Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) (6 page)

“So much for doing your part for the team,” Harrison scoffs.

“We’re not on the same team,” Enzo spits, “And we never will
be, Davies.”

“Fine. That’ll give me more room to beat you fair and
square, at least,” Harrison shoots back.”

“Bring it, lover boy!” Enzo shouts, storming away.

Harrison stomps off in the opposite direction, and most the
team follows suit. Only me, my parents, Gus, Charlie, and Bex remain behind.

“Well, what do we do now?” Charlie asks.

“They’re just never going to get along,” Bex says.

“No,” Gus says, “Maybe not. But we can’t worry about that
right now. We need to get back to London, pronto. These boys have a Grand Prix
to run.”

“You take care of Enzo,” Dad says to Gus.

“We’ll miss having you, it won't be the same,” Gus replies,
slapping Dad gently on the back.

“He’s all mine now, Gus,” Mom smiles sadly, “So keep your
paws off.”

The remaining assembly disperses to pack up, leaving me
alone in the foyer once again. We were so close to solving this thing, but I
can’t get a hold of it, no matter how hard I try. No time to despair now,
though. It’s back to London we go.

The last few days have been such a whirlwind that I hardly
even mind the hustle back to London. We travel back as a group, much to Enzo
and Harrison’s chagrin. They’re both a bit jumpy, going into this Grand Prix.
After the Moscow wreck, both of their cars had to be scraped off the track and
discarded. They’re racing in totally new vehicles today, which is a big risk to
undertake. But what other choice do they have? They’re drivers. And one way or
another, they’re going to find a way to drive.

Both my brother and Harrison are tentative throughout the
preliminary and qualifying races. They’re so careful in their new vehicles that
a handful of drivers manage to surpass them, scoring the coveted starting
positions for the upcoming race. I’m none too thrilled when Rafael Marques
secures pole position for the first time this season. With the way things have
been going recently, the press might be right. It’s no longer inconceivable
that Marques might steal the tournament from Enzo and Harrison.

The day of the London Grand Prix dawns foggy and damp. It
rained during the night, and the track is just slick enough to be worrisome.
All the teams hurry to change their tyres and adjust their strategies. This is
not the time to be working with a new vehicle, like Enzo and Harrison are. But
they head off like the warriors they are. Despite Enzo’s protests, I insist on
giving him my good luck kiss. I still contend that it counts for something,
even if Harrison gets a very different kind of kiss to bring along onto the
track.

I’m pacing up and down in the pit, waiting for the race to
begin. My nerves are already frayed from the press conference gone awry
yesterday. I couldn’t help but notice headlines on the blogs this morning like,
“
Ferrelli and McClain All Stars Out for Blood
” and “
Harrison Davies
and Siena Lazio: What Are They Still Hiding?
”. And it’s not only the press
that has me jumpy. Harrison and Enzo are far behind their usual starting
positions, making their chances at success even more dicey. But I suppose it
wouldn’t be F1 if it felt safe and easy. As nerve-wracking as this race
promises to be, it’s also more than a little bit exciting.

The Ferrelli pit feels so empty without my dad there. I know
that he’s watching from Italy while my mom reads and refuses to look at the TV.
The image of them together makes me happy, but I feel sort of lost without Dad
by my side. He taught me everything I know about F1. Flying solo feels so
lonely, after being on his team. But a rational voice inside my head tells me
that I need to get used to soldiering on without him, as painful of an idea as
that may be. It’s what he would want.

“Ready?” Gus shouts over the humming engines beyond the pit.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” I tell him, smiling gamely.

The pit crew hurries all around me, preparing for any
eventuality, as the announcer informs the audience that the race is about to
begin. I move to find the best view of the track I can manage. It’s so strange
to see Harrison and Enzo lost in the middle of the pack. I scowl at Marques’s
car, idling in pole position. If the Moscow wreck hadn’t gone down, there’s no
way he’d be there now.

“Here we go,” Gus says, throwing an arm around my shoulders.

And just like that, the green flag comes down. The crowd
goes wild and the drivers take off onto the track, their engines screaming up
into the gray sky. I wait for the pack to thin out, trying to catch a glimpse
of Harrison and Enzo. But when I finally do locate those familiar red and green
cars, my stomach ties itself into knots.

They’re falling even further behind.

I understand being cautious, especially with the weather
conditions being subpar, but this is insane. With every passing second, my boys
are passed by more and more of their competitors. It’s as though their tyres
are melting into the asphalt or something. Gus flies into action, leaving me
alone to stare hopelessly out onto the track. What the hell is going on out
there, and how are we going to fix it in time to salvage this race?

My boys manage, after the first lap, to inch up a bit in the
ranking. But they’re still at the very back of the pack, struggling to keep out
of dead-last place. The crowd murmurs, concerned and surprised. This sort of
thing isn’t normal by any means. The third lap hasn’t even concluded when Enzo
is forced to come back to the pit—an unprecedented move. The emerald green
racer pulls into the pit, and Enzo furiously rips his helmet off his head. His
eyes are on fire with anger and frustration, and I know enough to keep my
distance. He doesn’t need me telling him what to do right now.

“What the fuck is the matter with this car?” my brother
roars. Beyond him, I watch as Harrison pulls into the McClain pit as well,
equally undone by his stunted vehicle.

“It was running fine in the preliminaries,” Gus says, “I
don’t know what’s happened. But we’re going to fix it. I promise you.”

“Do whatever you have to do, and do it fast!” Enzo shouts
slamming his hands against the steering wheel.

The pit crew toils away, looking for the source of the
problem. Finally, a commotion goes up on the far side of the car, and Gus
hurries around to see what’s wrong. I hold my breath as the crew deliberates
over the vehicle, solemn looks on their faces.

“What?” I demand, “Gus, what is it?”

“Someone’s tampered with it,” Gus says grimly, “I don’t know
how, I don’t know—”

“Well, what does that mean?” Enzo shouts, “How are you going
to fix it?”

“It’s a small problem, but a dangerous one,” Gus says, “By
the time we have it fully fixed, the race could already be over.”

“What?!” Enzo and I shout in unison.

“Can you jerry rig it in the meantime?” Enzo demands.

“It might not be safe...” Gus says anxiously.

“I don’t give a damn about safe!” Enzo cries, “Just get me
back in there!”

I stand back as the pit crew sets to work, doing their best
to fix whatever problem’s arisen overnight. My head is spinning with
possibilities. Up until now, my suspicion that someone’s been trying to
sabotage Enzo and Harrison has been hypothetical. Pure conjecture. But after
today, I don’t think anyone can honestly believe that these are just
coincidences anymore. Enzo receives those incriminating pictures of me and
Harrison the day of the race, and now this? Someone is out to get my brother
and the man I love. And I don’t know how to stomach that. I don’t think that I
can.

Gus slaps the side of Enzo’s car, signaling that he’s ready
to get back in the race. My brother takes off just seconds after Harrison does.
I guess the McClain pit crew worked their own magic, too. I wrap my arms around
my waist as I watch them roar back into the fray. Their speeds are better,
their trajectories smoother. Maybe there’s hope for them yet.

“Think it’ll hold up?” I ask Gus.

“I hope so,” he says, his brow furrowed, “It wasn’t a
catastrophic mess in the undercarriage, but that sort of thing doesn’t happen
by chance. Especially not to two drivers at once. I can’t believe someone would
so something like that.”

Unfortunately, I can. Jealousy and competition can be very
destructive, especially when they grip the wrong person. I send as much
positive energy toward my brother and Harrison as I possibly can and force deep
breaths into my lungs. It’s going to be a long race, after all.

Things really do begin to look up after the boys’ first pit
stop. With every lap, it seems as though they’re gaining more control. By the
time they’ve reached the last legs of the race, they’re back up where they belong.
Rostov, Landers, and Marques hold onto the top three spots, but Harrison and
Enzo gain on them with every second. Even with the race’s shoddy start, it
lifts my heart to see Enzo and Harrison not trying to screw each other on the
track today. I suppose they both have bigger things to worry about than edging
in over each other. As long as they both finish the Grand Prix safe and sound,
I’ll personally be the happiest camper in Britain.

“Almost there,” I whisper, as they begin the penultimate
lap. “Stay with it, boys. You’re doing great.” I know they can’t hear me, but I
can't help but cheer them on from the pit.

The order holds steady into the final lap. Marques holds
first, Rostov second, Landers third. Enzo and Harrison are neck and neck after
them. The five drivers soar along in a tight pack, leaving no room for change.
But by some magic, the formation shifts. Rostov and Landers drift off toward
the outside track, leaving Enzo and Harrison enough room to sneak up. They inch
up toward Marques, squaring off right behind him. The Spanish driver seems to
panic at their close proximity, and weaves just a breath away from the inside
track. In a rush of drift momentum, Enzo and Harrison pull up to either side of
Marques—the three of them form a straight line across the track, each gunning
for first.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, my words lost in the chaos of the
pit, “They might just pull this off...”

“Don’t jinx it,” Gus warns, appearing suddenly at my side.

I hold my breath as the trio bears down on the finish line,
praying to every god who might be listening that one of my boys comes out on
top. Time loses any meaning as they soar along toward the race’s conclusion. It
looks like they’re flying a foot above the track...

Until all at once, Enzo and Harrison’s momentum sputters.

The red and green racers screech to a halt as if they’ve run
over quick sand. Marques speeds on ahead over the finish line as my boys come
to total stops. I can practically feel their outrage ripple out over the track.
What the hell just happened to their cars? I’m just about to grill Gus about
what possibly could have happened, but in the split second I turn away,
everything changes out on the track.

Landers veers out of the way, trying to avoid slamming into
Enzo and Harrison’s stalled cars head on. But his sudden jerking maneuver gets
away from him, and the nose of his car catches Rostov’s head on. The two cars
go spinning away toward the wall, turning end over end until they smash against
the concrete, crumpling into smoking heaps of rubble.

The crowd erupts into a panic as flames begin to engulf the
twisted wrecks of Rostov and Landers racers. The Ferrelli and McClain emergency
workers rush onto the track after Enzo and Harrison, pulling them out of their
cars and away from the smoldering jumble of auto parts encasing Rostov and
Landers. I watch as my brother and Harrison hesitate, reluctant to leave
without helping their friends and fellow racers. But as the rest of the drivers
speed around the discarded cars, my boys finally give in and let themselves be
led away.

I dash to the edge of the pit, watching as ambulances rush
toward the wrecked cars of Landers and Rostov. I’ve gotten to know these two
drivers so well over the years. They’ve been Enzo’s closest friends and
competitors, best friends on their own and damn fine drivers.
Please, I pray, please let
them be OK
...

But my silent prayers trail off as black, oily smoke clouds
the track. This wreck is far more serious than the tangle Enzo and Harrison got
into in Moscow. This is the kind of wreck that not everyone walks away from. I
gasp as bright orange flames swell up to engulf the two cars. The sight is like
something out of a nightmare.

“Siena,” I hear Enzo’s ragged voice whisper.

I whip around to see my brother standing beside me, his eyes
bewildered and full of sorrow. In an instant, our feud is forgotten. I throw my
arms around his shoulders, a ragged sob ripping out of my throat. He closes his
arms around me, wordless with shock. We hold each other as the world spins
around us, and I feel for the first time in so long like Enzo’s little sister
again. As much as we may fight and disagree, this man is still my brother. I’d
go to the ends of the earth and back for him, gladly.

“I’m so sorry,” I weep, my shoulders shaking in my brother’s
arms, “Enzo, I’m so—”

“Me too,” he mutters, hugging me tighter, “Siena, can you
ever forgive—?”

But a deafening sound rips our attention back toward the
track. Something’s exploded in the heart of the wreck, sending a smoldering
fireball up into the foggy sky. Every person in attendance is paralyzed in the
face of such destruction. The only people that move a muscle are the rescue
workers, doing their best to tame the fire and pluck the drivers out of their
cars. But as the seconds crawl by, the solemn truth settles in. There’s very
little chance that Rostov or Landers will survive this wreck.

I bury my face against Enzo’s chest as the two fallen racers
are finally pulled from their cars. I only catch a fleeting glimpse of
them—their charred jumpsuits barely even recognizable, their faces even further
damaged. I’m filled with grief for my friends, of course, but an equal part of
me is so relieved that Enzo and Harrison escaped this horrible wreck. How can I
be so devastated and elated all at once?