Take Me Series (COMPLETE BOX SET)

by Masters, Colleen

  “According to the numbers, Rafael Marques is pulling ahead as the front runner of this tournament,” the young man insists.

  “Marques?” my dad scoffs, “That will be the day.”

  “If we could move on,” I say quickly, “There are a few more things we’d like to address. My father’s illness, which was just now so callously mentioned, is real. Alfonso Lazio has been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and will not be seeking treatment.”

  I feel a knot building in my throat, and am suddenly unable to continue. I thought, by now, that I’d be beyond choking up, but I can’t help it.

  “It’s OK, Siena,” Dad says, taking my hand. “I can speak for myself.” He turns back to the press of reporters and says, “It’s true. My cancer is terminal. I don’t expect to see many days beyond this current championship season. But I do hope that I can continue to watch my son race from afar. I won’t be traveling with the team anymore—”

  “Then who’s going to keep an eye on your daughter while she screws whoever she wants?” shoots the reporter in the tacky shades.

  “Enzo, no!” I screech, as my brother launches himself into the crowd.

  He charges at the man with his fist cocked and slugs the guy across the face. A circle clears around them as Harrison rushes to restrain my brother. The reporter picks himself up off the ground as Harrison approaches, his broken sunglasses falling away. As he turns his face toward us, a rush a fury passes through me. I’ve seen this punk ass kid before, only last time he was wearing a stolen lab coat instead of trashy shades.

  “You?” Harrison says, gaping at the kid.

  “I’ll sue for this,” the little rat whines, “I’ll bleed you all dry. You, Enzo, even your slutty little girlfriend.”

  “Shit, shit, shit...” I groan, as Harrison catches the kid under the chin with a sharp uppercut. Enzo and Harrison fall on top of him ruthlessly, and I’m almost worried for the kid’s safety. Or I would be, if he wasn’t trying to singlehandedly ruin my life.

  Charlie, Gus, and the rest of Team Ferrelli stream out of the house and pull the two drivers off the snot nosed kid. We’re all herded back inside, but not before the bruised blackmailer can shoot me a maniacal wink. If the doors didn’t slam behind me, I might have gone in for a good punch myself. God knows, the little jerk would have deserved it.

  For a moment, there is nothing but silence in the foyer. We stand and look at each other, all of us at a loss. The press screams furiously outside as we all regain what composure we can.

  “I suppose that could have gone better,” my mother quips.

  “That little fucking wanker,” Harrison pants, “That ratty little fake reporter. He’s the one who’s been blackmailing me and Siena! I bet you anything he was behind that article, too!”

  “Whoever is out to get us is using that kid as a vessel,” I insist.

  “Be that as it may,” Dad says, “Beating the shit out of him was not exactly a good move, boys. How could you do a thing like that?”

  “You heard what he called Siena and Shelby,” Enzo growls, “He deserved every bit of it.”

  “You were just being a protective big brother,” Shelby says, scooting up to Enzo’s side.

  “Well. We tried to go the diplomatic route,” Dad sighs, “But I’m pretty sure there won’t be any coming back from this one. All you boys can do is run your last three races and do your best. At this point, popularity isn’t going to help you any. You just need to put everything you’ve got into winning, now. And hope you don't get sued.”

  “What, are you rooting for him now, too?” Enzo asks my dad, nodding his head at Harrison, trying to hide his hurt.

  “I’m just hoping that the two of you manage not to kill each other,” my dad replies.

  “I won’t go out of my way to again,” Enzo spits, “He’s not worth it. I’ll play the amenable brother in front of the cameras, but I hope you all know that I don’t approve of this bullshit. Not one bit.”

  “How can you be such a hypocrite?” I ask, nodding toward Shelby.

  “Oh, this has moved way past a Ferrelli versus McClain thing,” Enzo tells me, “I just don’t like the big, stinking wild dog that you insist on trying to domesticate.”

  “So much for doing your part for the team,” Harrison scoffs.

  “We’re not on the same team,” Enzo spits, “And we never will be, Davies.”

  “Fine. That’ll give me more room to beat you fair and square, at least,” Harrison shoots back.

  “Bring it, lover boy!” Enzo shouts, storming away.

  Harrison stomps off in the opposite direction, and most the team follows suit. Only me, my parents, Gus, Charlie, and Bex remain behind.

  “Well, what do we do now?” Charlie asks.

  “They’re just never going to get along,” Bex says.

  “No,” Gus says, “Maybe not. But we can’t worry about that right now. We need to get back to London, pronto. These boys have a Grand Prix to run.”

  “You take care of Enzo,” Dad says to Gus.

  “We’ll miss having you, it won't be the same,” Gus replies, slapping Dad gently on the back.

  “He’s all mine now, Gus,” Mom smiles sadly, “So keep your paws off.”

  The remaining assembly disperses to pack up, leaving me alone in the foyer once again. We were so close to solving this thing, but I can’t get a hold of it, no matter how hard I try. No time to despair now, though. It’s back to London we go.

  Chapter Six

  Back To Britain

  The last few days have been such a whirlwind that I hardly even mind the hustle back to London. We travel back as a group, much to Enzo and Harrison’s chagrin. They’re both a bit jumpy, going into this Grand Prix. After the Moscow wreck, both of their cars had to be scraped off the track and discarded. They’re racing in totally new vehicles today, which is a big risk to undertake. But what other choice do they have? They’re drivers. And one way or another, they’re going to find a way to drive.

  Both my brother and Harrison are tentative throughout the preliminary and qualifying races. They’re so careful in their new vehicles that a handful of drivers manage to surpass them, scoring the coveted starting positions for the upcoming race. I’m none too thrilled when Rafael Marques secures pole position for the first time this season. With the way things have been going recently, the press might be right. It’s no longer inconceivable that Marques might steal the tournament from Enzo and Harrison.

  The day of the London Grand Prix dawns foggy and damp. It rained during the night, and the track is just slick enough to be worrisome. All the teams hurry to change their tyres and adjust their strategies. This is not the time to be working with a new vehicle, like Enzo and Harrison are. But they head off like the warriors they are. Despite Enzo’s protests, I insist on giving him my good luck kiss. I still contend that it counts for something, even if Harrison gets a very different kind of kiss to bring along onto the track.

  I’m pacing up and down in the pit, waiting for the race to begin. My nerves are already frayed from the press conference gone awry yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice headlines on the blogs this morning like, “Ferrelli and McClain All Stars Out for Blood” and “Harrison Davies and Siena Lazio: What Are They Still Hiding?”. And it’s not only the press that has me jumpy. Harrison and Enzo are far behind their usual starting positions, making their chances at success even more dicey. But I suppose it wouldn’t be F1 if it felt safe and easy. As nerve-wracking as this race promises to be, it’s also more than a little bit exciting.

  The Ferrelli pit feels so empty without my dad there. I know that he’s watching from Italy while my mom reads and refuses to look at the TV. The image of them together makes me happy, but I feel sort of lost without Dad by my side. He taught me everything I know about F1. Flying solo feels so lonely, after being on his team. But a rational voice inside my head tells me that I need to get used to soldiering on without him, as painful of an idea as that may be. It’s what he woul
d want.

  “Ready?” Gus shouts over the humming engines beyond the pit.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell him, smiling gamely.

  The pit crew hurries all around me, preparing for any eventuality, as the announcer informs the audience that the race is about to begin. I move to find the best view of the track I can manage. It’s so strange to see Harrison and Enzo lost in the middle of the pack. I scowl at Marques’s car, idling in pole position. If the Moscow wreck hadn’t gone down, there’s no way he’d be there now.

  “Here we go,” Gus says, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

  And just like that, the green flag comes down. The crowd goes wild and the drivers take off onto the track, their engines screaming up into the gray sky. I wait for the pack to thin out, trying to catch a glimpse of Harrison and Enzo. But when I finally do locate those familiar red and green cars, my stomach ties itself into knots.

  They’re falling even further behind.

  I understand being cautious, especially with the weather conditions being subpar, but this is insane. With every passing second, my boys are passed by more and more of their competitors. It’s as though their tyres are melting into the asphalt or something. Gus flies into action, leaving me alone to stare hopelessly out onto the track. What the hell is going on out there, and how are we going to fix it in time to salvage this race?

  My boys manage, after the first lap, to inch up a bit in the ranking. But they’re still at the very back of the pack, struggling to keep out of dead-last place. The crowd murmurs, concerned and surprised. This sort of thing isn’t normal by any means. The third lap hasn’t even concluded when Enzo is forced to come back to the pit—an unprecedented move. The emerald green racer pulls into the pit, and Enzo furiously rips his helmet off his head. His eyes are on fire with anger and frustration, and I know enough to keep my distance. He doesn’t need me telling him what to do right now.

  “What the fuck is the matter with this car?” my brother roars. Beyond him, I watch as Harrison pulls into the McClain pit as well, equally undone by his stunted vehicle.

  “It was running fine in the preliminaries,” Gus says, “I don’t know what’s happened. But we’re going to fix it. I promise you.”

  “Do whatever you have to do, and do it fast!” Enzo shouts slamming his hands against the steering wheel.

  The pit crew toils away, looking for the source of the problem. Finally, a commotion goes up on the far side of the car, and Gus hurries around to see what’s wrong. I hold my breath as the crew deliberates over the vehicle, solemn looks on their faces.

  “What?” I demand, “Gus, what is it?”

  “Someone’s tampered with it,” Gus says grimly, “I don’t know how, I don’t know—”

  “Well, what does that mean?” Enzo shouts, “How are you going to fix it?”

  “It’s a small problem, but a dangerous one,” Gus says, “By the time we have it fully fixed, the race could already be over.”

  “What?!” Enzo and I shout in unison.

  “Can you jerry rig it in the meantime?” Enzo demands.

  “It might not be safe...” Gus says anxiously.

  “I don’t give a damn about safe!” Enzo cries, “Just get me back in there!”

  I stand back as the pit crew sets to work, doing their best to fix whatever problem’s arisen overnight. My head is spinning with possibilities. Up until now, my suspicion that someone’s been trying to sabotage Enzo and Harrison has been hypothetical. Pure conjecture. But after today, I don’t think anyone can honestly believe that these are just coincidences anymore. Enzo receives those incriminating pictures of me and Harrison the day of the race, and now this? Someone is out to get my brother and the man I love. And I don’t know how to stomach that. I don’t think that I can.

  Gus slaps the side of Enzo’s car, signaling that he’s ready to get back in the race. My brother takes off just seconds after Harrison does. I guess the McClain pit crew worked their own magic, too. I wrap my arms around my waist as I watch them roar back into the fray. Their speeds are better, their trajectories smoother. Maybe there’s hope for them yet.

  “Think it’ll hold up?” I ask Gus.

  “I hope so,” he says, his brow furrowed, “It wasn’t a catastrophic mess in the undercarriage, but that sort of thing doesn’t happen by chance. Especially not to two drivers at once. I can’t believe someone would so something like that.”

  Unfortunately, I can. Jealousy and competition can be very destructive, especially when they grip the wrong person. I send as much positive energy toward my brother and Harrison as I possibly can and force deep breaths into my lungs. It’s going to be a long race, after all.

  Things really do begin to look up after the boys’ first pit stop. With every lap, it seems as though they’re gaining more control. By the time they’ve reached the last legs of the race, they’re back up where they belong. Rostov, Landers, and Marques hold onto the top three spots, but Harrison and Enzo gain on them with every second. Even with the race’s shoddy start, it lifts my heart to see Enzo and Harrison not trying to screw each other on the track today. I suppose they both have bigger things to worry about than edging in over each other. As long as they both finish the Grand Prix safe and sound, I’ll personally be the happiest camper in Britain.

  “Almost there,” I whisper, as they begin the penultimate lap. “Stay with it, boys. You’re doing great.” I know they can’t hear me, but I can't help but cheer them on from the pit.

  The order holds steady into the final lap. Marques holds first, Rostov second, Landers third. Enzo and Harrison are neck and neck after them. The five drivers soar along in a tight pack, leaving no room for change. But by some magic, the formation shifts. Rostov and Landers drift off toward the outside track, leaving Enzo and Harrison enough room to sneak up. They inch up toward Marques, squaring off right behind him. The Spanish driver seems to panic at their close proximity, and weaves just a breath away from the inside track. In a rush of drift momentum, Enzo and Harrison pull up to either side of Marques—the three of them form a straight line across the track, each gunning for first.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, my words lost in the chaos of the pit, “They might just pull this off...”

  “Don’t jinx it,” Gus warns, appearing suddenly at my side.

  I hold my breath as the trio bears down on the finish line, praying to every god who might be listening that one of my boys comes out on top. Time loses any meaning as they soar along toward the race’s conclusion. It looks like they’re flying a foot above the track...

  Until all at once, Enzo and Harrison’s momentum sputters.

  The red and green racers screech to a halt as if they’ve run over quick sand. Marques speeds on ahead over the finish line as my boys come to total stops. I can practically feel their outrage ripple out over the track. What the hell just happened to their cars? I’m just about to grill Gus about what possibly could have happened, but in the split second I turn away, everything changes out on the track.

  Landers veers out of the way, trying to avoid slamming into Enzo and Harrison’s stalled cars head on. But his sudden jerking maneuver gets away from him, and the nose of his car catches Rostov’s head on. The two cars go spinning away toward the wall, turning end over end until they smash against the concrete, crumpling into smoking heaps of rubble.

  The crowd erupts into a panic as flames begin to engulf the twisted wrecks of Rostov and Landers racers. The Ferrelli and McClain emergency workers rush onto the track after Enzo and Harrison, pulling them out of their cars and away from the smoldering jumble of auto parts encasing Rostov and Landers. I watch as my brother and Harrison hesitate, reluctant to leave without helping their friends and fellow racers. But as the rest of the drivers speed around the discarded cars, my boys finally give in and let themselves be led away.

  I dash to the edge of the pit, watching as ambulances rush toward the wrecked cars of Landers and Rostov. I’ve gotten to know these two drivers
so well over the years. They’ve been Enzo’s closest friends and competitors, best friends on their own and damn fine drivers. Please, I pray, please let them be OK...

  But my silent prayers trail off as black, oily smoke clouds the track. This wreck is far more serious than the tangle Enzo and Harrison got into in Moscow. This is the kind of wreck that not everyone walks away from. I gasp as bright orange flames swell up to engulf the two cars. The sight is like something out of a nightmare.

  “Siena,” I hear Enzo’s ragged voice whisper.

  I whip around to see my brother standing beside me, his eyes bewildered and full of sorrow. In an instant, our feud is forgotten. I throw my arms around his shoulders, a ragged sob ripping out of my throat. He closes his arms around me, wordless with shock. We hold each other as the world spins around us, and I feel for the first time in so long like Enzo’s little sister again. As much as we may fight and disagree, this man is still my brother. I’d go to the ends of the earth and back for him, gladly.

  “I’m so sorry,” I weep, my shoulders shaking in my brother’s arms, “Enzo, I’m so—”

  “Me too,” he mutters, hugging me tighter, “Siena, can you ever forgive—?”

  But a deafening sound rips our attention back toward the track. Something’s exploded in the heart of the wreck, sending a smoldering fireball up into the foggy sky. Every person in attendance is paralyzed in the face of such destruction. The only people that move a muscle are the rescue workers, doing their best to tame the fire and pluck the drivers out of their cars. But as the seconds crawl by, the solemn truth settles in. There’s very little chance that Rostov or Landers will survive this wreck.

  I bury my face against Enzo’s chest as the two fallen racers are finally pulled from their cars. I only catch a fleeting glimpse of them—their charred jumpsuits barely even recognizable, their faces even further damaged. I’m filled with grief for my friends, of course, but an equal part of me is so relieved that Enzo and Harrison escaped this horrible wreck. How can I be so devastated and elated all at once?