Faster Deeper (Take Me...#2) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (3 page)

I follow Bex and Charlie out to Ferrelli’s fleet of private
cars. We take off toward the airport, where our private jet will be waiting to
ferry us all to Moscow. I used to take such joy in jetting around the world
with my team, but this season has changed everything. How can I enjoy myself
when everything is unraveling all around me?

As we arrive at the airport, I feel another buzz against my
leg. More texts from the blackmailer, perhaps? I haven’t seen Charlie touch his
cell the whole ride. I whip out my phone and peer down—it’s from Harrison
again. I open up the text, making sure that no one can see its contents.

“You seem upset,” it reads, “Did I do something wrong? I
want to see you in Moscow. Tell me that I can.”

My thumbs hover over the keypad while my brain scrambles to
come up with something to say. Finally, I settle on two simple words:

“Not now.”

I’d hate to be on the receiving end of a vague text like
that, especially with our stakes being so damn high, but what choice do I have?
I’ve got to stall until I figure out a way to fix this. Harrison will
understand, in time.

After we’ve touched down in Russia and made it to our next
hotel, I barely make it into bed before I collapse, exhausted. The emotional
toil of these past few days has finally caught up with me. I’ve never been one
to sleep in, but I don’t wake up again until noon the next day. Moscow may be a
gorgeous, fascinating city, and any other time I’d love to do a little
exploring...but today I’d rather not leave my bed, if I can help it.

I’ve hardly been awake for a minute when I hear my phone
buzzing persistently in my purse. Groaning, I pull myself out of bed and blink
blearily at my iPhone’s screen. My stomach drops a foot as I see another text
from Harrison’s number.

“I’m starting to get worried, here,” it reads.

I bite my lip, staring down at the message. If the tables
were turned and Harrison was icing me out, I’d probably be busting down his
hotel door by now. I hate doing this to him.

A knock on my door startles me out of my sleepy stupor.

“C-come in,” I stutter, hastily deleting Harrison’s message
from my phone.

My bedroom door eases open, revealing my father. I wait for
him to make a judgmental remark about the fact that I’m still in bed, but
instead he remains quiet. There’s a look on his face that I haven’t seen
before. He looks anxious, and if I didn’t know better...I’d almost think he
looked sad.

“Dad...are you OK?” I ask, as he closes the door behind him.

“What? Oh. Yeah, of course,” he says, smiling thinly, “I
just wanted to come check on you is all.”

Now I know that something must be up. My dad’s never “just
come to check on me” in my life, especially not when his mind is consumed with
an impending race. Dad wasn’t a cruel or totally negligent father, but it was
always very clear to Enzo and I that his career as a driver had to come first
in all circumstances. Luckily for us, he was winding down his time on the track
by the time our ages hit double digits. Most F1 drivers opt out of racing by
the time they hit their late thirties, and Alfonso Lazio was no exception.

Dad was a racing wunderkind in his day, and was a
well-respected driver well before he made it big in his mid-twenties. His
whirlwind career charged ahead for more than a decade. He married my mother and
saw both of his children born while he was Team Ferrelli’s star driver. But at
some point, he decided to take on a less dangerous role in the world of F1.
When I was five years old, Dad hung up his helmet and moved on to the world of
management. He doesn’t own Team Ferrelli, but he’s one of the team’s most
influential shareholders. This way, he’s still involved with his team and
sought out for advice, but doesn’t have to get tangled up in anything he’d
rather not deal with. Mostly, he concentrates on grooming Enzo, and he’s
obviously been doing a bang-up job, at that.

“Are you just waking up?” he asks now, sitting down at the
desk.

“Oh...yeah. Just catching up,” I say vaguely.

“Well. You’ve earned a bit of a rest,” he tells me, “I know
that this championship season hasn’t been the most peaceful.”

A hundred memories of Harrison flood my mind, unbidden. If
my dad had any idea just how exciting this season has been for me—

“You look a little flushed,” he says, “Everything alright?”

“Oh. Yep. Yeah,” I say, wanting to kick myself for blushing
like a damn schoolgirl, “Did you, uh, need me to do something? Work-related, I
mean?”

“No, no,” Dad says, a smile lifting the corners of his
mouth, “But I like that industrious attitude. You’ve always been such a hard
worker, Siena. You get that from me.”

“Thanks Dad,” I say.

“I just want you to know that it doesn’t go unnoticed, all
your effort,” he says, “I know I give you a hard time, and that I’m not the
easiest man to please, but I know that at the end of the day, I can count on
you to know what’s good for this team. Sometimes, you know better than I do. Public
Relations-wise, of course.”

“Of course,” I smile.

“Enzo’s always thought of himself as your protector, your
big old brother, but you take care of him just as well, Siena. Thank you for
that. Thank you for putting family first and keeping an eye on him.”

“Sure Dad,” I say, “But...Can I ask what the sudden praise
is all about?”

“Oh God,” Dad laughs, “I hope I’m not so stingy with
compliments that this is strange for you. Am I really that bad?”

“You’re...not forthcoming with the positive notes,” I allow,
“Not that I mind. I like to be challenged in my work.”

“I’m sorry, Siena,” Dad sighs, standing.

He crosses the room and wraps me up in an unexpected bear
hug. I freeze for a moment, unsure of what to do. We’re a loving family, but
Dad’s never been the affectionate type. We always relied on Mom for hugs and
kisses, and Dad for tough love. I give into the sudden hug, but unease is
stirring in my gut. Something seems off, here. I just can’t tell what...

“I’m really proud of you,” Dad says, resting his chin on the
top of my head, “This isn’t an easy world for young women to get along in, but
you’re really holding your own. Even if you weren’t my daughter, I’d try and
poach you from another team in a heartbeat.”

“I enjoy it,” I tell him, pulling away and looking up into
his eyes.

“Is Public Relations where you want to stay?” he asks,
pulling me over to sit beside him on the couch.

I settle down, mulling over the question. “I mean...I think
I have a knack for it,” I tell him, “And there’s definitely a rush involved,
having the power to shape narratives and stories and all.”

“But...?” Dad asks, leading me along.

“But...I suppose the position feels a little limiting,” I
admit, “If I’m really honest...I wouldn’t mind having a little more influence
someday. There are hardly any women on the managerial side of F1, you know?”

“I figured you’d have your sights set higher,” Dad says,
looking downright elated.

“Well, you always taught us to go after our dreams,” I say,
“I guess I was listening.”

“I guess you were,” Dad says, “For what it’s worth, I think
you’d make an excellent player in the F1 game. Your PR and marketing strategies
are brilliant, I’m sure your racing strategies would be just as spot-on.”

“I've been watching Formula One for...oh...my entire life?”
I say.

“That’s true,” Dad laughs.

“Come to think of it,” I say, “I’m pretty sure my first
memory is of a Grand Prix.”

“Really?” Dad asks.

“Yeah,” I say, turning toward him, “I couldn’t have been
older than four. It’s a fuzzy sort of memory, more like a dream than anything
else. It’s the day of the Grand Prix, right at the end. Mom’s got me all
dressed up in a getup that matches hers—some sporty little sundress. Enzo’s
there, practically jumping onto the track with excitement, his black mop of
hair going every which way. Mom picks me up in her arms so that I can see the
cars cross the finish line. And there’s a flash of green, and I just go
berserk. I’m screaming and pointing, going, ‘that’s my dad! that’s my dad!’
You’re neck and neck with this jet black car, but at the last second you fly
ahead of him. And the whole world just erupts into noise. We rush down to the
pit as you get out of your car, all red in the face and sweaty. I run over to
you, and you scoop me up, and I feel like goddamn royalty...”

A stifled sound pulls my focus away from my tale. Dad has
his hands clenched tightly together, trying his best to hold back...tears?

“Dad...what is it?” I ask quietly, laying a hand on his
back.

“Nothing. Nothing,” he says, sniffing loudly and sitting up
straight, “That’s just a damn fine story, Siena. Must have been during my last F2
series, before I moved on up the food chain. I’m glad you can remember me like
that. Young, and strong...a champion.”

“You’ll always be a champion to me,” I tell him, braiding my
fingers through his. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Sure,” he says, “Sure do, kiddo. Well. Anyhow. Just wanted
to...”

“Stop by and check on me?” I offer.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m, uh, gonna go grab something to eat.
Take your time, though. Take a breather. You deserve it.”

He walks quickly across the room and leaves me alone with my
thoughts once more. I stare after my father, dazed by his behavior. My dad is
nothing if not a ruthless, unsentimental strategist. What’s with the waxing
nostalgia all of a sudden? Maybe he’s finally starting to soften up a bit in
his old age. That might not be such a tragedy. Maybe he’ll thaw enough before
the season is over to handle the news of me and Harrison?

Wishful thinking.

All of the anxiety that’s been eating away at my nerves
since receiving those incriminating photos is rushing back into my bloodstream.
I need to relax. The only way I’m going to be able to think through this if I
can clear my mind. I throw on some skinny jeans, a white tank, and my favorite
leather jacket. With a quick swipe of mascara and a dab of rosy lip gloss, I’m
good to go. The worst thing I can do right now is lock myself up in my room and
refuse to let the world in. I’ll take a little walk around the hotel grounds.
That should clear my head right up.

I make my way through the exquisitely fancy hotel, marveling
at the elegant touches along the way. I’ve always been treated like F1 royalty,
and sometimes I forget to stop and be grateful for it. Even with all of this
personal drama, this scandal, I’m getting paid to see the world and do what I
love. It’s hard to carry gratitude in my heart when it’s already weighed down
with so much...but I have to keep at it.

There’s a small but spotless garden behind our stately gem
of a hotel, and I slip out into it to fill my lungs with fresh air. The moment
I step outside, I feel a little better. A lot of people get lonely when they
travel, but I’ve always felt more at home on the move than static. Maybe it’s
because my childhood was split up between two vastly different environments,
but I think I’ll be something of a rambler for the rest of my life. You learn
to understand people so much more deeply when you’ve been around the world. I
wouldn’t trade that awareness for anything.

The air is just a bit nippy as I make my way through the
maze of high, manicured shrubs. This place is something out of
War and Peace.
I do
feel more than a little bit like the lovesick Natasha, longing for her love.
But also tempted by a man who no one thinks is good for her. I guess that means
Harrison and I have some wild sort of love story going on...I just wish ours
was a bit more Nicholas Sparks and a bit less Shakespeare.

I sink down onto a stone bench, peering up at the bright
afternoon sky. A moment of peace like this is hard to come by in my line of
work, and I mean to savor it.

“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, as my ringtone begins to chirp.
I whip out my phone and see that Harrison has once again shot me a message. But
this time, it’s only two words long:

“Over here.”

I whip my head around and feel the air leave my lungs.
Harrison is standing across the small stone walkway, wearing light blue jeans,
a bomber jacket, and the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on his face.

“What are you doing here?” I hiss.

“Look at that,” Harrison remarks, “You actually answered one
of my texts. Sort of.”

“You can’t be here. We can’t be here,” I say, jumping to my
feet.

I try to dart past Harrison, but he catches me up in his arms.
He holds onto me firmly, looking down into my panicked eyes.

“You have to tell me what the hell is going on,” he pleads,
“I’m losing my mind, Siena. What happened? Are you angry with me for winning
the Budapest Grand Prix? Is that it?”

“Please,” I beg, tears springing to my eyes, “Harrison, it’s
not that—”

“Did your family finally get to you? Convince you to stay
away from me?”

“No—”

“Are you tired of me? Scared of me? What? Just give me a
clue, Siena. I’m in the dark, here. I can’t stand it.”

“I just can’t see you, Harrison!” I cry, pushing myself away
from him, “I can’t be seen with you.”

“But why?” he asks, his voice as furious as I’ve ever heard
it.

“I’ll show you,” I say roughly, whipping out my phone.

I open up the folder of damning photos as thrust the device
his way. Comprehension dawns across his face, followed by outraged indignation.

“What the hell is this?” he growls.

“I believe it’s what they call blackmail,” I tell him.

“This is insane,” he says, eyes glued to the pictures, “This
can’t be...”

“But it is,” I tell him, “I’m sorry I shut you out. I just
didn’t know what to do. Someone’s got it in for us, Harrison. And I have no
idea when this time bomb is going to go off. What are we supposed to do?”

“I...I haven’t the slightest idea,” he says, shoving a hand
through his dirty blonde hair, “But I know what we’re not going to do. We’re
not going to let this bastard ruin us. We’ll figure something out, Siena. But
you have to promise me that we’ll figure it out together.”