Full Throttle (The Revved Series)

by Colleen Masters

  The second that Enzo returns to our corner of the course, the entire team surges around him. Everyone’s eager to offer a pat on the back or a word of encouragement, but I can’t contain myself. I burst through the pack, running at full speed. My brother spots me and opens his arms wide. I leap into his embrace, and he spins me around in the air. Our bubbling laughter entwines, and a thousand memories come back to me. I’ve always been at Enzo’s side, supporting him at every turn. It’s where I belong.

  “Alright, alright,” my dad says gruffly, breaking up the chattering crowd, “That was just a preliminary run, folks. I know we’re all happy to start off with a bang, but let’s keep a little perspective, eh? We’ve got a long weekend ahead of us, and a much longer tournament. Eyes on the prize, now.”

  The team disbands, and Enzo sets me lightly down on the pavement. There are other Ferrelli drivers who need attention too, though no one could deny that Enzo is everyone’s favorite. I plant my hands on my hips and turn an exaggerated pout on my dad.

  “Jeez, way to kill the buzz,” I drawl sarcastically.

  “Funny,” he says, slapping Enzo on the back, “Always with the jokes this one. Where did you learn to be such a smart ass, Siena?”

  “Guess it’s hereditary,” I shrug.

  “I’m feeling pumped, Pops,” Enzo says excitedly, “My focus is great. Crystal clear.”

  “Keep it up, Son,” Dad replies, “You’re going to need every ounce. Now come on. I think McClain’s got the preliminary spot after us. We’d better keep an eye on the competition.”

  Team Ferrelli lines up along the barrier once again, and sure enough, a cherry red McClain car is idling at the starting line. Charlie and Bex stand to either side of me, peering out onto the track.

  “So, who’s McClain’s top dog?” Bex asks, ready to type some quick notes into her smart phone. “I want to start tweeting about the preliminaries. Think it’s OK if I get some video?”

  “Sure,” I tell her, “McClain’s senior driver is Maxwell Naughton. He’s placed in the top ten during his last three tournaments.”

  “Impressive,” Bex mutters, her thumbs flying across the screen of her phone.

  We watch as Naughton is secured into his car. He’s a couple years older than Enzo, but his record is fantastic. Naughton’s got the whole Brooding Brit thing down to a science, with dark eyes and a heavy jaw. As far as I can tell, this guy is my brother’s main competition in this tournament. Still, I say a little prayer for him nonetheless as he revs his engine to start. These guys need all the divine intervention they can get. I have incredible respect for F1 racers, and not just the ones who are related to me. These drivers look death in the face every time they get behind the wheel. You have admire that kind of courage.

  Naughton takes off like a shot, soaring past us down the track. As he disappears around the bend, I look down along the barrier and catch a glimpse of Harrison, watching his team’s driver from afar. He studies the senior racer with a calm, cool eye. His gaze is calculating, and incredibly bright. I’m intrigued, wondering what thoughts might be racing through Harrison’s gorgeous head. But even more so, I’m left wondering what he’s doing on this side of the barrier.

  I’d assumed that he was some kind of pit technician, but here he is among the spectators. If he doesn’t work in the pit after all, then what the hell is his place on the McClain team?

  “Here he comes,” Charlie says, nodding toward the finish line.

  “Ooh, great shot...” Bex says, raising her camera to capture Naughton’s finish.

  The bright red car zooms over the finish line, and I hear Gus make a small, triumphant sound. Enzo must have earned a better time on his preliminary than Naughton.

  “I’ll be damned,” Gus says happily, “We might just have a winner on our hands.”

  My eyes are locked onto Naughton’s car as he speeds down the track toward us. Usually, drivers take a little while to decelerate from their runs, but Naughton seems to be charging on full speed ahead.

  “Why isn’t he stopping?” I ask.

  Team Ferrelli falls silent, and a worried murmur goes up through the crowd.

  “That’s not right,” my dad murmurs.

  “What’s going on, Siena?” Bex asks, keeping her camera trained on Naughton’s trajectory, “Is something—”

  The grinding sound of metal against asphalt silences my friend’s inquiry at once. My heartbeat is suspended in terror as Naughton’s car flips onto its nose, rolling over and over across the track. The tattered vehicle slams against the inner barrier and stops cold.

  “Holy shit...” Charlie breathes beside me.

  It’s all that anyone can manage to say before Naughton’s car bursts into flame. The spell of frozen silence is broken in an instant as a dozen technicians and team members rush toward the wreck. Enzo vaults over the barrier and dashes at Naughton’s smashed vehicle, and my fingers tighten around the railing as I watch Harrison sprint after him.

  “Be careful,” I whisper. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure who my plea is for—my brother or the handsome stranger I’ve only just met.

  Naughton’s car is engulfed by a rippling fireball in a matter of moments. Rescue workers hold back the concerned drivers, diving into the blaze to try and rescue Naughton. The crowd is roiling around me, as everyone jostles and jumps to try and catch a glimpse at the wreckage. I’m rooted to the ground, unable to budge an inch as Harrison and Enzo try and throw themselves into the rescue effort.

  Finally, someone manages to extract Naughton from the inferno. The breath leaves my lungs as he’s hauled out of the burning vehicle. Just moments ago, I watched him climb into his car, whole and strong and handsome. But the body being carried away from the pile of burning rubble is limp, blistered, seared. His face, burned and bruised, is by far the hardest thing to see.

  “Oh my God...” Bex whimpers, her hand on her cheek, “Is he...?”

  “No,” I say, “Look, he’s moving.”

  An ambulance skids to a halt beside the burning wreck, and a stretcher is unfolded from the back at once. Naughton is lowered onto the device, writhing in pain. His agonized cries ring out across the track, sending rivulets of dread dripping through my body.

  “What the hell happened?” Charlie asks, befuddled.

  “From the look of it, I’d say his breaks gave out,” Dad says solemnly. “Poor bastard. Thank God for flame resistant suits.”

  Though Naughton is Enzo’s primary competitor in this tournament, there’s not a hint of glee to be found among the members of Team Ferrelli. When any driver is hurt, it’s everyone’s tragedy. It doesn’t matter that Naughton is a McClain man in this moment. It’s a terrible truth that disaster is the one thing that never fails to unite the full spectrum of F1 teams. But terrible accidents bring us together—we’re only human, despite what some drivers might tell you.

  Once Naughton is safely loaded in, the ambulance tears away down the track. Those who flew to the driver’s aid disperse back to their own teams, and I lay a trembling hand on Enzo’s arm as he climbs back over the barrier.

  “You’re shaking like a leaf,” he says, pulling me into a hug.

  “That could have been you...” I whisper into his shoulder.

  “It always could have been me,” he says, smoothing down my hair, “That’s the nature of the sport, Siena. You know that.”

  “I never get used to it,” I tell him, “Watching someone get wrecked like that.”

  “Good,” Enzo says, looking at me intently, “You should never get used to it. If seeing something like that stopped getting to you...Well. You wouldn’t be the Siena I know and love anymore, that’s sure.”

  “I knew something like this was going to happen,” Dad says, his jaw tight, “I knew there’d be some kind of surprise lying in wait for us.”

  “But now McClain has to race their next best driver,” I say, “It’s shitty to point out, but that’s not against our favor.”

  “You OK Bex?” Charlie
asks, moving around me. My best friend is paralyzed at the railing, staring down at her smart phone in horror. The video she took of the crash is playing on loop, and she can’t seem to look away.

  “Shit, Siena,” she says softly as I throw my arm around her shoulder, “This shit...This shit is real.”

  “It is,” I tell her, “But you can handle it, Bex.”

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she tells me.

  But there’s no time to argue the morality of playing into this high stakes sport right now. There’s a commotion rising up around the McClain camp that has everyone looking their way. From afar, I watch as the team owner huddles with the senior managers and technicians. To my surprise, I see Harrison’s face among their number. What is he doing, deliberating strategy with the most important people of Team McClain? Maybe he’s some sort of statistics whiz, or perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability that I wasn’t made privy to during our illicit little make out session last night.

  Harrison’s face is alert and luminous. The wind tosses his dirty blonde hair, and I feel my knees go to mush. Even amid all this chaos, this mysterious man has got quite a hold on me.

  “What’s their next move?” my dad muses as Team McClain disperses. Charlie, Bex, Enzo and I huddle together against the barrier, drawing strength from each other. As tough as it is to swallow, these terrible accidents happen all the time. We have to press on, no matter what.

  “Look,” Enzo says, “McClain's sending out another driver.”

  All of our eyes snap forward in time to catch a second McClain vehicle roll up onto the track. Oddly, this car seems to be newer than Naughton’s, and hopefully better constructed. What the hell gives? Why wouldn’t McClain’s senior driver be behind the wheel of their best and newest car?

  “Who is that, Bradbury?” Dad says to no one in particular, “He’s McClain’s backup driver, right?”

  “Too tall to be Bradbury,” Gus poses, “I don’t think I recognize that guy.”

  Before any of us can identify the driver, he’s off and racing. The vibrant red car soars past us, a red smear of light and color in the brightening morning air. As if on cue, the clouds above finally begin to disperse, and the persistent fog rises up off the hills and sea beyond the course. I’m a big believer in omens, and this one doesn’t bode well for Ferrelli. But then why is my blood run through with such excitement?

  “You timing this guy?” my dad asks Gus.

  “I’ve got it,” Gus replies, eyes glued to his stopwatch.

  “I’m sure he won’t have anything on Enzo,” Charlie says confidently.

  “Don’t jinx it,” says my brother, his eyes stony.

  A hush falls over the crowd as McClain’s new driver tears around the track. This morning has taken a quick turn toward the surreal, and we’re all knocked off our game. This upset could completely change the dynamics of the tournament, for all we know. One way or another, things are about to get interesting.

  The McClain car roars around the corner once again, flying over the finish line and coming to a quick stop. Gus’s face clouds over, and no one needs to ask him what the stopwatch says. This new guy beat Enzo’s preliminary time. Sure, these runs don’t count for anything as far as tournament points go, but it’s still a bad sign. If this guy’s already out ahead of Enzo, what does that mean for the Grand Prix this weekend?

  “Beginner’s luck,” Bex chirps, smiling up at Enzo. The look he gives her could slice through diamond, it’s that cutting.

  Team McClain gathers out on the track, obscuring their new man. I stand up on my toes, trying to catch a glimpse as he climbs gracefully out of the driver’s seat. He straightens up, standing taller than any of the men swarming around him. We all look on, full of curiosity, as he lifts the helmet from his head. A burst of ash blonde and steely blue sends the world spinning furiously around me.

  “No...” I breathe.

  Standing among the throng of McClain team members is Harrison Davies. He tucks his helmet under his arm, his face flushed and unbearably beautiful. His satisfaction seems to keep him suspended in the air, floating on a wave of praise and adoration from his team. The smile on his face is full of promise, and determination, and an unwillingness to fail. He already looks like a champion, and the Grand Prix has barely even begun.

  “Who the hell is that?” Enzo snaps.

  “I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Dad growls.

  “Is this some kind of a joke?” Gus scoffs, “He’s a kid! A newbie! What’s he doing in this tournament, I ask you?”

  “Maybe they just brought him up from F3 or something?” Charlie suggests.

  “No way,” Enzo says, “There’s not an F3 driver on earth who can drive like that. This guy knows what the hell he’s doing.”

  Bex grabs my hand, wordlessly telegraphing her shock and sympathy. I hold onto my friend as tightly as I can as an unexpected knot tightens in my throat. I watch, too shocked to move, as Harrison makes his way off the track. He’s not some lowly pit guy, or a freeloader touring with the team. He’s a driver. The driver for Team McClain, my family’s number one rival. That means that Enzo and Harrison are pitted against each other for the top prize in this tournament, and only one of them can be victorious.

  “Oh shit...” I whisper, my eyes locked on Harrison’s strapping form.

  I flirted with him last night. I kissed him. I would have done a lot more, too, if left to my own devices. I nearly slept with the goddamned enemy before the first preliminary was even run. If anyone from Team Ferrelli knew, I’d be sunk.

  “Oh shit is right,” Charlie mutters beside me.

  My stomach flips over, mimicking Naughton’s gravity-defying wreck. Charlie was there at the club last night. He watched Harrison charm me onto the dance floor, steal me away against his protestations. He knows everything.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, seeing the panic in my eyes, “You didn’t know. Your secret’s safe with me. It’s not like you’re going to let it happen again.”

  “Right...” I breathe, watching Harrison slip the racing jumpsuit off his sculpted form. “Never again. Of course not. That would be...crazy.”

  Chapter Five

  Sleeping With The Enemy

  The second we arrive back at the hotel after a long day of preliminaries, Bex and I hightail it up to my suite. The rest of the team is off to some bar or other to celebrate a good run and talk strategy for tomorrow’s qualifier, but we shook them off with some vague mention of “girl stuff”. Sometimes you’ve got to play the lady card to keep the boys out of your business.

  We hurtle into my suite and rooms and I quickly lock the door behind us. Letting out a long-suppressed groan, I let my back slide down against the door until I’m sitting in a little heap on the cushy carpet.

  “Of all the people in the entire F1 universe,” I say, “Why the hell did I have to go feel up Team McClain’s new golden boy?”

  “You didn’t know, Siena,” Bex says, grabbing a couple of mini Jack Daniels bottles out of the mini fridge. “If you had any idea who he was, you probably would have gone about things a little differently.”

  “That’s the thing, Bex,” I say, happily accepting a tiny bottle and screwing off the top, “I don’t know if I would have.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Bex says, taking a sip of her booze and kicking off her heeled boots, “Family is, like, the most important thing in the world to you.”

  “It is,” I allow, “But Bex...That guy is not easy to resist. I had every intention of ignoring him at the club last night, sparing Charlie’s feelings...but he does something to me.”

  “Gee,” Bex says, rolling her eyes, “A staggering handsome race car driver with a British accent does something to you? Color me shocked.”

  “It wasn’t just that,” I say, taking a swig of my Jack, “I felt like we understood each other, from the moment we said hello. It was like we were instantly on the same level. I didn’t feel like I needed to bullshit him, or play the game.”


  “Siena, you never play the game,” Bex says, “You just wait for the next twerpy guy with a masters degree to wander along and eat up your time.”

  “Exactly!” I exclaim, rising to my feet, “I never go after any guy that I actually find attractive. Never once have I chased down someone that I really, truly wanted.”

  “And this Harrison guy? Do you really, truly want him?” Bex asks, “Even now that you know he’s the competition?”

  “I...I don’t know,” I say, “Maybe.”

  “Siena Lazio,” Bex grins, shaking her head in wonder, “I do believe that you’ve got a bad case of the Gottafuckems!”

  “You’re a terrible influence,” I smile.

  “Look, I’m not saying you should run off and marry the guy,” Bex goes on, “But he’s obviously into you, and I feel pretty confident in guessing that the feeling is mutual. The question is, are you capable of being discreet about it?”

  “About what?”

  “A booty call with Mr. Davis, of course.”

  “I don’t do booty calls, Bex.”

  “You haven’t done booty calls. But you’ve never gone after someone who actually deserves a second of your time before, either. There’s a first time for everything.”

  “I guess...”

  “I’m just saying,” Bex sighs, “If you really felt a connection with this guy, you shouldn’t let some silly sense of competition stop you.”

  “I just wish he’d told me who he actually was before we got all hot and heavy,” I say.

  “True...that’s a little sketch,” Bex allows, “But you don’t know the full story. Maybe he was bound to secrecy, by penalty of death or something.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know! You F1 people seem pretty intense.”

  “I guess I could give him the benefit of the doubt,” I say. “I think I should at least talk to him, now that I know the score. Clear the air, or whatever. I mean, I’m sure we’ll be running into each other over the course of the tournament. I don’t want things to get weird between us if they don’t have to.”