“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 is punctuated only by the sound of my heart breaking into a thousand scattered pieces.
Chapter Sixteen
Black Listed
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 may 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.
Chapter Seventeen
Race Day
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.
“It 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?
Take Me Series (COMPLETE BOX SET) Page 45
