“There wasn’t time—”
“Siena, you infuriating woman,” Bex groans, “How the hell are you going to send him scantily clad pictures of your fine self if you don’t have a damn phone number?”
“You are absolutely incorrigible, you know that?”
“I know,” Bex says, “It’s one of my best qualities.”
She skips out of the room so I can pull myself together as best I can. Maybe if I refuse to acknowledge my hangover, it will just leave me alone? I let my hair dry in its natural waves and throw on my preliminary race day outfit: fitted jeans, a loose cropped tee shirt, and a well-loved bomber jacket. With a smear of lip gloss and some mascara, I look good as new. I may not feel one hundred percent, but it’s all about appearances in PR, anyway.
“You clean up pretty good, kid,” Bex tells me as I emerge from the bathroom.
“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck,” I mumble.
“That’s what you get for partying it up the nice before the Grand Prix festivities begin. Not that I’m not proud of you,” she winks.
We slip out of our room and make our way down to the lobby. Throughout the hotel, people are beginning to stir. I’m sure that most everyone staying here this weekend is involved in the race in one way or another. When a Grand Prix crops up in any city around the world, nearly everything shuts down around it. The races are huge, sprawling events that take up entire weekends. And this one, the kick off to the 2013 season, is sure to be packed.
Team Ferrelli has already assembled in the dining room when Bex and I arrive. They’ve claimed a corner table for themselves, and sit huddled together over cups of steaming coffee and not much else. I could personally go for a bacon egg and cheese to demolish my lingering drunkenness, but party girls can’t be choosers, I suppose.
“Morning girls,” my father says, “Come, sit. We’re just going over today’s schedule.”
Dad is pretty much the man in charge of the team these days, even though he’s one of many owners he holds the majority stake in the team. He’s simply been around so long that he knows the ins and outs of the sport like no one else, aside from Gus. Everyone’s more than happy to give him the reins, Enzo included. My father and brother sit at opposite heads of the table, presiding over their team.
Bex and I slip in among the ranks, and I feel Charlie’s eyes on me immediately. He’s sitting across from my beside his father, Gus—a thickset man my dad’s age. Gus is the only one involved with the team who has been around as long as dad, and currently serves as Ferrelli’s manager. He’s been like a second father to me, and smiles my way as I take a seat. Thank god for little acts of kindness on boozy mornings like this one.
“Conditions aren’t great out there,” my father continues, “There was a lot of rain last night, so the track is a little slick. Nothing we can’t handle, but just be prepared to break out the spare tyres. We need today to go smoothly if we’re going to get a good spot in the pack.”
“I’m fine driving on a wet track,” Enzo says, “It’s no problem, Pa.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Dad says, “But I’m not in favor of taking chances where you’re success is concerned.”
I note, a tad bitterly, that Dad is worried about Enzo’s success, rather than his safety. F1 is not exactly a sport of the weak of heart—racers die every year. I push the thought out of my head and go to fetch a cup of coffee. Charlie trails after me, lowering his voice as I fill a cup with glorious black elixir.
“Glad to see you up and about,” he mutters.
“Don’t be an asshole, Charlie,” I reply, “You’re concerned about me doing my job, but here I am, ready to do my job. So get off my case.”
“It’s you I’m concerned about, not the damned job,” he says, “But I guess you’ll never really see that, will you?”
“We can’t get into this right now,” I tell him, “We’ve got prelims to run, and I’ve got a press conference at noon.”
I brush away from him and join the team as they make their way outside. Between today’s events and last night’s memories, my mind is far too occupied to deal with schoolboy longings. I content myself with daydreams of running into Harrison on the track and all but sprint to the car.
Good lord, what’s gotten into me? At least I’ll have something to focus on, once we get to the track. Hopefully, the pressure to be a presentable representative of Team Ferrelli will keep me from acting too much like a love struck girl.
Hopefully.
Chapter Four
Flaming Wreckage
Team Ferrelli rolls up to the closed course in a fleet of private cars. I can’t help but feel a little proud as the heads of other, lesser-known team members turn our way in awe. Ferrelli, and Lazio for that matter, are some of the most respected names within Formula One racing. It may be frustrating, slogging through the world of this manly sport as a young woman, but my pedigree certainly smoothes the way now and again.
I’m riding along with Enzo and my father, tuning out their shop talk as I take in the scene beyond our tinted windows. It’s early Friday morning, and already the city is overflowing with the fervid energy that comes along with a Formula One Grand Prix.
The teams are just running preliminary rounds today, but spectators are still scrambling to sneak a look at the action. Formula One racers are huge celebrities within the world of the sport. I don’t even want to think about how many Enzo Lazio fan clubs I’ve stumbled upon during my research. No wonder my brother’s ego is swollen—he’s been told since he was a kid that greatness runs in his blood. We both have.
“I don’t like the look of those skies,” Dad mutters, as the car rolls to a stop.
We step out onto the pavement and survey the scene. Though it’s already eight o’clock, the course is still obscured by stormy skies overhead. Dark clouds roil ominously, and I feel my stomach tighten with unease. Even though I’ve been around F1 races my entire life, I still get nervous when the risk factor goes up even a hair. I’ve seen plenty of miracles, growing up around F1, but I’ve seen my fair share of tragedies, too.
Every year, a couple of good drivers are seriously injured while racing in tournaments. Some are even killed. Every year that Enzo makes it safely through the ringer feels like a gift from God. My mom won’t even come to the races anymore. She watches from home, since being there in real time makes her too nervous.
“Good thing we’ve got an early slot,” Enzo says, scanning the sky, “Let’s get started before those clouds open up.”
The entire team and crew rush into action at Enzo’s word. I watch as my brother is carried away on the tide of his attendants. As he heads off to take his runs through the course, Bex and I hang back. Dad, Gus, Charlie, and the others will make sure that Enzo has all the support he needs, and we’re left to our own devices once more.
“Well,” Bex sighs, “There go our conquering heroes, off to battle. What the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime?”
“That’s right,” I say, “You’ve never been through a tournament before.”
“Nope. You’ll have to instruct me, Master.”
“Alright Grasshopper,” I smile, “First things first. Let’s scope our course and see who’s out and about. The media will descend on us in no time, I’m sure. They have a way of finding whoever it is they’re looking for.”
We set off through the crowd together, our blonde and brunette heads bobbing through the churning ocean of spectators and support staff. The hangover I’ve been fighting off since I woke up this morning begins to burn off as my excitement mounts. There’s absolutely nothing in the world like the feeling of a course right before a Grand Prix weekend begins. The spirit of competition and camaraderie hang shimmering in the air, nerves and anticipation run as high as the vaulting sky overhead.
Wherever else I roam in life, I know I’ll never feel as at home as I do at a F1 tournament. It hasn’t been easy, carving out a place for myself in the shadow of my dad and brother, but I refuse to let that deter me. I�
��m going to figure out a way to make a name for myself in this sport, no matter what it takes. Hell, F1 could use with a few more female team owners.
We’d temper the machismo a little bit, get things running like clockwork. They say that behind every great man is an even greater woman, but I say it’s time that the women of this sport start making their way to the forefront.
“Good Lord,” Bex breathes, raking her eyes across a huddle of Spanish F1 drivers, “These guys are like action figures.”
“You’ve got that right,” I say.
“Hopefully they differ from Ken and GI Joe between the legs, of course,” she grins.
“Bex,” I say, “You’ve got to watch yourself with these guys. Do you have any idea how many people show up at these races just to throw themselves at the drivers? Women, men, you name it. These places are like smorgasbords for the guys behind the wheel.”
“You’re one to talk, Miss Bathroom Makeout Sesh,” Bex chides.
“That’s fair,” I allow, “But it’s not like I’m chasing Harrison down for a quickie in the garage or anything. For all I know, I’ll never even see the guy...”
My words trail off as a burst of dirty blonde hair catches my eye just ahead. I stagger to a stop, and Bex promptly runs right into me. Before us, a half dozen cars sporting the McClain logo are gathered, and a very familiar, very gorgeous man is leaning against the hood of the nearest one.
Harrison Davies looks no worse for the wear after our night of tequila shots and dirty dancing. His perfectly balanced, sculpted body looks relaxed but ready for action. He’s rocking a sinfully well-fitted pair of light blue jeans, an ab-skimming black tee shirt, and a vintage leather jacket. His sparkling blue eyes take in the scene unfolding before him with confident excitement, and his lips are twisted into a knowing grin. For a moment, it’s all I can do to stand in awe...until those baby blues swing my way, that is.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughs, pushing himself away from the hood, “If it isn’t my new drinking buddy.”
“It certainly is,” I manage to say, “Fancy meeting you here, Harrison.”
I can feel Bex vibrating out of her skin with curiosity as Harrison makes his way toward us. Peering over his shoulder, I spot the others from last night milling about the scene. Andy, Cora, and Sara wave my way cheerfully, though Shelby can only bring herself to spare a chilly half smile.
“I was wondering I might not run into you this morning,” Harrison says with his gorgeous accent, “That house tequila is a real ass-kicker.”
“I can keep up just fine,” I tell him.
“Yes...I can see that,” he says, “What brings you over to our corner of the course?”
“Just scouting out the competition,” I tell him, “Seeing what familiar faces might be back again this year.”
“Seems like a good year for some new faces to make a splash too,” he remarks pointedly.
“Of course,” I smile, “I guess you’re pretty new yourself, eh Davis?”
“You could say that,” he says.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him, “You’ll catch on soon enough. Take it from an old pro.”
“What, are you some kind of guru?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Born and raised,” I say proudly. I can hear myself growing haughtier by the second, but I just can’t help but get riled up by Harrison. For whatever reason, I want him to know how serious I am about being here, that I’m a legitimate authority on F1. Still, I’m not about to go throwing my brother’s name around just yet. It’s bad for business. I hurry to change the subject before my pride gets the better of me.
“This is Bex,” I tell Harrison, taking a step back. “Bex, this is Harrison. We met last night at the club.”
“Pleasure,” Harrison says charmingly, taking Bex’s hand.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she replies, shooting me a sidelong glance. “I’m pretty new to these tournaments myself. Siena was nice enough to land me a job this year with Ferrelli. Tell me, Harrison, what is it that you do for Team McClain?”
“Davies!” Andy calls from a few yards away, “Let’s go!”
“Ah, I must be off,” Harrison says in his irresistible cadence.
I could swear that he looks relieved to be called away. Is he trying to shake me off for some reason? I didn’t think I was being too forward by stopping to chat.
“See you around, I guess,” I offer nonchalantly, “But if not, have a good time in Barcelona.”
“I will,” Harrison says, “But only if I do, in fact, see you around, Siena.”
A tremor of anticipation rolls down my spine as Harrison takes his leave. When he’s safely out of earshot, Bex grabs hold of my arm and lets out an excited squeal.
“Holy shit, Siena!” she exclaims, “Way to gloss over the fact that your hookup last night was a top-of-the-line babe.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, leading her away from the McClain camp, “He’s just a guy, Bex.”
“False,” she insists, “He is a golden freaking god and if you don’t sleep with him and make adorable little babies I might have to disown you.”
I shake my head and soldier on through the crowd until we make it back to our team. Dad is standing at the barrier, looking out toward the starting line. I join him at his post, following his gaze. Enzo’s sleek, emerald green car is rolling out onto the track. F1 cars are compact one-seaters, but with the right person behind the wheel, they’re more like an extension of the driver.
These machines reach speeds over two hundred miles per hour, and hug the track so tight that they could, theoretically, drive upside down on a ceiling. It takes years and years of practice to work up to driving one of these babies, which is exactly how long Enzo’s been in the game.
Dad starting grooming my brother to succeed him before I was even born. Enzo graduated from a Big Wheel to a go cart to a box car before finally getting behind the wheel of a car. Even then, he had to work through the other racing tiers before Ferrelli would even take him seriously. He may be Alfonso Lazio’s son, but he still had to prove himself.
Enzo skipped college altogether, so that he could focus on his racing career. He was built to be an F1 driver—it’s all he’s ever wanted out of life. Every time I see him pull up to the starting line, my heart swells up with sisterly pride. Enzo may be arrogant sometimes, but he’s got a pure heart. It makes me so happy to see him doing what he loves.
“I feel good about this tournament, Siena,” my dad says, “Your brother’s never been better poised to become a champion.”
“You think this is the year, Dad?” I ask excitedly.
“It could very well be,” he says, “As long as no surprises crop up, that is.”
“I don’t see how that could happen,” I say, “You two study the other F1 drivers relentlessly. You know their habits and weaknesses as well as they do. What could possibly catch you off guard now?”
“I hope you’re right,” Dad says, “But we can't celebrate Enzo’s victory just yet.”
The sharp, unmistakable sound of Enzo’s car revving up roars across the track. I grab onto the barrier railing, feeling like a kid again. Every one of Enzo’s races is more exciting than Christmas morning, New Years Eve, and every single birthday rolled into one. I hold my breath, waiting for him to take off. For a moment, the entire world seems to hold its breath...and then he goes, flying down the track like a bat out of hell. The car speeds past us, and the tail wind blows my curls back off my shoulders.
The Grand Prix has finally begun for team Ferrelli.
Enzo soars out of sight in an instant, off through the closed course like a rocket. Gus hovers at Dad’s other elbow, eyes glued to his stopwatch. The two older men stand stoically, their thick brows furrowed. Enzo needs to set himself ahead of the pack right from the very start if we’re going to sweep this thing, and the entire team is on pins on needles waiting to see how these preliminary runs go.
Charlie sidles up next to me as we wait for Enzo to reappear a
nd cross the finish line. With both of our fathers in ear shot, I’m sure he’s not about to start quizzing me about last night again, but his silence is making me just as itchy. His protectiveness is growing more and more pronounced, lately. He’s always kept an eye out for me, but the intensity of his interest is starting to worry me a little bit. I really don’t ever want to have the “I think of you as just a friend” conversation with him, if I can help it. There’s no way I’m ever going to want to be with him romantically, but I don’t want to hurt him either.
“How’s the rest of the turnout look?” Charlie asks me cordially, keeping his eyes on the track, “See any old friends out in the crowd? Or new ones, for that matter?”
“A couple,” I reply vaguely, “How’s the crew feel about Enzo’s chances?”
“All the pit guys are stoked,” he tells me, “We’re all trying to keep our expectations in check, but it’s hard. This could be an important year. For all of us.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“It just feels like things are starting to come to fruition,” Charlie says. He’s slipping into abstract fancy speak, which always happens when he’s nervous. He’s a brainiac at heart, and always tries to hide behind lofty ideas. That’s just his way of protecting himself, I guess. Still, I can’t help but wonder what other things he expects to come to fruition in the near future.
“There are some pretty cute ladies on some of the other teams this year,” I tell him, “I met some of the McClain girls last night, and let me tell you—”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t be interested,” he cuts me off, “You of all people should know—”
“There he is!” Gus roars.
Our heads whips around just in time to catch Enzo sail over the finish line. Gus lets out a whoop of elation, holding the stop watch high above his head.
“Half a second better than his last run!” he cackles, “That’s our boy!”
A satisfied smile spreads across Dad’s face. It’s the most excited he ever lets himself get, at least on the outside, but that smile still speaks volumes. It’s going to be a very good year for Team Ferrelli. After so many seasons of training and perfecting his craft, Enzo is finally poised to be number one.
Faster Harder Page 4
