Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (9 page)

I stall for the entire week leading up to the penultimate
Grand Prix. Though I know it’s my task to warn Marques to take precautions
against whoever’s been messing with the F1 hot shots, I’m reluctant to be alone
with that man. There’s something about him that I’ve never trusted, something
that’s always seemed too reckless and forceful for my liking. I’ll get around
to talking to him, for sure. He’s a driver, after all, and we have to look out
for each other in this crazy sport. I just happen to keep finding things to
occupy my mind that are conveniently higher up on my list of priorities than
speaking with that repugnant man.

The most important thing to keep track of this week is the
reconstruction of Harrison’s and Enzo’s cars. Both cars had to be completely
taken apart after the fiasco in London. Race officials, along with the police,
tried to pinpoint what exactly happened to the cars. But no dice. There were no
prints, no clues, nothing to go off of. Whoever messed with those two formula
cars knew exactly what they were doing. This fact only makes everyone all the
more uneasy. No one knows F1 cars the way F1 professionals do. That means
chances are good that someone within the sport has been terrorizing top
drivers. And the thought of an inside job is too reprehensible to dwell on for
long.

Harrison and Enzo practically live in their cars for the
entire week leading up to the Detroit Grand Prix. They don’t want to take any
chances this time around. Hell, neither of them can afford to fall any further
in the rankings. Right now, the margins are so slim between Harrison, Enzo, and
Marques’ points that any one of them could walk away with the championship.

With my boys so invested in their training, I’m left to my
own devices for most of the week. I know that having time off from my work life
and my relationship is supposed to be freeing or something, but I find myself
losing my mind when it’s not occupied with a PR crisis or Harrison Davies. The
sad truth of the London wreck is that Landers and Rostov’s accident has taken
the publicity heat off me and Harrison for a spell. I hate to think of it that
way, but it’s true. No one has much time to care who I’m sleeping with and why
when two of the sport’s darlings are still unconscious in the hospital.

On the Thursday before the Grand Prix, I find myself pacing
my hotel room once more, frantic and full of energy. There are so many things
going on in my life right now that I have no control over. The Detroit Grand
Prix, the media fiasco that could rev up again any second, my father’s failing
health, the still-simmering hatred between Harrison and Enzo...I just wish that
I could do anything to get control of my situation. I feel helpless and
frustrated, stuck here on my own. I just want to be of use to somebody.

I jump a foot in the air as someone knocks tentatively at my
door. With Enzo and Harrison wrapped up training, who could possibly want to
see me?

“Come in,” I call, crossing my arms across my chest.

The door swings slowly open, and a blonde-haired pixie peeks
into the room.

“Bex!” I cry, holding my arms open to my best friend, “God,
you’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“You know I’ve been right here for the past few weeks?” she
laughs, crossing the room and wrapping me up in a hug.

“I know. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied,” I say, “Between
that article, and my dad, and the wreck of course...”

“You never have to apologize to me,” Bex smiles, “That’s
what friends are for, right?”

“Right,” I sigh.

“Besides, I haven’t exactly been so available myself,” she
says, “Charlie and I have been spending every waking minute together.”

“You’re not sick of him, are you?” I ask.

“On the contrary,” she laughs, “I, uh...I’m really coming to
care about him, Siena.”

“That’s wonderful!” I exclaim, “God, at least one of us gets
to have a normal relationship.” I backpedal as her smile falls a hair. “I’m
sorry, I didn’t mean to make everything all about me, again.”

“No, it’s OK. You’ve got a lot going on right now,” Bex
says, “I was just, um, going to ask for a little advice. A little romantic
advice, I guess.”

“Fire away,” I tell her, sitting down on my bed.

“OK,” she says, sitting cross-legged beside me, “Well, I
know it’s only been a couple of months, but me and Charlie have really been
hitting it off.”

“I can tell,” I say.

“Right. And...I guess...The season is going to be over in a
few weeks, and I’m just not really sure if I should be worried or not.”

“Worried?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, “I mean, these things seem pretty intense.
There’s risk, and drama, and victory—all the biggest ideas and feelings in the
world. I guess I’m just a little worried that things won’t be the same, once
we’re just out in the normal world again. How can you be sure that a
relationship is going to hold up without all this excitement?”

I stare at Bex, my heart sinking with her every word. To be
honest, I’ve never thought about it that way. Never once have I paused to
consider what might happen to me and Harrison in a few weeks’ time, when this wild
ride comes to a stop. What are we supposed to do until the next championship season
rolls around, order pizza and watch Netflix like normal couples? Somehow, I
have a little trouble picturing that.

“Siena?” Bex prompts, “What do you think?”

“I think...if you’ve really got a solid thing, then it won’t
matter that the tour is over,” I say, as much to her as to myself. “Just trust
that the two of you will know what to do with each other back in the real
world. I’m sure the rest will take care of itself.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Bex sighs, “At least Charlie’s
just a devoted fan of Team Ferrelli. It’s not like his entire life is wrapped
up in racing. I don’t know what I’d do if I thought he was more interested in
racing than he was in me...Oh, shit,” Bex mutters, seeing the look on my face,
“I wasn’t talking about you and...I’m sorry, Siena. That was dumb.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, feigning nonchalance, “Hell,
I was raised by a couple guys who care more about this sport than anything else
in the world. And I guess I turned out OK, right?”

“Better than OK, I’d say,” Bex smiles. “Hey, what are you
doing right now?”

“Stewing in my own anxiety,” I say dryly.

“Well, do you feel like taking a break?” Bex asks, “It’s
happy hour, after all. I know there are a couple of great bars downtown that we
could hit up, if you feel like it.”

“Why does it feel like forever since we went out together?”
I ask, “Man, remember how easy it was at the beginning of the year?”

“It was like another lifetime,” Bex sighs, affecting an
overly dramatic tone, “Oh, to be young again!”

“Shut up,” I laugh, tossing a pillow her way, “I’m just
saying. Things have gotten so complicated since Barcelona.”

“Well, that’s life isn’t it? When it rains it pours. All you
can do is keep a good umbrella around and invest in some waterproof mascara.”

“Words to live by,” I laugh.

“Come on. Put on something besides jeans and a tee shirt for
once and come out with me,” Bex insists, “I’ll even leave Charlie here, I
promise.”

“OK,” I agree, “But only because you’re so darn cute.”

It feels just like old times as Bex and I doll ourselves up
together. We fall back so easily into our college dynamic any time we’re about
to head out on the town. I may be the one with my picture in the tabloids for
my illicit affair, but Bex will always be better versed in the ways of the
heart...more precisely, the hearts of men. But these days, we’re both wading
further into the uncharted territory of seriously falling for the people we’re
with. It’s times like these where a carefree night out is just what the doctor
ordered.

Bex digs through my closet and extracts a red hot little
number for my appraisal. It’s a risky little dress, short and low cut at once.

“Where’s the other half of it?” I ask.

“Just put it on,” she says, tossing the dress my way.

I obey, as I always do, and complete the look with a pair of
nude pumps and some smoky eye. I haven’t been dressed up for weeks, and I have
to admit it feels good to look like a person. Bex throws on a classic LBD and
some bright red lipstick, and we’re off to have some fun. I let my best friend
lead the way, and try my hardest not to think of Harrison, hard at work
learning the ins and outs of his new and improved car. I’m not helping anyone
by moping around my hotel room. I may as well have a little fun where I can get
it.

* * *

The night is young when Bex and I stroll into the bar. The
modestly-sized establishment is cooler than I expected. Deliciously trashy pop
plays overhead as sleekly clad bodies move around the narrow space. I raise my
eyes at Bex in the low light.

“What is this, a speakeasy or something?” I ask.

“I’ve heard good things about it,” she replies, “It’s better
than some beer and hot wings sports bar, right?”

“I’m not sure about that...” I say, looking around the
swanky room, “I feel sort of out of place here.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Bex says, “You’ve just gotten too used to
race day clothes, lately. Or Harrison’s tee shirts, rather.”

“God, I feel like one of those pathetic girlfriends who gets
lonely every time she goes out without her guy,” I groan, pushing back my mess
of curls.

“Me too,” Bex admits, “But we must meet our dilemma head
on!”

She moves away from me to the bar to get us some drinks, and
I sink down onto the nearest stool. Not a second goes by before a shot
materializes in front of me. I look up at the bartender, surprised.

“I don’t think that’s for me,” I tell her. Bex knows that my
drink is a margarita.

“Oh, it’s for you,” the tatted-up barkeep tells me. “Looks
like you’ve got a not-so-secret admirer down there.”

I follow her eyes and spot a man at the other end of the bar
raising a shot glass to me. In the dim lighting, I don’t recognize him for a
moment. But as he flashes me a grin, his face comes into focus. I feel my mouth
twist in annoyance as I see that it’s Rafael Marques sitting there. “Oh god...”
I mutter, as he strides down the bar toward me.

“Don’t you look as fine as ever tonight?” he purrs, taking a
seat next to me.

“I’m saving that seat for someone,” I say shortly.

“I think you’re lying,” he sniffs, “I think you came here
alone, in search of me. Looks like it’s your lucky day. But you didn’t have to
sit here, baiting me in that sexy red dress. You could have just come and said
hello. I don't bite, you know.”

“I’m sorry, but does this little tactic
ever
work on
women?” I snap.

“All the time,” he winks.

I roll my eyes at him, exasperated by his unwarranted
cockiness as ever. But maybe this little rendezvous is a blessing in disguise.
I said I’d talk to the guy, after all.

“Listen, Rafael. There’s something I need to talk to you
about.”

“Really?” he says, leaning in close to me, “I bet I can
guess what it is.”

“I seriously doubt that,” I tell him, “It’s about the Grand
Prix this weekend.”

“You’re wondering whether you can come cheer me on from my
pit? I don’t blame you. I’d want to back a winner, if I were in your position.”

“It seems like someone is going after drivers as they rise
in the ranks,” I say, ignoring his arrogant remarks, “Enzo and Harrison wanted
me to warn you to be on the lookout.”

“I see...” Marques says. For the first time, I see a touch
of seriousness come into his eyes, “That’s...kind of heavy, isn’t it?”

“It’s just a feeling they have. A feeling we all have.
Between the wrecks, and the personal drama, it seems like someone is trying to
manipulate the standings. None of us are too fond of your ego, but we’re all F1
professionals, in the end. So we just wanted to make sure that you were taking
measures to protect yourself.”

“Like, what kind of measures?” Rafael asks.

“I don’t know. Keeping extra security on around your car.
Getting your vehicle thoroughly checked out right before the race. That kind of
thing.”

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

“In so many words,” I tell him.

“Well, what are their words, exactly?” Marques presses.

I take a deep breath, swallowing my frustration. Does this
guy really need me to spell it out for him?

“We all think it would be wise of you to watch your back,” I
tell him, “Someone has been going after the more talented drivers in this
tournament, and you might not be safe. And it seems like whoever’s behind the
attacks so far isn’t afraid to play dirty. If you keep doing well, you’re going
to get what they think is coming to you. We’re afraid that someone is going to
hurt you...Why the hell are you smiling like that?”