Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (12 page)

“But my team—” I protest.

“They’ll manage without you, I’m
sure,” Mr. Tanner says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to watch the final race in
Dallas. If your stories check out with the authorities, that is.”

“This is insane,” I say, “I’ve got
nothing to do with the destruction of any F1 cars. What could I possibly stand
to gain from something like that?”

“You've been getting a lot of
press lately,” the tall man points out, “Some people will go to great lengths
for a bit of celebrity.”

I’m too furious to even speak. I
know that if I open mouth, a string of wildly creative curses and swears will
come flooding out, making even more of a mess for me and everyone I care about.
So instead of railing against the ignorant, smug trio of men before me, I turn
on my heel and march out of the office. I tear through the hallways and out the
front door, sucking in deep breaths of air as I stagger into the outdoors once
again. From the track, I can hear the familiar sounds of revving engines,
cheering fans, the fast-talking announcer. Every cell in my body strains toward
the track, but I’m not about to test my luck.

Instead, I whip out my cell and
summon one of Ferrelli’s private cars. I need to hightail it back to the hotel,
scream into a pillow for about a half hour, and then figure out what the hell
is going on here. It kills me to know that I won’t be there to cheer Harrison
and Enzo on, but I’m sure they’ll understand my predicament. As much as it can
possibly be understood, that is.

Watching the Detroit Grand Prix from my hotel room is a
bizarre experience. I switch on the flat screen in my room the moment I get in,
and find that the race is already halfway run. Settling down in front of the
TV, I spot the two cars I care most about in the race out in front of the pack.
Despite today’s strange, uncomfortable turn of events, my spirits are lifted at
once as I see that Enzo and Harrison are vying for first place—and Marques is
nowhere to be seen. Things are playing out perfectly, despite my absence.

“The race got off to a bumpy start this morning,” says the
TV announcer, “As the car of Spanish driver Rafael Marques was found to have
been tampered with sometime late last night.”

“This really has been quite the dramatic season,” says a
second sportscaster, “Of course, Formula One world championships are always
exciting affairs. But we’ve seen more than our fair share of odd and tragic
occurrences this year.”

“That’s right,” says the first voice, “It all started back in
Barcelona, when Maxwell Naughton’s car inexplicably crashed during a routine
preliminary run. Then of course, the ascent of the unknown Harrison Davies as a
frontrunner took us all by surprise. And speaking of Harrison Davies, how about
the epic crash that he and Lorenzo Lazio got into back in Moscow? Rumor has it
that whole kerfuffle started over Lazio’s sister Siena getting romantically
involved with Davies.”

“That was quite the tabloid scandal,” says the second man,
“It’s rather uncharacteristic of F1 to be so muddied with gossip and foul play.
And it hasn’t stopped with a star crossed romance, either. Both Lazio and
Davies’ cars were tampered with during the London Grand Prix, resulting in the
serious injury of drivers Sven Landers and Alexi Rostov. And now this sabotage
of Marques’ car? Is it me, or is this all getting to be a bit too much?”

“So far, the teams themselves have been rather quiet about
what all this scandal will mean going forward,” says the first voice, “But I
wouldn’t be surprised if there was a big shakeup in the rosters of these teams
going forward. We already know that Alfonso Lazio, former driver and current
shareholder of Team Ferrelli, will be stepping down due to a medial situation.”

“So sad, that,” sighs the second announcer, “Alfonso Lazio
is fighting terminal lung cancer even as we speak. There are rumors going
around the F1 community that his daughter Siena Lazio, currently the Public
Relations Director for Team Ferrelli, will be stepping up to take his place.”

“We’ll see if Ferrelli lets that happen, what with all the
drama that’s gone down this year,” replies the first man, “The last thing Team
Ferrelli will want is to let another round of scandal follow it into the
changing of the guard.”

The screen swims before my eyes. I’m unaccountably
devastated by this casual commentary about my life. I know it’s just talk, but
still, that’s my life they’re talking about. Since when did my family, my
future, become everyone’s business? It almost makes me miss the days before I
even came onto Team Ferrelli professionally. Back when I was just the tame
little F1 princess, pure and simple. But I’m far too ambitious, far too driven
to let the backseat be my fate. I deserve to be a leader in this sport. I know
that I could change it for the better. I’m not going to let a few rumors and
unfounded gossip keep me from my dream. That’s not who I am.

I rest my elbows on my knees, leaning toward the flat screen
TV with rapt attention. Lap after lap goes by, with Enzo and Harrison putting
ever more distance between their cars and the rest of the pack. It’s just like
when the tour began. I can almost forget, watching the two incredibly talented
men in my life do their thing, that matters have gone to absolute shit. Not
only is some crazy person trying to do F1 drivers in, someone’s trying to make
it look like I’m involved. But I can’t worry about that now. I know full well
that I have nothing to hide.

As the final quarter of the race begins, Marques begins to
fly out ahead of the pack behind Enzo and Harrison. I feel my fingernails dig
into my palms as he soars on. Looks like his car is in tip top shape, now.

The cameras go into split screen for a moment to capture the
mood of the crowd. One half of the screen is filled with speeding cars, while
the other scans the rapt faces of fans. The image cuts to a view of the McClain
stands, where some familiar faces look on intently. Andy and Cora stand
clasping hands, as do Sara and Shelby. I wonder if my brother’s flame is
feeling as conflicted as I have all along? I observe her face as the camera
zooms in, and I’m astonished by what I see. Gone from her expression is the
snarky smirk I’ve come to know so well. There’s nothing in her eyes but
boundless enthusiasm and, if I’m not mistaken, adoration. And I get the feeling
that it’s not at all for Harrison. Maybe I misjudged her, after all.

Again, the camera jumps, this time to the Ferrelli cheering
section. Our corner looks so empty these days. It’s only Bex and Charlie
holding down the fort since I’ve been kicked out. And their faces look more
worried than anything else. I don’t even want to imagine how livid Gus must be
right now without me at his side. Or how confused Dad must be, seeing me absent
from the crowd. Oh, god...what am I going to tell Dad about all of this? What
if sides with those asshole race officials who seem to think I deserve to have
a scarlet letter slapped on my chest and be shown the door?

“We’re coming into the last few laps here, folks,” says the
sportscaster, dragging my mind back onto the race, “It looks like Enzo Lazio
and Harrison Davies are neck and neck.”

“But edging up behind them is none other than Rafael
Marques,” says the second announcer, “It seems that his strategy this race has
been to conserve speed, while Lazio and Davies have been going full speed ahead
since the beginning of the race.”

“Damn!” I mutter, slamming my fist into the couch.

Marques is, indeed, inching up with every passing second. By
the penultimate lap, he’s nearly on top of my boys. If they hadn’t spent the entire
race trying to edge in past each other, maybe they’d have enough power to keep
ahead of Marques now. But he’s not going to give them a break, not now. I shove
my hands through my hair as the three cars gather into a speeding clump, each
waiting for an opportunity to break ahead. 

As they jet into the final lap, I spring to my feet, pacing
fitfully before the TV screen. At this stage in the race, anything could
happen. And any upset could be a game changer. Enzo hangs onto the tiniest of
leads as the last lap begins. The three leading cars soar around the course in
a tight pack, and are halfway around when Harrison suddenly swerves away from
the tight formation and lays on the speed. He jets ahead of Enzo, riding some
supply of momentum that’s come from seemingly out of nowhere. Enzo swings away
just a hair, startled by the sudden change. But in the brief window of that
opening, Marques takes off after Harrison. In one long, dragged out moment, the
three cars race over the finish line: Harrison in first, Marques in second, and
Enzo in third.

There are too many emotions warring through my mind to sort
through. I’m elated for Harrison, furious with Marques, and disappointed for
Enzo, all at once. This sort of pyrotechnic emotional response can’t possibly
do a body any good. I feel lightheaded, starting at the screen, trying to make
sense of this outcome. 

“Looks like it’s all going to come down to the final race in
Dallas,” says the announcer, “Despite Enzo Lazio’s early lead in this tour, extenuating
circumstances have intervened to even out the playing field. The world
championship title is ripe for the taking, now. Whoever wins the Dallas Grand
Prix—Lazio, Davies, or Marques—will become the next world champion.”

“The McClain camp must be feeling pretty good right about
now,” says the second announcer, “Harrison Davies pulled quite the draft maneuver
on Enzo Lazio right there at the end. For most of the race, it seemed like they
were almost racing as a team, stonewalling the rest of the drivers. But I suppose
that first place finish was just too tempting for Davies to pass up. I don’t
blame the guy. He’s fighting against the jilted reputation of his old man,
after all. He must really be itching to prove himself in his debut season.”

“Enzo Lazio’s probably kicking himself right about now,” the
first announcer chuckles, “But just look at Marques’ cheering section! That is
what I like to call a crowd going wild. He may not have placed first, but all
things considered, Marques is today’s true winner.”

I grit my teeth as the camera focuses on Marques, leaping
out of his car with arms upraised. You’d think they’d just announced him leader
of the free world, from the way he’s carrying on. His team and posse swarm
around him, and the driver all but disappears in a jumble of leaping
supporters. I keep my eyes glued to the screen as Marques grins widely up at
the crowd. In the background, I see Harrison and Enzo climbing out of their own
rides, McClain and Ferrelli surging out to meet them. So distracted am I by the
somber look on my brother’s face that I almost don’t notice that another oddly
familiar visage has graced the screen.

Beside Rafael Marques, a woman appears. I cock my head to
the side, trying to place her. I swear, I’ve seen her before, if only I could
figure out where. She raises her arms, throwing them around Marques’ shoulders.
Her draping sleeves slide down, exposing her biceps—and the sleeves of tattoos
that have been inked there. I know those tattoos, I know that woman! She was
the bartender from that swanky joint Bex and I visited the other night, the
night Marques and I had it out. She was right there when our spat went down,
when I ended up punching Marques in the face. What the hell is she doing out
there now? Did Marques really pick up the bartender after our fight?

Or did he plant her behind the bar in the first place?

I think back to that damning video the race officials showed
me this morning. Remembering the angle of the camera, the vantage point, the
shot...it absolutely follows that the video was recorded from behind the bar. A
wave of nausea sweeps through me, bringing me heavily back down onto the couch.
Rafael Marques had some woman train a camera on our conversation. He set me up.
What, did he trail me and Bex to the bar as well? Make sure that we’d
conveniently run into each other so he could bait me into saying a bunch of
misleading bullshit? Why the hell would he do that? 

My heart slams against my ribcage as my iPhone begins to
ring. Most of the people in my circle are still up there on the TV screen,
celebrating and carrying on after the Grand Prix. Who’s calling me now? I
rummage through my purse and snatch up my cell. I let out a little cry as I see
that the number on the screen belongs to my dad. He’s probably calling to see
why the hell I wasn’t at the Grand Prix, supporting Enzo. Tentatively, I take
the call.

“Hi Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful. “How are
you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” he croaks, “What the hell is going on
over there?”

“I know,” I say hurriedly, not wanting him to waste his
energy by getting upset, “I thought Enzo had it in the bag too. But you never
can tell—”

“I’m not talking about your brother,” Dad cuts me off, “I’m
talking about you.”

“Me?”

“Gus called. Said that you got hauled off by some race officials
this morning. Something about Rafael Marques’ car?”

“Don’t believe a word you hear,” I tell my father, “It was a
bunch of noise, nothing more. Dad, I think Marques is trying to frame me for
whatever happened to his car this morning.”

“Siena...”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Dad says, his voice giving back to a
terrible hacking cough for a long moment, “But I don’t understand...” he goes
on.

“That makes two of us,” I sigh. “I can’t wrap my head around
everything that’s been going on.”

“Well, then you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell
you,” Dad says tentatively, “Siena, the Ferrelli owners got in touch with me
yesterday. I told them that I mean to leave you my shares once I’m gone.”

“What did they say?” I ask.

“They’re...reluctant,” Dad tells me, “In fact they, uh,
tried to talk me out of it.”

“What? Why?” I exclaim, “What right do they have to tell you
what you should do with your shares, Dad?”

“It’s their team too, Siena,” Dad says, “And they’re all
feeling a bit skittish, what with all the...publicity we’ve been getting during
this tournament.”

“All the gossip, you mean?” I ask.

“All the gossip,” Dad allows, “It’s not good for the team,
Siena, not good for the brand. I know you never meant any harm, getting
involved with Davies, but can you blame the owners for wanting to distance
themselves from the rumor mill? Sex scandals and family feuds are not what F1
is all about, it's not what Ferrelli is about.”