Full Throttle (The Revved Series)

by Colleen Masters

  “Here you go,” Charlie chirps, holding out a glass of wine. A twinge of annoyance crosses my watcher’s face, and I have to swallow a chuckle.

  “Thanks,” I say, taking an eager sip. Charlie and I sit together in comfortable silence as the club moves around us. I lose track of my ardent admirer in the crowd, and feel a tug of regret. I’d never make the first move with a guy like that. I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

  “You OK Siena?” Charlie asks, “You seem kind of far-off.”

  “What?” I reply, “Oh...Yeah. Just thinking about the race, I guess.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” Charlie tells me, laying a friendly hand on mine, “Enzo’s going to be great.”

  I pull my hand away as politely as possible. “I know,” I say, “But I can’t help but be a little nervous for him.”

  “I get it,” Charlie says, sipping his wine, “It’s not like F1 is the safest sport in the world. But Enzo’s a careful driver. He knows his vehicle, he knows how to take smart risks on the track. You don’t have to be scared for him.”

  “I’m not scared,” I say, “I’m realistic. Accidents happen.”

  Before Charlie can respond, a smiling waiter appears at my side. I peer up at him questioningly, noting the frosted glass in his hand.

  “For you,” he tells me, holding out the glass, “From the gentleman at the bar.”

  I peer around the waiter and spot my handsome watchman. He’s leaning against the bar, grinning like we’re sharing the juiciest of secrets. His dark denim jeans are cut perfectly for his body, and he manages to make a plain black tee shirt look like the epitome of high fashion. Sleeves of tattoos stand out on his well-defined arms, intricate patterns and pictures that I wouldn't mind getting a closer look at. Muscles strain at the fabric of his clothing, stretching the material taut across his chest and shoulders. He runs a hand through his short dirty blonde hair as I stare at him unabashedly, giving me a devious little wink.

  “She already has a drink,” Charlie says curtly, crossing his arms over his polo-shirt clad chest. “Thanks anyway.”

  “With all due respect,” the waiter replies in a delicious Spanish accent, “My friend over there suggested that the lady might prefer a real drink.”

  I bite my lip as a flush rises to Charlie’s cheeks. He’s one of my closest friends in the world, but it’s still good for him to have his ego checked once in a while.

  “Thank you,” I tell the waiter, taking the glass from his hands.

  “You can’t drink that,” Charlie hisses as the man walks away, “It could be drugged, for all you know.”

  I dismiss Charlie’s protestations and lock eyes with my tattooed benefactor. He raises his own glass to me, and I take a sip of my cocktail. The unmistakable taste of tequila entices my taste buds. How did this guy guess that I was jonesing for a margarita? I have to admit, I’m rather impressed.

  “It’s not a good habit to get into, accepting drinks from strange men at bars,” Charlie says sullenly.

  “He doesn’t look so strange to me,” I reply.

  “Oh please,” Charlie laughs, “He’s so not your type.”

  “Really?” I reply, “And what, exactly, do you think my type is?”

  “Smart guys,” Charlie says, “The quiet, sensitive kind. Not tattooed bad boys with affinities for tequila.”

  “Maybe that’s just the type of guy I’ve been settling for,” I say airily.

  “Settling?” Charlie says, “That’s nice, Siena. Real nice.”

  “What’s your problem?” I ask, “It’s not like I'm talking about you.”

  “No...You never seem to be,” Charlie says, turning his gaze from me.

  I take a long sip of my frosty drink. All I wanted was to enjoy a carefree night on the town in this beautiful city before the madness of this weekend starts. But instead, I’m stuck babysitting the hurt feelings of this guy who’s been carrying a torch for me for a quarter of a century? Not exactly my idea of a good time.

  “You really don’t need to stay if you’re not into this scene,” I tell Charlie, “I can fend for myself, you know.”

  “Is this the point in the evening where I’m supposed to take a hint?” he asks.

  I swallow down a frustrated retort and let Charlie come to his own conclusions. He looks like the last kid to be picked for the kickball team, he stands and hurries away from me, his half-empty glass of wine collecting condensation on the table.

  As Charlie makes his exit, I let my eyes wander back across the bar and dance floor, but my mystery man is nowhere to be found. A bubble of disappointment is just about to pop inside me when I feel a brush of fingertips against my arm.

  “How’s the drink love?” says a rich baritone voice from over my shoulder. I turn to find my new tatted-up friend standing casually beside me. His words are cloaked in a delicious British accent, one of my personal weaknesses. If pressed, I don’t think I could come up with a more intriguing man with whom to spend an evening.

  “Perfect,” I tell him, as he sits down beside me. “How’d you guess my drink?”

  “I’m pretty good at reading people,” he says, grinning at me wickedly.

  “How funny,” I tell him, “So am I.”

  “Is that so?” he says, “Why don’t you give me a good read, then?”

  “Gladly,” I say, taking a sip of my drink, “My read on you is...that you’re used to getting what you want, when you want it.”

  “True,” he smiles.

  “I also guess that you’re not very familiar with the word no?”

  “I don’t have much experience with it, no,” he allows.

  “And I imagine that you’ve been practicing that sexy smile in the mirror since you were fourteen years old?” I tease.

  “Ten, actually,” he says, “I got a bit of a head start.”

  “Should have guessed.”

  “Why don’t you come and join me and my friends?” he asks me, offering me his hand.

  “Alright,” I agree, cupping his fingers in mine. Little tendrils of sensation skate up my arm as he tightens his grasp. I can tell just from the way he holds my hand that this is a man who’s practiced in touching a woman’s body. But even though I’m dying to know what his touch feels like...elsewhere, the fact that he’s so experienced almost makes me want to pull back a little. Make him work even harder than he’s used to.

  My companion leads me across the dance floor, and I watch as every person he passes stops and stares. He’s absolutely magnetic, this one, irresistible to anyone in his path. And tonight, he’s chosen me to be at his side. For my part, I’m used to lingering in the background of photo ops for my famous family, so being at someone’s side for once is a nice change of pace.

  Together, we approach a throng of four incredibly attractive people and come to a stop. Eight inquisitive eyes swing my way, and I do my best to smile gamely. There’s one other man in the group, a slightly burlier version of my new friend with a boyish grin and shaggy hair. The other three people in the group are all women around my own age.

  “I’d like you all to meet my new acquaintance,” says my blue-eyed babe. He leans toward me and whispers in my ear, “This is rather embarrassing, but I’ve yet to ask your name...”

  “I’m Siena,” I tell the group.

  “Pleasure to meet you Siena,” my companion says, “I’m Harrison.”

  “Typical,” says one of the women, a petite red head. “Harrison’s not very good with day-to-day matters, like names and places and deadlines...”

  “That’s Sara,” Harrison says, “Getting on my case about things is a hobby of hers.”

  “I’m Cora,” offers another of the women, a lanky brunette with freckles across her nose. She lays a hand on the husky man’s arm. “This raggedy bloke is Andy, my husband.”

  “Who’re you calling raggedy?” he exclaims, throwing an arm around Cora’s shoulders.

  The last of the women offers her slender hand to me with a smile. “
I’m Shelby,” she says, tossing her blonde curls back over her shoulder.

  “Nice to meet you all,” I say, shaking Shelby’s hand. “I’m guessing by your accents that you’re all British?”

  “On the nosey,” Andy grins.

  “And you sound rather American,” Cora remarks, “We had you pegged for a local.”

  “Well, I’m Italian American,” I tell her.

  “Ah. Makes sense,” Shelby says, “That’s why you’re not puking up piña coladas in the bathroom. You’re only slightly American.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the British beauty. Italy may have been the place I was born, but I’m still an American too. I can’t say that I appreciate her brand of humor much.

  “Well, it was really nice to meet you all,” I say politely, “Maybe I’ll see you around...”

  Harrison catches my arm as I turn to make my exit. “Aren’t you going to stay and grace us with your presence?” he asks.

  “I should probably find my friend,” I tell him.

  “But you’re in need of another drink,” he insists, “And I’m in need of your company.”

  Harrison stays by my side as I step away from the group. He’s persistent, this one. I can’t say that I’m not a little flattered by his attention, but I’m really not the one night stand kind of girl. Surely, that’s what this gorgeous playboy has in mind.

  “Come on. One more drink,” he says. It’s a statement, rather than a question.

  “I could use one,” I allow, permitting Harrison to steer me toward the bar.

  The bartender has another round ready for us by the time we sit down. I settle onto my barstool and take a sip of my refreshing drink.

  “What are you, some kind of a regular around here?” I ask Harrison.

  “We got in yesterday,” he tells me, “I guess I already made an impression.”

  “What brings you to Barcelona?” I ask.

  “Work,” he tells me with a knowing smile.

  “Me too,” I say, letting my eyes linger on his wonderfully stubbly jaw. God, how I love a little stubble on a man. “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I work for a Formula One racing team,” he tells me.

  “I should have guessed!” I exclaim, “I do, too. We’re here for the Grand Prix this weekend.”

  “Small world,” Harrison smiles, “So what are you, some kind of racing superstar?”

  “Hardly,” I grin, “I’m guessing you’re not either. I’d know if you were.”

  “That hurts, darling,” he says, clutching his hard stomach as if stabbed.

  “I’m just saying,” I tell him, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a superstar at...whatever it is you do. Pit crew?”

  “Something like that,” he tells me. “But enough shop talk, yeah? Why don’t you come dance with me?”

  “Oh...I don’t know,” I demure, sipping my margarita, “I was planning on taking it pretty easy tonight.”

  “I can go easy, if you’d like,” he says, “I can go just about any way you like.”

  “Oh god,” I laugh, “Please spare me the game-spitting.”

  “Fair enough,” he says, “If you dance with me, I promise not to utter one more pickup line for the rest of the night.”

  “Cross your heart?”

  “Hope to die.”

  I take one last sip of my drink and place it back down on the bar. “Fine then,” I say to Harrison, “One dance won’t kill me, I’m sure.”

  He threads his fingers through mine and draws me out into the pulsing, swaying crowd. The tightly-packed bodies part before him, and soon we’re engulfed in the teeming sea of beautiful people. Two drinks in, I’m starting to feel pleasantly fuzzy, just loose enough to see what this guy is all about.

  The crowd closes in around us as the starry sky whirls overhead. Harrison turns to face me, placing his strong hands on my hips. I let my hands fall on his broad shoulders, swaying to the quick, lively music pulsing through the courtyard. The air is warm, but a cool breeze of the sea feels delightful against my heated skin. I peer up into Harrison’s intense eyes, those blue discs that have held me so entranced all night. There’s the smallest sliver of air between our gyrating bodies, just enough to keep the other guessing.

  “You look pretty pensive for a lady in the middle of the dance floor,” Harrison says above the music.

  “Just trying to figure you out, Harrison,” I say, tucking a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “There’s something about you that seems so...familiar.”

  “That so?” he laughs, “I promise, there’s not much about me to figure out. I live fast, go hard, and will probably die young.”

  “How optimistic,” I say sarcastically.

  “Nothing wrong with going out early if you’ve made the most of your time,” Harrison says, “I try and live every day at the highest speed I can.”

  “Don’t you miss a lot, moving that fast?” I ask.

  “Maybe,” Harrison shrugs, “But anything I’ve missed probably wasn’t worth having in the first place.”

  “Guess you’ll never know, huh?”

  “Are you trying to tell me I move too fast to have you, Siena?” he asks, his breath warm against my neck.

  My pulse picks up the pace through my veins as Harrison pulls me against him. All at once, I’m at a loss for any words I may have once known. This complete stranger has me tongue-tied and stumbling. And I have a feeling he hasn’t even gotten started yet.

  “However fast you move,” I tell him finally, “I’m sure I can keep up.”

  “And that has yet to be seen?” he asks.

  “That’s right,” I tell him, letting my hands clasp lightly behind his neck. In heels, I’m about five foot eight—but he’s still got a good five inches on me. I’m so used to being at eye level with the guys I date, this is a nice change. Not that this is a date, or that Harrison and I would ever date per se...God, even my thoughts are flustered.

  “I get the feeling that I’m not the type of man you usually spend time with,” Harrison says, letting his hands slip around the small of my back.

  Jesus, can he read my mind now?

  “What makes you say that?” I ask.

  “I can just tell this isn’t the game you usually play,” he says, “You’re too present, too honest, to be going through the motions.”

  “Is that what you’re doing, going through the motions?” I ask.

  “Not at all,” he says, “You’re not the kind of woman I usually spend time with either.”

  It’s a good thing that we’re dancing in the half-light, because I’m sure that I’m blushing up a storm. Why do I feel so satisfied in knowing that I’m somehow different from the women that Harrison usually pursues?

  “And what kind of a woman do you think I am?” I ask Harrison, cocking my head ever-so-slightly to the side.

  “I think that you’re driven,” he says, “And smart as hell, and incredibly smitten with me.”

  I’m about to retort when the tempo of the music picks up once again. An energetic beat blasts through the club, and I’m suddenly feeling a little out of my league.

  “I’m just going to take a second—” I begin.

  “Good idea,” Harrison says, leading the way off the floor, “I could use another drink.”

  He escorts me back to the bar, where his posse has already gathered. We meld into the group, and in an instant I’m furnished with another margarita. And even though I know that I need to be awake at six in the morning, even though I’ve never met these people in my life, even though Harrison is giving me fuck-me eyes like I’ve never seen before, I have no desire to leave. I haven’t felt this reckless, this alive, in years. Maybe even ever.

  “You’re a bad influence,” I tell Harrison, threading my arm through his.

  “You love it,” he winks.

  “Are you here for the Grand Prix too?” Sara asks me, leaning around Harrison to get a better look at me.

  “I am,” I tell
her, “I do PR for one of the drivers.”

  “Oh, who?” Shelby exclaims, “We’re all big fans of F1.”

  “Enzo Lazio, team Ferrelli,” I reply, “Ever heard of him?”

  A collective gasp goes up among the three women, and even the men look at me in awe. I guess they’ve heard of my brother, alright.

  “You work for Enzo Lazio?” Cora breathes, “He’s so...fine.”

  “Hey!” Andy protests.

  “Even you’d have to admit you think so too,” Cora tells him.

  “That’s true...” Andy sighs, “He’s a dreamboat.”

  “What’s he like in real life?” Sara asks, sounding like a little girl at a sleepover.

  “He’s the best,” I smile, thinking of my big brother.

  I decide to keep the fact that I’m a Lazio as well to myself. These people are obviously F1 buffs, I don’t want them treating me any differently because they know my last name.

  “I’m so incredibly jealous,” Shelby pouts, “I wish I got to work for a team like Ferrelli. We’re all stuck slogging away for McClain.”

  “What do you mean slogging?” Harrison says defensively, “We came in third overall during last year’s tournament.”

  “Third is a long way from first,” Shelby says pointedly, “Which is, I believe, where Ferrelli placed?”

  “That’s right,” I grin, “Three world champion teams in the last ten years. Not too shabby.”

  “I’ll say,” Shelby sighs, “How did you get an awesome job like that? You can’t be older than twenty-three.”

  “I’m twenty-five,” I correct her. I can’t help but be a bit annoyed with Shelby’s lack of tact and none too subtle competitive streak.

  “See? You’re still a baby!” she cries dramatically.

  “Leave off, Shell,” Harrison says, “We’ve got a fine team of our own, don’t we?”

  “What do you all do for McClain?” I ask.