The excitement rising above the crowd is palpable. This is the first time we’ll all get a glimpse of the full Grand Prix lineup. The track is lined with car after gleaming car, each plastered with stripes and logos and vibrant colors. Each vehicle is an extension of its driver—celebrities in their own right. Even the drivers who never finish in the top ten are still regarded as heroes around here. No matter what a driver’s ranking, he’s still racing in Formula One, after all. It’s a small, elite group of people who have the guts to do so.
I spot Enzo’s emerald green ride right up front. From this far off, I can’t see his eyes behind his visor, but I know that they’re gleaming with anticipation. Enzo’s never more himself than when he’s speeding down the race track. Despite his ego, despite his temper, he’s one hell of a driver. Sisterly pride swells up inside of me every time I watch him race by, and today is no exception. There is one thing, of course, that makes today’s run very, very different for me: Harrison Davies.
My eyes stray to the ruby red McClain car. I can see Harrison there behind the wheel, waiting to jet off into the race. And as I think about him, something strange happens. I start to feel proud of him, too. Proud for him. How can that possibly be? We’ve only known each other a couple of days, only had two conversations between the moments we managed to stop kissing each other. How can I feel so close to him, so excited for him and his chances of success? Harrison’s victory would come at the expense of my brothers, and yet I want them both to win. I’m hoping for nothing short of an impossible miracle, and I know it. Jesus...Why couldn’t Harrison have been a member of someone’s pit crew all along?
But as I gaze down the track at that bright red car, I can’t kid myself any longer. I’m falling for Harrison because he’s devastatingly handsome and intriguing as hell...but I’m also falling for him because he’s an incredible driver. I like that he’s amazing behind the wheel. I like that he’s powerful and strong and astoundingly brave. The fact that his hands do things to me that I’ve never felt before...Well, that’s one hell of a perk, too.
“Here we go,” I mutter, my voice lost beneath the crackling, booming sounds all around me. “This is it.”
The crowd erupts into excited cheers and the starting horn blares across the city. My hands tighten on the barrier railing as a collective roar goes up from the assembled cars. They tear past us, picking up more speed by the inch. Enzo takes off in the lead, with Harrison a few cars behind.
“Go, go!” I shout.
“Which one are you cheering for?” Bex asks slyly.
“What do you mean, which one?” Charlie says archly.
“It was a joke, Chuck,” Bex tells him, “Lighten up, would you?”
My eyes snap toward the huge screen that broadcasts the race in progress. Enzo is holding his lead like a champ, leaving no room for anyone to get past him. But a flash of red weaves through the rest of the pack like a shot. Harrison’s car swings deftly around the others, overtaking them one by one. Good God, he knows how to handle that machine. Under his command, it’s not an unwieldy, dangerous metal shell. It moves like an animal that only he can control.
Harrison’s a natural driver, that much is sure, but what he’s showing out there on the track is far more than natural skill. That level of control, of expertise, takes years and years of practice. And I should know—I watched my brother train for that same level of excellence. I’ve seen dozens of old tapes of my father’s races where he’s shown the same incredible skill. Could it be possible that Harrison’s actually as good a racer as the Ferrelli men?
“Holy shit...” Charlie says, staring at the far end of the track.
I follow his gaze and see two cars whip around the corner—one red, one green. Enzo is still firmly in the lead, but Harrison is gaining on him in a big way. The chasm between them begins to close as they head into the second lap. Enzo holds the inside, his car practically one with the track. Harrison hangs just behind him, waiting for his golden opportunity. My knuckles are turning white on the railing, my entire body feels like one raw nerve as the cars speed on. I’ve lost of track of what outcome I’m hoping for, or if there’s a single way this can end that isn’t going to leave a man I care about disappointed and furious.
Time loses all meaning as Enzo and Harrison lap the other drivers and speed on ahead, neck and neck. When they finally set off on their final lap, I can scarcely feel my feet of the ground. I watch as they barrel ahead, gaining on the finish line. In the last moment before they close in, Enzo shoots out ahead of Harrison, riding a burst of speed from the draft of Harrison's car. My brother sails ahead of Harrison, crossing the finish line with a nice, healthy lead. Harrison zooms over after him, securing second place.
“Hell yes!” Charlie cries, hugging Bex tightly against him, “He got pole position! He’s going to kill it tomorrow!”
I let a grin spread across my face. My big brother’s poised to win tomorrow’s race, and Harrison’s shaping up to come in second. That sounds like a best case scenario if I ever heard it. I dive into Bex and Charlie’s bear hug, and the three of us fall against each other, laughing and cheering. For a moment, my anxiety lifts. Maybe this will work out for everyone, after all.
Chapter Seven
Pole Position
That evening, Team Ferrelli hunkers down in Enzo’s suite for some last-minute strategizing. We’re all gathered together, going over the logistics of the next day, keeping Enzo’s spirits up and stress level as low as possible. He’d hate for any of his fans to know it, but Enzo gets terribly anxious before every Grand Prix.
My brother wants so badly to keep up his standing, to do well for the team that raised him. The pressure can get to him, once in a while. He keeps a pretty cool mask on in front of the team, but I know him too well to be fooled.
I sit with Bex on the cushy hotel couch, going over our schedule of press conferences for the coming days and weeks. Across the room, Enzo and my dad are huddled over a table covered in notes and statistics. Gus is briefing the pit guys about the following day’s race, and Charlie is on the phone tackling some snag in our travel plans. Looking around, I can’t help but be proud of our team. We’re as well oiled a machine as the one that Enzo races, and it takes every single person in this room to rack up the points.
“Siena?” Bex asks, “What do you think of that idea?”
“What?” I say, “Sorry, I was distracted.”
“I’m sure,” she says quietly, her eyes dancing mischievously.
“Not by...that,” I tell her, knowing precisely what she’s thinking of.
“I was just saying that we should think about adding a blog component to the website,” she reiterates, “What do you think?”
“Hold that thought,” I tell her. My cell phone is buzzing against my thigh. I pull it out of my pocket and see that I have a new text.
I unlock my phone and peer down at the message. It’s from a number I don’t recognize, but one glance tells me exactly who it’s from.
“Room 582,” it reads, “Come here.”
My eyes dart around the room, but of course no one’s even looked up. Bex looks down at my phone and takes a quick little breath. I shake my head at her, urging her to keep quiet. I’m entirely torn—should I really go up to Harrison’s room, the very night before the race?
“I’m starving,” Bex says pointedly, “Would you mind running to the vending machine for me?”
“I don’t know...” I say, “We have a lot of work to do. I shouldn’t—”
“Please,” she says, giving me a tiny wink, “For me.”
“Well...OK,” I say, standing up slowly, “I’ll see what...what they have.”
“Make it sweet. Or hot. Whatever you’re in the mood for,” she grins.
“You’re wicked,” I whisper to her.
“That makes two of us,” she replies, “Now go.”
I slip out of Enzo’s suite, unnoticed by the rest of the team. They’re too busy concentrating on tomorrow’s race to ev
en realize that I’m gone, and so much the better. I can practically feel my blood charging through my veins as I hurry into the elevator and press the button for floor number five. I know that if I pause long enough to think too hard about what I’m doing, I’ll start to second guess myself.
For once, I want to let myself be impulsive. Bex is right, after all. Why should my romantic life be determined by my place within the world of F1? My entire life so far has been all about this sport. I’m sick of being a spectator to my own life. It’s time to jump behind the wheel.
The elevator doors open noiselessly before me, and I pad down the quiet hallway. Room 582 looms ahead at the end of the hall, and I feel my body being drawn ahead step by step. It’s like every cell in my body knows that Harrison is near, is begging me to go to him. And I’m more than happy to oblige.
I stop in front of the door, take a steadying breath, and knock softly. After the first light tap, the door swings open before me, and Harrison’s brilliant eyes lock onto mine. A smile breaks across his face like a ray of sun through the darkest of storm clouds. My legs begin to tremble beneath me at the sheer proximity of that impeccably sculpted face, that staggeringly fit body.
“And here you are,” Harrison says, taking my hand and pulling me into the room.
“As requested,” I reply, looking around the dimly lit space, “Are you sure no one’s going to happen upon us here?”
“I’m certain that they won’t,” he tells me, lacing his fingers through mine, “I rented out an extra room for the evening. The rest of my team is five flights away.”
“Clever man,” I smile, leaning back against the closed door.
Harrison steps toward me, closing the space between our bodies. He pins my hands over my head, brings those full lips down to mine. I accept his deep kiss, and a low moan escapes my throat. The moment he touches me, need begins to pulse between my legs, along every inch of my skin.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Harrison says, kissing down along my neck, “You’re thinking that I asked you up here to lay you down across my bed and have my way with you over and over again. Am I right?”
“Didn’t you?” I ask.
“Well...yes and no,” he tells me, nipping lightly at my ear. “That may very well be how we conclude our evening, but first, I need you to do something for me.”
“Oh?” I say, arching an eyebrow, “And what might that be?”
He winks in response and takes me by the hand, leading me into the darkened suite. We step into the living room, and I stop short. A table is set in the center of the room, with a beautiful dinner spread out across it. Beyond the table, a gorgeous view of the city sprawls out before us. Harrison looks at me expectantly.
“Have dinner with me?” he asks. For once, his request isn’t phrased as a statement. He’s actually asked me on...a date?
“Of course. Sure,” I say, flustered and giddy.
We sit down across from each other, and Harrison produces a bottle of chilled white wine. Pouring me a generous glass, he says, “I would have gotten you your signature drink, but I didn’t know how long it would take for you to skip out on your team.”
“I haven’t skipped out,” I tell him, “I’m just...”
“Visiting?” he suggests.
“Right.”
“It occurred to me this morning that we haven’t had much of a proper chance to get to know each other,” Harrison says, filling his own glass.
“Could that be because we spend most of our time doing more interesting things with our lips than talking?” I ask.
“You keep talking like that, and I’ll have no choice but to carry you into the next room, Miss Lazio,” he informs me.
“Maybe that was my plan, Mr. Davies.”
“I knew you only wanted me for my body,” he sighs theatrically. “I’m hurt.”
“You just don’t strike me as the dinner and conversation type,” I tell him.
“I’m not. With most women,” he says, “But I’m learning very quickly that you, Siena, are an entirely different matter.”
I can’t help but be excited by the idea that I could be something more to Harrison than a Grand Prix fling. But still, best to tread lightly. He’s a bad boy, after all. As connected to him as I feel, it’s true—there’s a lot we still don’t know about each other.
“So tell me, Harrison,” I say, filling my plate with all manner of delicious offerings, “How does a rookie driver completely blindside an entire sport, come out of thin air, and earn himself a chance at winning?”
“It’s a long story,” he says, “The good ones tend to be. But the short version of it is this. I’m no rookie, Siena. I was scouted by McClain when I was eleven years old. They’ve been grooming me all my life for this. My opportunity to get on the track came about a bit unexpectedly, to be sure, but I intend to make the most of it.”
“You’ve been training since you were eleven?” I ask wondrously, “Didn’t your parents have any qualms about that?”
“One thing we have in common, Siena, is being beholden to the family business. Have you ever heard of a driver named Walther Davies?”
“Walther Davies...Of course,” I say, “He was famous, back in the day. You’re—?”
“His son,” Harrison says.
“How did I not make that connection?” I say, sitting back in my chair.
“Well, it’s not as though he retired gracefully,” Harrison says, “His career was rather...short-lived. And so was he, as it turns out.”
“Oh god. That’s right...He passed away, didn’t he?”
“Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“Don’t be,” he shrugs, “He was an asshole. Only reason he gave any shit at all about me was because I could drive. That man had me in a boxcar by the time I was five years old. Don’t know what he would have done if I’d turned out to be a shit racer, or a girl. It was his idea to get McClain to train me in secret. He wanted me to have this grand reveal when I was good enough to race in the tournaments. Drank himself to death before he could see it, though. Is that what they call poetic justice or something?”
“What about your mother?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that she’s used to making sacrifices in the name of the sport,” Harrison says dryly, “Jackie, my mother, was a bit of a sacrificial lamb, as far as her marriage to my dad went. She was from one of those horribly wealthy British families. Or at least, they were wealthy for a time. By the time Jackie was of marrying age, they were on the edge of bankruptcy. They needed to marry her off to a rich, famous bloke. Lo and behold, my father was the first man to wander along that fit the description. They didn’t much mind that he was a raging asshole with a knack for barely legal women and bourbon...I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
“And I thought my family was messed up,” I say. “Enzo and I were raised in the sport too. But save for a bit of heavy favoritism, I can’t much complain.”
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Harrison tells me, “I can see how driven you are, Siena. It must be hard to have such...strong family ties holding you in one place.”
“It is,” I admit, “God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you about this...”
“I don’t buy that,” he says, “I think you know how well I understand you, Siena. The moment we met, something just felt familiar about you. I know what it’s like, growing up in this world. It’s almost like I know you already. Don’t you feel that, too?”
“I...I do, Harrison,” I tell him, “But I have to be careful with you. This isn’t exactly a risk-free situation we’ve gotten ourselves into.”
“No,” Harrison agrees, “But then, I wouldn’t much care for a life without some risk.”
We lapse into a supercharged silence, and every word I’ve ever known seems to evaporate into thin air. I’m suddenly reminded of the one and only talk my mother and I ever had about sex. When I was a young teenager, she sat me down
and gave me some advice about how to know when the time was right to sleep with someone. She told me that the moment to give yourself over to someone like that is the moment when there are no more words left between you. I don’t think I ever understood what she really meant by that until this very moment in time.
Sitting across from Harrison, alone in this gorgeous hotel room overlooking the stunning city of Barcelona, what else could I possibly do but let go and embrace the moment? Already, I feel more honestly myself around him than with any man I’ve ever met. How can it be that we’ve only known each other for a couple of days? He’s right. It does feel like I knew him long before we locked eyes at the club the other evening. There’s something shared between us that goes far deeper than words.
The sparkling intensity of Harrison’s clear blue eyes is almost too much to bear. I push myself up from the table and make my way toward the tall windows overlooking the sea. Down below, the stretch of beach where we gave over to each other just last night gleams like a beacon. Just yesterday, being with him felt so much easier. But now, with the rivalry between Harrison and Enzo heating up with every lap they race, everything seems so terribly complicated.
I watch in the reflection of the window as Harrison stands and crosses to me. Silently, he stops behind me and wraps his strong arms around my body. I relax into him, malleable and willing in his embrace. His slightest touch has the power to open me up, make me eager and adventurous—exactly the person I want to be.
I gaze at our reflection in the darkened glass; I look so small against Harrison’s staggeringly build. But his tall, rugged body doesn’t make me feel meek in comparison. With him, I feel more powerful, more uninhibited than ever. And I have to admit...we make a remarkably good-looking couple. His sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin are the perfect complement to my chestnut curls, chocolate brown eyes, and olive complexion. It’s like we were built for each other.
Faster Harder Page 8
