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

by Masters, Colleen

  “What do you think it will be like?” I ask him.

  “What’s that?” he replies, walking around the bed to where I’m sitting.

  “Life after the tour,” I tell him, “Will I still be exciting enough for you, once all of this is over?”

  “Siena,” Harrison laughs, kneeling before me on the carpet, “You were in the room just now, weren’t you? You’re about all the excitement I can take.”

  “OK,” I smile, “Just making sure.”

  “Don’t start worrying about that now,” he tells me, “We’ve still got quite the shit storm to weather before we get to start thinking about who will wash and who will dry the dishes.”

  “Moving in together, are we?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I...uh...may have assumed...” Harrison mutters.

  I take his face in my hands and kiss him deeply. I know in my heart they’ll be a life for us together after this final race is through, but it’s so hard to see now. Having him believe it too means everything to me. I don’t know how we’re going to get out from under the world of trouble we’ve landed in, but if both of us wish for it hard enough, maybe that will do the trick.

  “I’ve always preferred drying to washing,” I tell him.

  “Now who’s trying to domesticate whom?” he laughs.

  “Fine,” I sigh, “Cross that bridge when we get there.”

  With one last kiss, I let Harrison go off to pack his things while I do the same. I gather my bags and head down to the hotel lobby, where my team is already clustered and waiting for me. Bex catches my ear as I approach the group.

  “Everything OK?” she asks.

  “It will be,” I tell her.

  “Let’s get a move on, folks,” Gus says, “We’ve got to get to Dallas in a jiffy, get our boy a little extra time on the track before the last big shebang.”

  We move as a pack out into the warm sunlight, made all the warmer by the dozens of flashbulbs that spark and sear before our eyes. Enzo and I trade a glance and don matching elated smiles. God knows, we’re old pros at this by now. We make our way through the gathering crowds, trying to dodge as many questions as possible as we head for the fleet of Ferrelli town cars. But these reporters are of the super-persistent variety, it would seem. As calmly as I can, I turn to face the onslaught of questions with Enzo by my side.

  “Enzo, are you disappointed in the outcome of the race?” a reporter cries.

  “Disappointed?” Enzo replies smoothly, “Third place is a damn decent place to finish. I’m very pleased with my performance here today. And I look forward to racing my best yet in Dallas in a few days’ time.”

  “But you’ve fallen from grace since the first days of this championship,” another reporter says, “Are you losing your touch as you go along?”

  “You can’t win them all,” Enzo reiterates, “What fun would it be if I just came in first every time? No one would bother to watch the races!”

  “Has something been distracting you these past few weeks?” someone asks, “Your father’s condition, the revelation of your sister’s affair with Harrison Davies?”

  “My sister’s private life is her own business,” Enzo says shortly.

  “But all that ugly business with the press conference that ended with you punching a member of the press—”

  “That man had the audacity to insult a member of my family in a threatening manner on my property. I was well within my rights—”

  “But you’ve moved on from Harrison to Rafael Marques now, haven’t you Siena?” someone asks.

  “That is absolutely untrue,” I say decisively.

  “But the picture—”

  “A misleading photograph has been circulating, yes,” I allow, “But it is just that: misleading. Far from the truth. The truth is that I barely know Rafael Marques and have never had anything approaching a romantic encounter with him. And furthermore, it’s very true that Harrison Davies and I are in love. Exclusive. And that’s all I have to say on that matter.”

  But of course, the “l” word sets the entire crowd of reporters into an uproar. Enzo stares blankly at me as we charge through the crowd and into the back of a waiting town car. We take off toward the airport in silence. Enzo’s known how I feel about Harrison, but making it public like that has only made it all the more true for him. I think that part of him is still hoping that Harrison will prove to be just another tournament fling. But of course, it’s not. Just as I can tell that his thing with Shelby isn’t as fleeting as I’d hoped. Siblings. What are you gonna do?

  “This should make for some pretty interesting Christmas dinners...” Enzo says dryly.

  “That’s for sure,” I laugh, “We can have a McClain table instead of a kids’ table, maybe.”

  “God, I wonder what it will be like,” Enzo muses.

  “Having our better halves around?” I ask.

  “No,” Enzo says, “Think about it, Siena. By the time the seasons change again, we won’t have Dad anymore.”

  My brother’s words catch me like a swift kick in the gut. Wordlessly, I scoot toward him in the backseat, resting my head on his shoulder. He takes my hand, and I feel like a little girl once again. Enzo used to comfort me if I’d get picked on at school or come home with a bad grade, but I don’t know how I’ll ever be comforted when Dad is taken from us.

  “Does it feel real to you yet?” I ask him.

  “No,” he admits, “I think that’s why Dad wanted to stay at home for the rest of the season. So that we remember him as the picture of health. It’s crazy, of course, but you know Dad and his ideas, he's a proud man...”

  “I wish there was something we could do,” I say, feeling a knot rise up in my throat.

  “All we can do is try and be happy. That’s what he wants for us,” Enzo says.

  “But if I do what makes me happy, you’re going to be hurt,” I tell him.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Siena,” Enzo sighs, “The thought of you with Harrison...”

  “What is it you can’t get over?” I ask.

  “I just don’t know how to trust him with you,” Enzo tells me, “He just seems to be out for himself, Siena. How do you know he has your best interests at heart?”

  “I just know,” I tell my brother, “And one day you’ll see it. Even if it takes forcing you guys to carve the Thanksgiving turkey together—”

  “That’ll be the day, Sis,” Enzo scoffs. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up about life after this season. We have a lot to sort out for this team. And that won’t end when the championship is decided, you know.”

  “It’ll end when I end it,” I say, “I know that for a fact. Between the blackmail, the accidents, the lies...something’s tying all of it together, Enzo. I know it.”

  “You realize you’re a PR manager, not a detective, right?” Enzo laughs.

  “Well. Maybe I’m thinking of a temporary career change,” I sniff.

  “Whatever you have in mind, you’d better work fast. Whoever’s on your tail isn’t going to let up now.”

  Our conversation falls by the wayside as we arrive at the Ferrelli private jet. We join our teammates and pile into the sleek airplane, off again on the final leg of this journey. We take off, and Detroit falls away below us. Everything we’ve been working and hoping for, the culmination of all our triumphs and struggles, has led us to Dallas. Who knows what surprises this next city has in store? Hell, who knows if anything can surprise me at this point?

  Before the winner crosses the Dallas finish line, I need to figure out who’s behind all the madness that’s been gripping this season, what they want, and how to stop them. I need to clear my name, expose the real criminal, and secure my place on Team Ferrelli's board. I need to shape the narrative of this year in a way that's honest but uncompromising. I need to find a way to get Enzo and Harrison to like each other, and come to terms with saying goodbye to my dad. And all while keeping a perfect PR smile painted on my face.

  No sweat.

>   Chapter Fourteen

  Figuring it Out

  From the very moment we touch down in Dallas, the world seems to spin just a little bit faster. The entire F1 caravan has been whipped into a frenzy in anticipation of this final race.

  Every team, every driver, every fan, is revved and ready as the last week of the tournament season. I’m not easily overwhelmed, having spent most of my young life watching my dad and his friends whip around race tracks at 200 miles per hour, but even my head’s starting to swim these days. Of course, I’ve got a bit more to worry about than the average F1 fan. There’s so much riding on this last leg of our long journey.

  I barely have time to set down my suitcases in Dallas before I’m drawn into the PR whirlpool surrounding this last Grand Prix. Press conferences, interviews, and photo ops whiz by left and right as I struggle to wrap my brain around each task at hand. In the blink of an eye, half the week is gone. I can scarcely even account for the hours. With Harrison and Enzo training every spare second, I fall into a strange, public solitude. I’m constantly surrounded by people, but I feel incredibly alone. The insane pressure I’m feeling falls down around me like a stone wall, making me feel as isolated as ever.

  On Thursday evening, the night before the Dallas preliminaries are to be run, I find myself actually alone for once—cross-legged on my bed, pouring over every news article that’s come out about me, my family, and Harrison since this tour began. The mysterious mastermind behind all the harm that’s befallen this tournament still manages to elude me.

  Try as I might, I just can’t seem to imagine who would be willing to pull so many awful, manipulative stunts. But with Rostov and Landers out for the count, Maxwell Naughton recovering abroad, and Enzo and Harrison still very much in danger, the list of Formula One casualties is too long for me to stop digging now. If I can figure out who’s to blame for all of this, and prove it, I’ll be able to do more for F1 in a single revelation than most people do over the course of an entire career.

  “Siena?” I hear a voice say through the crack in my bedroom door.

  I look up, my eyes swimming from having stared so long at my laptop screen. I’m almost surprised to hear my best friend’s voice again. In the past few weeks, we’ve barely been in the same room. I unfold myself from the bed, wincing as my stiff muscles ache beneath me. I’ve lost track of how many hours I’ve been pretzeled up, staring at my computer.

  “Hi stranger,” I say, pulling open the door.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten my name,” Bex laughs, scooting over the threshold and wrapping her arms around me.

  I hug my pixieish friend tightly. It’s so easy to get caught up in romance, but sometimes friendship can be just as much of a comfort. Especially when the friend in question is as unflappable and supportive as Bex. I pull her into my room and ease the door shut behind us.

  “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t passed out or lapsed into an internet coma,” she says, looking up into my face. “Dear lord, look at those bags under your eyes. And when was the last time you brushed your hair?”

  “Thanks a lot, pal,” I say, rolling my eyes.

  “Hey. I’m just being honest with you,” Bex says, crossing to my bed, “just because your life is in turmoil, doesn’t mean your curls have to be.”

  “I should get that on a mug or something,” I laugh.

  “So, what the hell is up?” Bex asks, plopping down onto my bed. “What’s your game plan, Siena?”

  “Try to figure out who’s been screwing with us and out them to the press, naturally,” I say simply.

  “Any idea who that special someone might be?” Bex asks.

  “So far, not a clue,” I say miserably. “Well, that’s not entirely true. There are plenty of clues, plenty of leads. I’m just having trouble figuring out where they point.”

  “Tell me what you know so far,” Bex says.

  “Well, the shadiest character that’s cropped up so far is the kid who was following me and Harrison around, sneaking pictures,” I tell her. “I haven’t seen him since Enzo and Harrison almost beat the hell out of him at the Italy press conference. But I’m fairly positive that he’s the anonymous author behind that first insane story that ratted us out to the public.”

  “But you don’t think he’s the boss?” Bex asks.

  “No way,” I tell her, “he’s just a kid. Definitely working for someone. He said so himself. But I have no idea who.”

  “Well, it has to be someone who stands to gain something from messing with the leader board,” Bex says.

  “But that could be anyone,” I point out. “Some advertiser could be trying to drive up ratings, someone could have bet their life’s savings on one racer over another. There are plenty of reasons that someone might want to fix this thing.”

  “That may be so,” Bex says, “but I bet there’s one person who’s got more to lose than anyone else, right? Someone who needs this thing to go a certain way...maybe another racer?”

  “Like who?” I ask.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she says, “what other leads do you have?”

  “I mean, we can pretty much rule out Landers and Rostov, given what happened to them. Enzo and Harrison can’t be involved.”

  “Let’s hope not,” she says.

  “I did honestly think for a time that Charlie or Shelby could be messing with everything, but that was back when the only people in harm’s way were me and Harrison. But whatever’s going on is bigger than petty jealousy or an angry ex. Now, it seems no one's safe.”

  “You don’t think something’s going to happen on Sunday?” Bex asks fearfully.

  “I have no idea. I hope not,” I tell her.

  “That’s good,” she says with a glint in her eye. “Sunday needs to be smooth sailing.”

  “Well sure,” I say, “you mean for the Grand Prix, right?”

  “Right,” she says, just a bit too quickly.

  “Bex Bishop, are you keeping something from me?” I ask.

  “What, me?” she says. “Why, I would never.”

  “You only start talking like a southern belle when you’ve got a juicy secret,” I insist. “What’s going on with you Bex?”

  “Hopefully, you’ll know on Sunday,” she says, standing up quickly. “I just wanted to come and make sure you were OK. Get back to work, super sleuth.”

  “Bex, wait!” I say, but she slips out the door before I can say another word. I can’t even begin to guess what she’s got up her sleeve. Life is never boring with Bex around. Not like I need any more excitement these days.

  I return to my computer, curling up on top of the covers as I troll through information. Other than that punk paparazzo, there’s one person who I’m very curious about. The bartender from Detroit who seems to be a close personal friend of Rafael Marques, the woman who could have very well produced that video that made it look as though I’d threatened the Spanish driver. Is she another agent of the person who sent that kid with a camera into action? Is she cozying up to Marques to gain access to the F1 world that would be unavailable otherwise? Is Marques involved and would he go so far as to sabotage his own car?

  At some point in my musing, I must doze off, because the next thing I know I’m being nudged out of a shallow slumber by the weight of someone beside me in bed. I look blearily around and spot a very familiar face perched on the edge of my bed. Harrison sprawls across the comforter, pulling me close to him. I curl up against his body, my back pressed against his chest. I soak in the feel of him beside me. We haven’t seen each other all day, and the relief that comes with feeling his touch is unbelievable.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask sleepily. “Shouldn’t you be practicing?”

  “It’s two o’clock in the morning,” he laughs.

  “Oh shit. Really?” I groan. “Glad I’ve got a whole four hours to try and get some shut eye. Not that it seems likely.”

  “Siena, you’ve got to take it a little easier,” Harrison says, running his
hand down my arm. “You’re killing yourself over this thing.”

  “Well, what choice do I have?” I ask, “With so much at stake—”

  “I don’t give a damn what’s at stake,” Harrison says, “not if you’re making yourself miserable. Nothing is worth that.”

  “There’s so much hanging on this race,” I say quietly, “I just don’t know what to do anymore. I’ve been slamming my head against the wall, trying to figure out how to fix everything for everyone.”

  “What is it you think you can fix?” Harrison asks, not unkindly.

  “The fact that people keep getting hurt. The way we’re being messed with. My Dad, all worried over whether I’m going to ruin his legacy—”

  “But see?” Harrison says, slipping his arm around my waist, “None of that is in your control, Siena. Not really.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, a bit snappier than I mean to. “Of course it’s in my control. It’s my job to be in control.”

  “No,” he says gently, “the only thing you can control in this crazy, messed up world is your own actions. Everything else will happen on its own, whether or not you’re willing to accept it.”

  “Is that supposed to be comforting?” I ask.

  “In a way,” Harrison says. “All you’ve ever done is try your hardest to make this sport better. To support your family. To be your best. No one can take that away from you. Whatever rumors are floating around, you know that you’ve done everything in your power to be the best PR director, and sister, and daughter that you can be.”

  “And the best secret lover slash maybe girlfriend, I hope,” I laugh softly.

  “That goes without saying,” he tells me, planting a kiss on my neck.

  This smallest caress of his sets off a spark inside of me. Exhaustion aside, I can feel my body begin to respond to his. I press back against him, writhing ever so slightly. He lets out a little laugh as he feels my body come alive at his touch.