Faster Hotter (10 page)

“I don’t think that’s any of your business,” I inform her, “If you’re looking for a scoop or an autograph or something, Harrison’s not even here. So if that’s all—What are you doing?!”

She charges past me into the townhouse, striding over the threshold as if she owns the place. Her gloved hands run themselves all over Harrison’s things as she takes stock of the room. I have absolutely no idea how to respond. Should I call the police? Should I try and tackle her onto the floor? She looks like she’d break in half if I so much as looked at her funny.

“Ma’am, I really must insist that you leave,” I say, taking a step toward her, “This is a private residence—”

“Clearly not private enough, if he’s starting bringing in one night stands,” the woman scoffs, running a finger along the mantel.

“I’m not a one night stand,” I say heatedly, “I happen to be Harrison’s girlfriend. Now, if you’re through insulting me, I’d like you to get the hell out of this house.”

“No,” the woman sniffs, heading for the kitchen.

“What do you mean ‘no’?” I exclaim, “Get out, or I’m going to have to call the cops.”

“You most certainly won’t,” she tells me, filling the kettle back up with water.

“Watch me,” I say, making a beeline for my phone.

“I’m going to sit here and have a cup of tea while I wait for my son to get home,” she says, spiteful amusement tugging at the corners of her lips.

I stop in my tracks and stare at her dumbly. Embarrassment, annoyance, and wariness battle for rule over my thoughts.

“You’re...Harrison’s mother,” I say slowly.

“That’s correct,” she sighs, “Jacqueline Davies. And you are?”

“Siena,” I say, crossing my arms tightly across my chest, “Siena Lazio.”

“Lazio?” she echoes, “Why does that sound familiar? You’re not related to that Italian hot head that was always outracing my husband? The one who always walked around with his chest puffed out like some kind of bulldog?”

“That would be my father,” I say, my fists balled.

“You don’t say?” she replies, “Is he still presiding his over team like some old figurehead, or—?”

“He passed away. Two weeks ago,” I tell her, shooting dagger after dagger with my gaze.

“Oh,” she says shortly, “Sorry. Have you run out of sugar?” 

I stare at her, mouth open, completely baffled by her crassness.

“Oh dear,” she pouts, “You’re not one of the bright ones, are you? Never mind, then. I’ll just do without it.”

She bustles about the kitchen, clicking her tongue every minute on the minute. I want nothing more than to march up, take her by the scrawny shoulders, and give her a piece of my mind. But this is Harrison’s mother. I guess he didn’t have an easy time meeting my family, either, but this is a bit ridiculous.

I hear a key click into the front door lock and whirl around to face it. The door opens as Harrison shoves it with his shoulder, carrying two heaping bags of groceries.

“Siena? Are you up? I thought we could fix some dinner later, after I carry you back upstairs for a good—”

“Hello Harrison,” his mother says coolly.

Harrison’s head jerks up as the door slams shut behind him. I half expect the grocery bags to go toppling onto the floor. He looks back and forth between me, wearing his clothes and a deep scowl, and his mother, newly arrived and neat as can be.

“Mother,” he begins, walking cautiously forward, “What...are you doing here?”

“Is that any way to greet the woman who brought you into this world?” she sniffs.

“I guess you two have met already...” he goes on, shooting me an apologetic look.

“Oh, we certainly have,” I say, with an overly chipper smile.

“I thought you made it a rule not to bring women into this house?” his mother goes on, taking a sip of tea.

“Siena isn’t just some woman, Mother,” Harrison says, setting down the groceries, “We’re together.”

“Is that what the youths are calling it these days?” she asks.

“No. We’re—Siena’s my girlfriend. She’s moving in with me. This is her home too, now,” Harrison explains.

“Moving in?” his mother echoes, “Well, that just won’t do, will it?”

“I’m sorry?” I scoff.

“I happen to know that Team McClain is very rigid when it comes to the conduct of their drivers. Illicit behavior is to be conducted in private. What will the press say when Alfonso Lazio’s daughter is coming in and out of your house?”

“Our house,” I correct her.

“Your father knew how to keep his vices secret,” she goes on, bulldozing right over me.

“First of all,” Harrison says, “Siena is not a vice. Our living together is not illicit. And secondly, Dad drank himself to death on his secret vices, so pardon me if I’m not clamoring to follow his example.”

“Don’t speak about your father that way,” she says crisply.

“Oh yes,” Harrison laughs, “I should leave the trashing of Dad to you, right? Isn’t it one of your favorite hobbies?”

“I will not tolerate being spoken to in that tone,” she says, crossing her matchstick arms.

“And I won’t tolerate your being rude to Siena in our home,” Harrison replies. “Now what, exactly, did you come here for, Mother?”

“I simply wanted to welcome you back home after your season,” she says, “I hear it went well for you.”

“You weren’t following it?” I ask, perplexed. My mother stopped coming to race in the flesh when the anxiety of it got to be too much, but she’d always at least watch from afar.

“I’ve never cared for the sport,” Harrison’s mother says, not even bothering to look at me.

“I came in second, overall,” Harrison tells his mother, “McClain’s bumped me up to lead driver, now.”

“Ah, well. Second isn’t too terrible,” she says, “You’ll do better next time.”

“I’m sure. Thanks for understanding.” Harrison says dryly.

“Surely McClain has already spoken to you about this little arrangement you’ve set up with Miss Lazio then?” she asks pointedly.

Harrison and I trade looks. Of course we’ve both been lectured by our teams about not drawing any more attention to ourselves, but we’ve also been blatantly ignoring that advice. We’ve been laying low here, failing to let our teams know about our new living arrangement. Jackie can sniff out our anxiety in no time at all.

“Harrison Davies,” she says sternly, “Team McClain singlehandedly saved our family from the poorhouse, and this is how you repay them?”

“I think that’s a bit of an overstatement,” Harrison says, rolling his eyes. 

“Well, I don’t,” she snaps, “It’s only because of your father that my family was able to stay afloat. And it’s only because of McClain that your father was worth a damn thing. I owe that team everything I have, and I won’t have you tarnishing that relationship—”

“You just don’t want them to cut you off from Dad’s residuals or whatever it is you get by on these days, aside from my generosity,” Harrison says, jaw clenched.

“How dare you?” his mother exclaims. “What’s gotten into you, Harrison?”

“To be frank, Mother, I’ve really just had it with your bullshit,” he replies, “Now, if that'll be all, I’d love it if you’d please get the hell out of my house.”

“Fine,” she says primly, grabbing up her leather clutch, “I’ll leave you to live in filth with your new tramp and forget all about me. Just don’t come crawling to me when McClain axes you for your bad behavior.”

“Trust me, you don’t have to worry about that,” Harrison says, following her as she marches out the door.

“Nice meeting you, Mrs. Davies,” I chirp sarcastically.

She shoots me a fierce little glare and slams the front door closed behind her. Harrison turns to look at me, face entirely blank.

“So...” he begins, “You’ve met my mother...”

A loud burst of laughter surprises me as it bursts out of my mouth.

“Good lord,” I laugh, “She is actually the prototypical mother-in-law, isn’t she?”

A peculiar look passes over Harrison’s face, and I realize the term “mother-in-law” implies tying the knot. Shit. I’ll need to call an ambulance to get this foot out of my mouth, it’s wedged in so deep.

It would seem that, after a peaceful and perfect week, this honeymoon is over. It’s time to deal with the weird, messy logistics of this whole arrangement. Moving in with Harrison isn’t going to be as simple as bringing over an extra toothbrush. Usually, couples that shack up together have to consolidate both of their homes into one space, but I don’t exactly have a home, per se.

I’ve spent the past few years as something of a rambler, following Ferrelli around the world. The closest thing I have to a nest is a little New York City closet, i.e. the apartment I keep. It’s a tiny studio on Avenue B, overlooking Tompkins Square, and I’d blush to say how much the monthly rent is. But still, it’s served its purpose through my academic career, and it’ll give me a place to stay while Bex and I throw together her quickly-approaching wedding.

I’m set to leave for New York in the morning, just after Harrison’s mother’s blustered into our neat little love nest and made an awkward mess of things. My bags are packed and sitting forlornly by the front door. I had to do a secret Google search last night to double check that it’s still OK for me to fly with a baby on board. I’m still safe on that front, but not for much longer. In no time at all, my first trimester will have come and gone. I’ll be showing before long, not to mention swearing off air travel and bottles of wine—two of my most-loved hobbies. And if Harrison somehow fails to mention those things, he’s sure to spot my swelling belly and breasts, given how often he fixes his eyes on them.

In other words, I’m a bit screwed.

We roll out of bed on the day of my flight back to New York with a sense of dread. I’m surprised by how difficult it is for me to leave Harrison’s side. After all, we’ve been in different places before. But this week of coupled bliss was so lovely, I just wish we could stay here. Sure, I’d go stir crazy after a while of not working, but another week of endless sex and food delivery wouldn’t be so terrible.

“There’s the cab,” I say, as a pair of headlights swings across the front windows.

“I wish you were staying,” Harrison says, wrapping his arms around me.

“So do I,” I sigh, “But this wedding isn’t going to plan itself. You’re coming to the city in a week, right?”

“That’s right,” he says, “You tell this pilot to keep his eyes open. He’s got some very precious cargo on board.”

You have no idea, I think to myself, unconsciously placing a hand on my stomach. With a searing kiss, we say goodbye for now, and I let the taxi cab bear me away to the airport.

The hours melt together as I fly from London to New York, my eyes trained on the Atlantic all the while. I know that I’m going to see Harrison again in a week’s time, but right now that feels like forever. Maybe it’s the fact of my father’s death, or the new life inside of me, but something has shifted in the way I think about Harrison. He’s always meant the world to me, since the first time I realized that I loved him, but now it’s something more. These days, he feels like my home. My family. And family has always been the most important thing in my life. I wonder if he’s started to feel the same way?

In what feels like no time at all, the island of Manhattan starts to swim up out of the clouds. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve been in New York, and I’m surprised by the intensity of my relief to be back. This place is where I did most of my real growing up. Spending my college years in New York meant that I was exposed to a whole lot of living rather quickly. By the time undergrad was over, I’d met so many different kinds of men, seen so many different ways of living, that I really felt like I had a better sense of myself. I don’t know how that would have been possible, had I gone to a campus school. Maybe that speedy growing up is why me and Bex, another NYC kid, are hitting these life milestones so quickly?

That gorgeous best friend of mine is waiting at the gate, holding a ridiculous, bedazzled sign with my name on it. I laugh as I run to her, turning the heads of some stuffy business types along the way.

“I couldn’t resist,” she grins, “Welcome back to the Big Apple, my love!”

“You sure do know how to make a girl feel special,” I tell her, “Now let’s get a move on. I just want to curl up in my ten square feet of apartment and tackle this jet lag head on.”

“Sure thing,” Bex says, taking my suitcase from me.

“I’m not that preggo yet, Bex,” I remind her, grabbing for my bag.

“Any amount of preggo is preggo-er than me,” she replies, skipping away from my reach. “No heavy lifting for you, missy.”

“You’re the boss,” I tell her, raising my hands in surrender. “For the next few weeks, whatever you say goes. Your day, your way, right?”

“Something like that,” she smiles.

We hail and cab and book it to Alphabet City. I’m amazed by how much a city can change after a few fleeting months. New businesses have opened, others are gone. Colorful street art has appeared and disappeared from different walls. The advertisements shill a new season of goods to the people of Manhattan. But the important, essential things—they’re all the same as they’ve ever been.

“What the hell were you thinking, renting a six floor walk up?” Bex pants, as we make our way up to my apartment.

“You insisted on taking the bag,” I remind her.

“This should be illegal,” she mutters, hoisting her tiny frame up the stairs, “If I wanted a workout, I would have hit the gym. At least there you can watch Rachael Ray while you sweat.”

“Here we are,” I say, stepping onto the sixth floor landing and fitting my key into my front door, “Home sweet home.”

We step over the threshold and immediately burst out laughing together. After so many months staying in gorgeous hotels around the world, my rinky dink apartment is a sight. A king-sized bed would take up half the floor space in here, at least.

“Be it ever so humble,” Bex giggles.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad,” I reply, sinking down onto my bed. “This is where all the magic happened, when we were still in school.”

“If by magic, you mean pre-gaming and the occasional, unsatisfying one night stand,” Bex replies.