Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (17 page)

“Aww, are you gonna shed a tear?” Marques says, sneering at
me, “Suck it up, babe. You’re in the big leagues, here. Only the strong
survive.”

“Or the shameless, in your case,” I spit, “You were willing
to tamper with your own car to make it look like—why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re just so naive!” Marques cackles, clutching
his stomach, “I never messed with my car, you dumb little girl. I just paid off
some pit guys to say it had been messed with. All so that I could pin the blame
on you, obviously.”

“You set me up in the bar,” I seethe.

“Me and my lovely camera woman, yes,” Marques smiles, “And
it did the trick, too! Got you in trouble with all the big, scary men. Is that
why you’re wearing that ridiculous little getup? Don’t want to get in trouble,
little one? That’s just adorable. Don’t worry, I won’t even bother ratting you
out. I’ve got more important things to do. Like winning this championship, for
one. Just think—when we started in Barcelona, I was a nobody. But thanks to you
and your hapless friends, I’m about to become a multi-millionaire and a household
name.”

“You haven’t won yet, Marques,” I whisper.

“No, you’re right. I could use one of those good luck kisses
you’re so fond of giving your brother,” he says, closing the space between us.

I back away from him, further into the trailer. I loose my
hands from my pockets, balling them into fists. Marques gives a little laugh
and strolls toward the door.

“Honestly, it’s not even worth it,” he sighs, “You’ll be
throwing yourself at my feet when I’m the world champion. Mark my words. Until
then, babe.”

He disappears through the trailer door, leaving me standing
in the center of the room alone. My knees shake beneath me as I stare after
him, amazed by his cavalier admission. Everything’s gone so perfectly according
to his plan that he can’t imagine that anything could derail him now.

With trembling fingers, I reach into my pocket and pull out
my iPhone. A little sound wave wiggles there on the screen, wavering with my
every heavy breath. I press the red button, stopping the recording and saving
it to my phone. My entire conversation with Marques is captured there, in that
most unassuming of devices.

“Gotcha, bitch,” I grin, clutching the phone triumphantly in
my fist.

Beyond the walls of the trailer, the announcer’s voice rings
out, heralding the start of the race. I rip open the trailer door just in time
to watch the cars line up, their engines purring like big cats. There’s
Marques, sidling into his undeserving position at the head of the pack.
Harrison is right beside him, followed by Enzo. The only thing I didn’t manage
to get out of Marques during our fateful little chat is what he has up his sleeve
for this race. There’s no way I can stop the Grand Prix from starting now.

As if cued by my frantic thoughts, the green flag comes
soaring down. The fleet of F1 racers roars to life and takes off in a cloud of
exhaust and ripping engines.

“No...” I groan, watching helplessly as the cars take off
along the track, “No, no, no!”

I tear out of Marques’ camp and go in search of Ferrelli’s.
The chaotic crowd all but swallows me up as I search, and a quarter of the race
has already been run by the time I finally find my emerald-clad teammates.

“Siena, there you are!”

“Where have you been, girl?”

I brush past familiar faces and race toward the pit. I skid
to a stop among the clanging, clamoring noise of the pit. Gus is commanding his
troops as I rush up to him, arms waving. He takes one look at me and loses his
cool.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts, “I told you—”

“I know, I know!” I cry, “But Gus—”

“You wanna get yourself banned from the team? Break your
father’s heart?”

“I need you to call the ownership and—”

“I need you to get out of the pit,” Gus says firmly. He
turns away, completely icing me out. Furious, I storm away, my brain scrambling
to find another way.

My phone vibrates against my palm, and I glance down to see
that Bex has texted me, asking if I’m holding up OK.

“Come to the Ferrelli trailer,” I text her, “Hurry.”

In no time flat, Bex, Charlie and I are huddled together in
Enzo’s trailer.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to be here?” Charlie says
anxiously.

“Things have changed,” I tell him, producing my phone.

I let Marques’ admission ring through the trailer, watching
as Bex and Charlie’s jaws drop further and further.

“That son of a bitch,” Charlie mutters. “How cocky he is to
just freely admit all that shit!”

“Oh, he's going down,” I tell him, my thumbs flying across
the screen of my phone.

Bex and Charlie’s phones both buzz as they receive the
message I’ve sent them. “You each have a copy of this conversation now. If the
Ferrelli owners won’t hear me, if we can’t go to the race authorities, there’s
still one place we can turn. The internet.”

As the second two quarters of the race go by, the three of
us get to work. We email, text and post our recording everywhere we can think
of. But I won’t stop at three vigilantes. I call in backup. With a couple of
well-placed texts, I get Shelby and Sara to come running. After hearing Marques
talk about their driver, they’re more than happy to help. In no time, Enzo’s
trailer is the epicenter of our effort to bring Marques down before something
goes terribly wrong on the track.

“Pull up the race on the TV,” I command.

Charlie does so, and the race springs up before us. Marques
is in second place, right behind Harrison. Enzo lingers just behind, and the
three race along in a tight pack. So far, no foul play that I can see. But who
knows how long that will hold out.

“We just need one website to bite,” I mutter, “Just one, and
he’s—”

“It’s done,” Bex breathes, waving her phone. “We’ve got
him!” There on her screen is a brand new blog post by one of the most
influential sports networks around:

BREAKING: Rafael Marques May Be Responsible for F1
Tournament Violence
.

And there, beneath the headline, is a transcribed version of
our conversation, with the video file to boot. A cheer goes up in the trailer
as we fall on top of each other, hugging and laughing, celebrating our little
victory. But we’re not out of the woods yet.

“It’s blowing up everywhere!” Sara exclaims.

“Turn up the TV,” Shelby shouts.

“This just in...” the race announcer says, “We’re getting
reports of a new recording of Rafael Marques boasting about his orchestration
of the flurry of violence that’s gripped this Formula One season. Here, have a
listen.”

The TV waves are flooded with Marques’s sneering voice,
punctuated by my own. The drivers are closing in on their final five laps as
the world hears the Spanish driver’s admission loud and clear. He’s toast.

“Miss Lazio!” a voice calls from the door.

We all spin around to see a trio of race officials hurry
into the crowded room. One of the men crossed to me, brandishing his Blackberry.

“Is this real?” he asks, referring to the audio file.

“It’s real,” I confirm, “We have to stop Marques before—”

“The authorities are on their way,” the man says, “But they
may not get here before the race is finished. Could Marques have something
planned for the finish line?”

The prospect spurs me into action. I race out into the open
air, straight up to the barrier. Harrison, Marques, and Enzo roar by just as I
slam up against the concrete wall, the sounds of their engines deafening. I
can’t even think about winning or losing right now, just as long as my boys
make it out OK. I keep waiting to hear blaring sirens or see police cruisers
soar onto the track, but two more laps go by, and suddenly they’re on the
second the last.

And to my horror, Marques has passed Harrison.

The cars soar through the penultimate lap. When they
reappear, the final lap of the championship, the single stretch that will
determine the winner, is underway.

Enzo and Harrison edge along the length of Marques’ car,
looking for an opening. But the Spanish driver isn’t giving up an inch. As they
fly past us, I can see clearly that it’s no use. Marques is going to win this
thing.

Just as an enormous wave of disappointment readies itself to
crash through me, the world all but stops before my eyes. Harrison’s car is
flying ahead on a draft of speed, right out in front of Marques’. I wait to see
my man soar over the finish line ahead of all the others, but my expectations
are foiled. He lingers in front of Marques and holds his speed as Enzo edges
along to meet him. I can almost see my brother and Harrison trade glances as
they draw even with one another, speeding toward the finish line.

And that’s when Harrison spins out.

The crowd gasps as his car turns about in a controlled loop.
Marques panics and slams on his breaks, toppling and spinning dangerously away
toward the wall. His hood crunches against the concrete as Enzo speeds on
ahead. Harrison regains control of his car and takes off after my brother like
a shot. I watch from afar as Enzo jolts over the finish line ahead of every
other driver, and Harrison arrives right behind him.

A roaring cheer rips out of my throat from the very core of
me as the crowd goes absolutely mad. The rest of the cars zoom, one after
another, straight past Marques and onward to their own finishes. Enzo and
Harrison loop around the track in a victory lap, gracefully decelerating as
their teams race out to meet them in the pit.

I vault down onto the track, unable to feel anything but
joy. The emerald and ruby cars are mobbed as they finally come to a stop.
Champagne rains down on the assembled crowd as Harrison and Enzo pull
themselves out of their cars, and I’m suspended between them. I watch them each
search me out and find me, and reach out my arms as they come running.

Without pausing, they throw their arms around me together,
and the three of us are wrapped up in a crushing embrace. Sudden tears roll
down my cheeks as I hold onto them both. The crowd surges around us,
surrounding us with love and triumph.

“You stopped that asshole in his tracks,” Enzo laughs,
clapping Harrison on the back.

“We did,” Harrison says, looking intently at my brother, “We
did good, Lazio.”

“Hell yes we did, Davies,” Enzo laughs.

“You two don’t know the half of it,” I say, laughing through
my happy tears, “Just wait until you turn on the news...”

An ecstatic cry cuts through the noise around us, and I whip
my head around toward its source. I gasp as an unexpected scene greets my
baffled eyes. Charlie and Bex are all but frozen in a perfect tableau. Bex
stares, beyond words, as Charlie kneels before her on the track, holding up a
tiny box with something decidedly shiny glinting inside.

“Holy shit!” I exclaim, “You guys—You—You’re—”

“Quite the day, huh?” Shelby grins, appearing at Enzo’s
elbow.

“I’ll say,” Harrison smiles, scooping me up in his arms.

“You took second for Enzo,” I say, looking up into his
gorgeous blue eyes, those bottomless orbs I’ve come to know so well.

“I took second for
us
,” he tells me, and brings his
lips fervently to mine.

Our mouths move together, and I kiss the man I love in front
of the entire world. Wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, the rest of
the incredible scene around us melts away. All of this—the scandal, the drama,
the excitement—has always paled in comparison to what we really share. At the
end of the day, we’re just two people madly in love. The rest is simply
circumstance.

Howling sirens tear through the celebratory cheering, and we
all turn to see an ambulance and three police cars race onto the track and
surround Marques’ ruined car. The driver staggers out of his minor wreck and is
handcuffed immediately, led away like the criminal he is into the ambulance.

“What the hell is that?” Harrison asks.

“You’ll find out in time,” I tell him, “But right now, you
have some more celebrating to do, Davies.”

He takes my face in his strong hands and kisses me again,
with abandon. I give myself over to this all but perfect moment. Surrounded by the
people I love, in the world I love, having done my part to keep my sport safe
and just—I am truly happy.

“What do you think?” Harrison asks, pulling away from our
kiss, “Was I worth all the trouble, Miss Lazio?”

“And then some,” I smile, “But next season, maybe let’s take
a slightly less...scandalous approach, huh?”

“I’m not making any promises,” he tells me, “But I’ll do my
best.”

A hundred clamoring reporters rush us as Enzo is handed the
first place trophy. They’ll have plenty of questions for us, I’m sure, but they
can wait. I’m too busy enjoying this perfect moment, too happy to give a damn
about appearances. My dad must be so proud right now, and the thought brings
tears to my eyes.

I wrap my arm around Harrison’s waist and let the world race
on at full speed around us. Because for this moment, and every moment we’re
together, we are truly champions.

I wake the next morning as sunshine splashes across my face
through the hotel window. I can't help but smile as I recount the debauchery
and revelry that went on during last night's celebration. After we all cleared
off the track, the Team McClain and Team Ferrelli camps made a beeline for the
nearest bar. Each willing to bury the hatchet, at least for one night, to
celebrate Enzo's driver championship win, and McClain's team championship win.

Unfortunately, my stomach was bothering me and after only
two glasses of champagne I wasn't up for much in the way of getting sloshed. We
still had a great time though, and seeing Harrison and Enzo drunk together
singing a Karaoke rendition of Queen's
We are the Champions
was
literally priceless.

I turn to nuzzle into Harrison's muscular chest, he smiles,
still asleep, and puts his arm around me.

I hear a light knock at my hotel room door and I slowly
rise, my stomach still feeling weak from last night. I grab a robe off the bathroom
door and wrap the plush garment around my body, attempting to smooth down my
sex hair as I go to answer the door.

Bex's bright face greets me through the crack in the door, the
new rock glimmering on her left ring finger distracts me immediately.
Charlie
done good
.

“I hate to bother you babe, but do you have any tampons? ”
she asks with a sheepish grin. “I thought I'd ask before I make a trip out to
CVS.”

And then it hits me like a truck load of bricks.

“
Shit!
” I hiss, hurrying into the hall and closing
the door lightly behind me, careful not to wake Harrison. “I just realized I
haven't gotten my period in over a month! Things have been so chaotic lately
that I just completely forgot about it...”

“Oh, Siena...” Bex says, her face dropping for my sake.

“Bex what if—”

My voice is cut off suddenly as my stomach does a triple
back flip. I bring my hand to my mouth, and run back inside, tearing open the
bathroom door and diving headfirst into the toilet.

And I let loose, literally spilling my guts to the Porcelain
God.

After what seems like a good five minute volley, I pick
myself up just enough to look out of the bathroom and see that Harrison's still
sound asleep.

Jesus, what have we gotten ourselves into now.

###

I hope you enjoyed
reading!

Faster Hotter (Take
Me...#4) is coming January 2014!

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