Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (5 page)

All it takes is a couple of strategic emails and phone calls
to bring the press running to our front door. In no time at all, the front
steps of our home are swarming with photographers and reporters, all hoping to
snag a quote from our exclusive press conference. It’s time for me to do what I
do best and shape this story. As long as no one throws a wrench in the works,
this should be our saving grace.

We gather in the foyer early in the morning, everyone who’s
about to face the flashing cameras and shouted questions. It’s going to be me,
Enzo, Harrison, and my Dad versus a whole mob of media types, but I’m not
worried. The rest of the group will be right behind us, offering their support.
And at the end of the day, the press will be much more thrilled with a story of
unlikely partnership than they will with stony silence and animosity. At least,
that’s what I’m banking on.

“You can’t be serious,” Harrison grumbles, as I hold up two
neckties for his appraisal.

“You have to wear something other than a black tee shirt,” I
tell him sternly.

“We like to dress like adults in this house,” Enzo says,
crossing his arms, “Not teenage delinquents.”

Harrison scowls at my brother and snatches the redder of the
two ties. “For my team,” he says pointedly. I feel my heart sink a little. As
united as we may be in life, Harrison and I are still part of separate teams in
the F1 universe. I know it shouldn’t bother me, that it doesn’t really matter,
but I’ve been raised to care so much about Ferrelli that it’s hard to shake my
discontent.

“How are we doing over here?” my mom asks, bustling over to
where I stand between Harrison and Enzo.

“Just fine, Mrs. Lazio,” Harrison smiles.

“Oh please,” she laughs, “It’s Camilla, dear. I’d tell you
to call me Mom, but I guess that’s a little presumptuous, yes?”

“Mother!” I groan, feeling my cheeks flame red.

“Mom, for the love of God,” Enzo mutters.

“What?” she says, feigning innocence, “You can’t blame me
for hoping.”

Harrison grins at our discomfort, which I suppose is
preferable to him blanching in horror. The truth is, we’ve never even come
close to discussing marriage, or kids, or anything normal like that. With our
careers, there’s no way we’re headed in the white picket fence, two kids and a
dog direction. And I’m OK with that, really. I’ve never been attached to the
idea of being a wife or a mother...but I can’t pretend that I haven’t at least
thought about what our future together might look like. But first things
first—it’s time to deal with our present.

“Alright everyone,” I say, smoothing down the front of my
silk blouse, “Are we ready to do this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Enzo grumbles.

“Quit being petulant,” Dad replies, “We need to put on a
good show for those animals out there.”

“I’m ready to go, Siena,” Harrison says, taking hold of my
hand.

A little thrill runs up my arm as he tightens his grip just
a hair. I’m suddenly unaccountably nervous. Not anxious, in a bad way, but
excited. After so much time keeping our affair a secret, Harrison and I can
finally come out to the world as a couple.

“OK,” I say, swallowing my butterflies, “Let’s do this.”

Bex flashes me a quick thumbs up as Gus and Charlie yank
open our heavy front doors. A wall of sound slams into the four of us as we
blink out into the daylight. I flash my best smile and make my way forward with
Harrison in tow. There are four microphones waiting for us, and we each find
our place. I glance over at my dad and brother and see that they’re holding
their own. Enzo has his cool, collected smile on and Dad looks as proud and
strong as ever, even if his body seems to grow slighter by the day. A twinge of
worry passes through me as Dad turns to cough away from the camera, but the
roar of the press drowns out the horrible, ragged sound.
No,
I tell myself,
No time to think about
that now. You have a job to do
.

“Hello everyone,” I say, stepping up to my mic, “Thank you
all so much for coming out to talk to us. We’re very happy to be holding this
press conference together to try and dispel some rumors that have recently come
out about our teams and family. Now. Who would like to start with—”

A roar goes up among the press as dozens of hands shoot into
the air. But I don’t feel panicked, in the face of their frenzy. This is what
I’m good at. This is what they pay me the big bucks to do. I calmly point to a
nearby reporter, an olive-skinned woman in her late thirties.

“Thank you, Ms. Lazio,” she says primly, “Can you confirm or
deny for us that you and Harrison Davies are romantically involved, for the
record?”

“I can,” I tell her, sneaking a glance at Harrison. He nods
encouragingly, and I barrel on ahead. “Harrison and I have begun seeing each
other romantically over the course of the current F1 season. Next question.
You.”

“Ms. Lazio,” says the next reporter, a slim fellow in his
fifties, “Why did you and Mr. Davies feel you had to be secretive about your
affair?”

“First of all,” I begin, “I’d like to point out that an
affair is not exactly possible when neither party is involved romantically with
someone else. I’m pretty sure the correct term for what Harrison and I have
been up to is dating. Or at least, that’s what the kids call it these days.”

The crowd lets out an appreciative laugh, and I continue.

“But on that note, Harrison and I decided not to make any
sort of statement and air on the side of discretion because we didn’t know what
the outcome of our spending time together would be. We wanted to get to know
each other, see how we enjoyed each other’s company, before we made any sort of
grand pronouncement. We were, in fact, intending to make a joint statement
before the London Grand Prix. Unfortunately, the news was broken for us by the
as-yet unnamed journalist behind the recent news story. You, do you have a
follow up question?”

“What was your reaction to that story?” asks a red headed
young man, “Were you hurt? Angry? Embarrassed?”

“All of the above,” I confirm, “We were hurt to have our
privacy invaded, angry at the false rumors printed, and embarrassed for the
shoddy writing.”

Another laugh rises up from the crowd. That’s good—it means
I’m keeping things light.

“Harrison and I would have preferred to be in control of
letting the world know about our relationship. We’re both very dedicated to our
teams’ fans, and we want them to feel taken care of. We hope that no supporters
of Ferrelli or McClain feel hurt or left out in the cold. Would you like to ask
the next question?”

“What has the reaction been from your teams?” asks an older
woman in front.

I take a deep breath to calm myself. This is where the white
lies begin, after all.

“Our teams were surprised by our news,” I say
diplomatically, “And of course, the idea took a little getting used to. But
overall, there has been overwhelming support and mutual respect between both—”

“Then why did Lorenzo Lazio attempt to wreck Harrison Davies
in the Moscow Grand Prix?” the woman presses.

“That accident was just that. An accident. Enzo had no
intention—”

“He’d just found out about your affair with Harrison Davies,
and he accidentally caused a wreck that almost killed him?” the woman asks
skeptically.

“Screwy timing, right?” I joke, “Next question, please.”

“Is this entire affair a publicity stunt, orchestrated by
the F1 higher ups?” asks a reporter wearing thick sunglasses.

“Absolutely not,” I reply crisply.

“How can your father and brother be OK with you dating
someone with such a history of womanizing and debauchery?” the same reporter
asks.

Harrison grabs his microphone before I can speak. “No one in
the world of F1 knew who I was before this season,” he says, “So I don’t think
I have a reputation for anything, at this point, mate.”

“But you do admit that in the past you’ve dated many women?
Partied excessively?”

“Many, excessively...so many subjective words,” I laugh, “If
someone would ask a more definitively worded—”

“Why are you trying to dupe the public into thinking that
this is somehow a good thing?” the reporter carries on, “Your father is dying,
your brother is losing his grip, and you’re sleeping with the enemy.”

“I refuse to answer questions about gossip and conjecture,”
I say heatedly.

“And who are you to say I’m losing my grip?” Enzo spits.

“Your ranking has been plummeting,” the reporter points out.

“That's a lie!" Enzo exclaims angrily.

“According to the numbers, Rafael Marques is pulling ahead
as the front runner of this tournament,” the young man insists.

“Marques?” my dad scoffs, “That will be the day.”

“If we could move on,” I say quickly, “There are a few more
things we’d like to address. My father’s illness, which was just now so
callously mentioned, is real. Alfonso Lazio has been diagnosed with terminal
lung cancer and will not be seeking treatment.”

I feel a knot building in my throat, and am suddenly unable
to continue. I thought, by now, that I’d be beyond choking up, but I can’t help
it.

“It’s OK, Siena,” Dad says, taking my hand. “I can speak for
myself.” He turns back to the press of reporters and says, “It’s true. My
cancer is terminal. I don’t expect to see many days beyond this current championship
season. But I do hope that I can continue to watch my son race from afar. I
won’t be traveling with the team anymore—”

“Then who’s going to keep an eye on your daughter while she
screws whoever she wants?” shoots the reporter in the tacky shades.

“Enzo, no!” I screech, as my brother launches himself into
the crowd.

He charges at the man with his fist cocked and slugs the guy
across the face. A circle clears around them as Harrison rushes to restrain my
brother. The reporter picks himself up off the ground as Harrison approaches,
his broken sunglasses falling away. As he turns his face toward us, a rush a fury
passes through me. I’ve seen this punk ass kid before, only last time he was
wearing a stolen lab coat instead of trashy shades.

“You?” Harrison says, gaping at the kid.

“I’ll sue for this,” the little rat whines, “I’ll bleed you
all dry. You, Enzo, even your slutty little girlfriend.”

“Shit, shit, shit...” I groan, as Harrison catches the kid
under the chin with a sharp uppercut. Enzo and Harrison fall on top of him
ruthlessly, and I’m almost worried for the kid’s safety. Or I would be, if he
wasn’t trying to singlehandedly ruin my life.

Charlie, Gus, and the rest of Team Ferrelli stream out of
the house and pull the two drivers off the snot nosed kid. We’re all herded
back inside, but not before the bruised blackmailer can shoot me a maniacal
wink. If the doors didn’t slam behind me, I might have gone in for a good punch
myself. God knows, the little jerk would have deserved it.

For a moment, there is nothing but silence in the foyer. We
stand and look at each other, all of us at a loss. The press screams furiously
outside as we all regain what composure we can.

“I suppose that could have gone better,” my mother quips.

“That little fucking wanker,” Harrison pants, “That ratty
little fake reporter. He’s the one who’s been blackmailing me and Siena! I bet
you anything he was behind that article, too!”

“Whoever is out to get us is using that kid as a vessel,” I
insist.

“Be that as it may,” Dad says, “Beating the shit out of him
was not exactly a good move, boys. How could you do a thing like that?”

“You heard what he called Siena and Shelby,” Enzo growls,
“He deserved every bit of it.”

“You were just being a protective big brother,” Shelby says,
scooting up to Enzo’s side.

“Well. We tried to go the diplomatic route,” Dad sighs, “But
I’m pretty sure there won’t be any coming back from this one. All you boys can
do is run your last three races and do your best. At this point, popularity
isn’t going to help you any. You just need to put everything you’ve got into
winning, now. And hope you don't get sued.”

“What, are you rooting for
him
now, too?” Enzo asks
my dad, nodding his head at Harrison, trying to hide his hurt.

“I’m just hoping that the two of you manage not to kill each
other,” my dad replies.

“I won’t go out of my way to again,” Enzo spits, “He’s not
worth it. I’ll play the amenable brother in front of the cameras, but I hope
you all know that I don’t approve of this bullshit. Not one bit.”

“How can you be such a hypocrite?” I ask, nodding toward
Shelby.

“Oh, this has moved way past a Ferrelli versus McClain
thing,” Enzo tells me, “I just don’t like the big, stinking wild dog that you
insist on trying to domesticate.”