
tragedies, big and small, that have taken hold of this world championship.

Marques never would have stood a chance of doing well in the
standings if the really talented drivers involved hadn’t become distracted. If
everything had gone accordingly, the championship would have been a clash of
the titans— Enzo and Maxwell Naughton going head to head. But from the start,
this season has just been a bit...off.

Once Harrison entered the running, everything changed. Not
only was he far better than anyone anticipated, he also changed the way all the
other drivers raced, especially Enzo. Harrison’s presence distracted Enzo from
the beginning, making him far more focused on beating the British star than on
winning. Rostov and Landers crept up in the rankings, and Marques with them.
But because Marques was such an unknown going into this tournament, no one even
noticed his ascent until Landers and Rostov were out of the picture. And by then,
with injuries and suspensions, Harrison and Enzo were relegated to Marques’
level.

Everything that’s happened—from Naughton’s wreck, to
Harrison’s ascent, to the rumors about me, to Landers’ and Rostov’s near deadly
crash—has all been to Marques’ advantage. Part of me has always been aware of
this, but I’ve been thinking of it as an unfortunate fact—that this slimy
asshole manages to gain while so many more worthy men lose. But what if
Marques’ success isn’t a coincidental byproduct of all this chaos. What if it
was the intended goal all along? The 2013 world champion stands to win a $25
million dollar purse; people have done much worse for much less.

“Harrison!” I cry, jumping up from the bed, “Harrison? Where
are you?”

I tear around the hotel room, but he’s nowhere to be found.
My eyes fall upon the bedside alarm clock—it’s hours later than I meant to
rise. The Grand Prix will start within the hour. There’s a hastily scribbled
note on the bedside table, written in Harrison’s hand. I snatch up the scrap of
paper and read.

“Thought you might want to catch some z’s. Maybe you’ll
sleep through the race altogether. I know how you’ve been worried about it
happening without you. Here’s hoping. I love you, Harrison.”

“Damn,” I mutter, letting the note fall from my hands. I
have to tell him about my notion that Marques might have a hand in the mayhem
that’s plagued this tournament. But now that he’s gone to the track, I have no
way of reaching him. Neither he nor Enzo will have their cell phones on, that’s
for sure. And I’m not allowed to show my face at the track, Team Ferrelli has
forbidden it. How am I going to tell Harrison, warn him about what might happen
if he tries to give Marques a run for his money?

I begin to pace hastily around the room. In my distracted
state, I manage to trip at once, stubbing my toe on something hard and
unforgiving. Uttering a curse under my breath, I glance down and see that I’ve
stumbled into one of Harrison’s suitcases. I glare at the spilled
contents—clothes, hats, a belt or two.

But then it occurs to me.

What if I could show up at the track without anyone
noticing? What if I could be at the Grand Prix without showing my face at all?
I kneel down among the scattered jeans and tee shirts, my mind whirring. Fuck
it.

Without pausing to think, I grab my things and run to my
hotel room. I rush to my closet and seize up the smallest articles of clothing
I can find and pull them onto my body, white linen pants and a button down. I
wrap my hair in a scarf and find a cute sun hat to hide my dark brown locks,
and I put on the biggest pair of sunglasses I own to obscure my big brown eyes.
I grab the gaudiest golden watch and bangles from my suitcase to complete the
look.

I give myself a once over in the bathroom mirror and can’t
help but laugh, astonished by the success of my impromptu disguise. No one
would ever expect me to go out in public looking so ridiculous. I’ve got a
Grand Prix to get to. I shove the essentials into my pockets—phone, wallet,
keys—and slip out of my hotel room. Thank god there’s no one around to see me
as I slip out of the hotel and grab the first cab that’s headed for the race
track.

Before the track is even in sight, I can feel the energy
rippling from it vibrating in the hot Dallas air. The entire city is buzzing
with excitement as the final race of the season draws ever-nearer. Thousands
upon thousands of fans mill about the course as we pull up. I catapult out of
the cab, throwing far too much money at the driver, and weave through the
roiling crowd as quickly as I can. Amid the pre-race chaos, the security guards
are too distracted to check and see if my F1 pass picture matches the person in
front of them. I’m waved into the teams-only portion of the course in no time.

If the energy among the crowd was chaotic, it’s absolutely
electric among the teams themselves. All around me, drivers and their crews
prepare for the coming race. Shouting voices and charging feet surge all around
me as I tear through the teeming masses. I have to find Harrison and Enzo, and
tell them what I suspect. If the people trying to clear the path for Marques’
victory have something diabolical planned for today’s race, I have to make sure
that my boys are in the know.

In my haste, I didn’t bother getting a lay of the land
before I arrived here. It occurs to me, as I stop to catch my breath, that I
have no idea where the Ferrelli and McClain camps are within this labyrinth.
The race announcer’s voice crackles over the PA system, telling us all that
there are only fifteen minutes left until race time. My heart begins to sink—am
I too late?

I’m just about to give in to failure when I realize where it
is that my feet have come to a stop. Looking up, I find myself surrounded by
pit crew members wearing the Spanish team’s colors. The trailer standing right
beside me is none other than Rafael Marques’.

Terror and excitement scorch along my nerves as I march
toward Marques’ trailer. This isn’t at all what I’d planned to do, but I can’t
stop myself. I’m going to march into that trailer and give Marques a piece of
my mind. I’m going to tell him what I suspect, that I know he’s got something
to do with everything that’s happened to me, my friends, and my family. What
I’m going to do once I’ve dropped my little truth bomb, I still don’t know.
I’ll just have to figure this one out as I go.

I storm up the trailer steps, adrenaline searing through my
every vein. What I’m about to do is against so many rules and protocols that
I’d never be able to count them, but I just can’t bring myself to give a shit.
I reach for the door handle, prepared to wrench it open, but I only grab air as
it swings wide before me.

“You?” I breathe, staggering over the threshold of the
trailer.

The sneering punk kid who ratted me and Harrison out to the
world stares at me uncomprehendingly. I take in the sight of him, standing in
Marques’ trailer as the driver himself lounges within.

“I’m sorry,” the kid scoffs, “Who the hell are you?”

With gritted teeth, I tear the sunglasses off my face and
tug the hat and scarf from my head, letting my curls loose. Recognition washes
over the faces of the men before me, and Rafael Marques leaps to his feet.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he demands.

“What is he doing here?” I counter, nodding at the kid.

“He’s...That’s...” Marques sputters.

“I’m out of here,” the kid mutters, eyes wide with fear. He
tries to scurry around me, but I step firmly in his path.

“If you tell me the truth, I won’t bring you down with this
asshole,” I tell him, “Is Marques the one paying you?”

“You’re damn right he is,” the kid spouts.

“You idiot,” Marques hisses, “What are you doing?”

“Getting out while the getting’s good, boss,” the boy quips,
shooting Marques a smile. “You should know better than to trust a blackmailing
stalker, dude.”

The little paparazzo scurries out of the trailer, and I slam
the door behind him, burying my hands deep in my pockets. I turn my furious
gaze on Marques, only to find him sneering back at me, all panic gone from his
expression. My fingers brush against my phone, hastily pressing a few choice
buttons, but I keep my eyes trained on the driver before me.

“It’s been you this whole time, hasn’t it?” I ask him point
blank.

“Guilty,” he says, shrugging his shoulders, “Can’t blame a
guy for doing his best.”

“Too bad your best would never be good enough,” I shoot
back, “You knew you could never beat Enzo, so you fixed the whole season. ”

“I guess you could say that,” Marques sighs. “My team
wouldn’t take the initiative to make sure I succeeded, so I had to act on my
own. With a few gifted assistants, it was far easier than you might expect.”

“It goes all the way back to the beginning, doesn’t it?” I
ask, “All the way back to Maxwell Naughton?”

“Right-o,” Marques chirps, “That was supposed to be the end
of it, actually. I figured McClain would have some sad little backup driver
come in, and I’d sail into second place, easy. But then, of course, they rolled
out Davies instead.”

“And you saw that he was far too talented for you to ever
touch,” I sneer.

“It was a dirty trick, bringing him in,” Marques fumes, “But
lucky for me, it was a trick that ended up working in my favor, once you spread
your legs for the guy.”

I swallow down my ire and press on. “You sent your punk to
take pictures of us. You threatened us. You showed Enzo those pictures right
before the Moscow Grand Prix so that he’d lose his head and go after Harrison.”

“Yep,” Marques smiles.

“And when you still didn’t finish them off like you meant
to, you exposed us to the public. Me and Harrison, my dad, all of us. Just so
that you could sneak into the top five like a snake in the grass.”

“I didn’t sneak anywhere,” he spits, “I just happen to play
dirtier than the rest of these morons. A man who is willing to do anything in
the name of ambition deserves what he gets.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” I tell him. “but why couldn’t you
stop there? Wasn’t ruining me and Harrison enough? Why did you have to go after
Landers and Rostov?”

“That’s the thing,” Marques tells me, taking a step forward,
“They were just a bonus. My photographer, as it turns out, is also quite the
talented vandal. All he had to do was flash his fake press badge to walk around
as he pleased. Your brother and lover boy’s cars were surprisingly easy to
tamper with. I only meant to slow them down, but that wreck that Rostov and Landers
got into? Absolutely brilliant.”

“Just collateral damage for you, huh?” I say, fighting to
speak around the lump in my throat, “Never mind that they’re both good men,
better than you’ll ever be.”