Faster Harder (10 page)

My eyes stray to the ruby red McClain car. I can see
Harrison there behind the wheel, waiting to jet off into the race. And as I
think about him, something strange happens. I start to feel proud of him, too.
Proud
for
him. How can that possibly be? We’ve only known each other a couple of days,
only had two conversations between the moments we managed to stop kissing each
other. How can I feel so close to him, so excited for him and his chances of
success? Harrison’s victory would come at the expense of my brothers, and yet I
want them both to win. I’m hoping for nothing short of an impossible miracle,
and I know it. Jesus...Why couldn’t Harrison have been a member of someone’s
pit crew all along?

But as I gaze down the track at that bright red car, I can’t
kid myself any longer. I’m falling for Harrison because he’s devastatingly
handsome and intriguing as hell...but I’m also falling for him because he’s an
incredible driver. I
like
that he’s amazing behind the wheel. I like that he’s powerful and strong and
astoundingly brave. The fact that his hands do things to me that I’ve never
felt before...Well, that’s one hell of a perk, too.

“Here we go,” I mutter, my voice lost beneath the crackling,
booming sounds all around me. “This is it.”

The crowd erupts into excited cheers and the starting horn
blares across the city. My hands tighten on the barrier railing as a collective
roar goes up from the assembled cars. They tear past us, picking up more speed
by the inch. Enzo takes off in the lead, with Harrison a few cars behind.

“Go, go!” I shout.

“Which one are you cheering for?” Bex asks slyly.

“What do you mean, which one?” Charlie says archly.

“It was a joke, Chuck,” Bex tells him, “Lighten up, would
you?” 

My eyes snap toward the huge screen that broadcasts the race
in progress. Enzo is holding his lead like a champ, leaving no room for anyone
to get past him. But a flash of red weaves through the rest of the pack like a
shot. Harrison’s car swings deftly around the others, overtaking them one by
one. Good God, he knows how to handle that machine. Under his command, it’s not
an unwieldy, dangerous metal shell. It moves like an animal that only he can
control.

Harrison’s a natural driver, that much is sure, but what
he’s showing out there on the track is far more than natural skill. That level
of control, of expertise, takes years and years of practice. And I should
know—I watched my brother train for that same level of excellence. I’ve seen
dozens of old tapes of my father’s races where he’s shown the same incredible
skill. Could it be possible that Harrison’s actually as good a racer as the
Ferrelli men?

“Holy shit...” Charlie says, staring at the far end of the
track.

I follow his gaze and see two cars whip around the
corner—one red, one green. Enzo is still firmly in the lead, but Harrison is
gaining on him in a big way. The chasm between them begins to close as they
head into the second lap. Enzo holds the inside, his car practically one with
the track. Harrison hangs just behind him, waiting for his golden opportunity.
My knuckles are turning white on the railing, my entire body feels like one raw
nerve as the cars speed on. I’ve lost of track of what outcome I’m hoping for,
or if there’s a single way this can end that isn’t going to leave a man I care
about disappointed and furious.

Time loses all meaning as Enzo and Harrison lap the other
drivers and speed on ahead, neck and neck. When they finally set off on their
final lap, I can scarcely feel my feet of the ground. I watch as they barrel
ahead, gaining on the finish line. In the last moment before they close in,
Enzo shoots out ahead of Harrison, riding a burst of speed from the draft of
Harrison's car. My brother sails ahead of Harrison, crossing the finish line
with a nice, healthy lead. Harrison zooms over after him, securing second
place.

“Hell yes!” Charlie cries, hugging Bex tightly against him,
“He got pole position! He’s going to kill it tomorrow!”

I let a grin spread across my face. My big brother’s poised
to win tomorrow’s race, and Harrison’s shaping up to come in second. That
sounds like a best case scenario if I ever heard it. I dive into Bex and
Charlie’s bear hug, and the three of us fall against each other, laughing and
cheering. For a moment, my anxiety lifts. Maybe this will work out for
everyone, after all.

Chapter Seven

Pole Position

That evening, Team Ferrelli hunkers down in Enzo’s suite for
some last-minute strategizing. We’re all gathered together, going over the
logistics of the next day, keeping Enzo’s spirits up and stress level as low as
possible. He’d hate for any of his fans to know it, but Enzo gets terribly
anxious before every Grand Prix.

My brother wants so badly to keep up his standing, to do
well for the team that raised him. The pressure can get to him, once in a while.
He keeps a pretty cool mask on in front of the team, but I know him too well to
be fooled.

I sit with Bex on the cushy hotel couch, going over our
schedule of press conferences for the coming days and weeks. Across the room,
Enzo and my dad are huddled over a table covered in notes and statistics. Gus
is briefing the pit guys about the following day’s race, and Charlie is on the
phone tackling some snag in our travel plans. Looking around, I can’t help but
be proud of our team. We’re as well oiled a machine as the one that Enzo races,
and it takes every single person in this room to rack up the points.

“Siena?” Bex asks, “What do you think of that idea?”

“What?” I say, “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“I’m sure,” she says quietly, her eyes dancing mischievously.

“Not by...that,” I tell her, knowing precisely what she’s
thinking of.

“I was just saying that we should think about adding a blog
component to the website,” she reiterates, “What do you think?”

“Hold that thought,” I tell her. My cell phone is buzzing
against my thigh. I pull it out of my pocket and see that I have a new text.

I unlock my phone and peer down at the message. It’s from a
number I don’t recognize, but one glance tells me exactly who it’s from.

“Room 582,” it reads, “Come here.”

My eyes dart around the room, but of course no one’s even
looked up. Bex looks down at my phone and takes a quick little breath. I shake
my head at her, urging her to keep quiet. I’m entirely torn—should I really go
up to Harrison’s room, the very night before the race?

“I’m starving,” Bex says pointedly, “Would you mind running
to the vending machine for me?”

“I don’t know...” I say, “We have a lot of work to do. I
shouldn’t—”

“Please,” she says, giving me a tiny wink, “For me.”

“Well...OK,” I say, standing up slowly, “I’ll see
what...what they have.”

“Make it sweet. Or hot. Whatever you’re in the mood for,”
she grins.

“You’re wicked,” I whisper to her.

“That makes two of us,” she replies, “Now go.”

I slip out of Enzo’s suite, unnoticed by the rest of the
team. They’re too busy concentrating on tomorrow’s race to even realize that
I’m gone, and so much the better. I can practically feel my blood charging
through my veins as I hurry into the elevator and press the button for floor
number five. I know that if I pause long enough to think too hard about what
I’m doing, I’ll start to second guess myself.

For once, I want to let myself be impulsive. Bex is right,
after all. Why should my romantic life be determined by my place within the
world of F1? My entire life so far has been all about this sport. I’m sick of
being a spectator to my own life. It’s time to jump behind the wheel.

The elevator doors open noiselessly before me, and I pad
down the quiet hallway. Room 582 looms ahead at the end of the hall, and I feel
my body being drawn ahead step by step. It’s like every cell in my body knows
that Harrison is near, is begging me to go to him. And I’m more than happy to
oblige.

 I stop in front of the door, take a steadying breath, and
knock softly. After the first light tap, the door swings open before me, and
Harrison’s brilliant eyes lock onto mine. A smile breaks across his face like a
ray of sun through the darkest of storm clouds. My legs begin to tremble
beneath me at the sheer proximity of that impeccably sculpted face, that
staggeringly fit body.

“And here you are,” Harrison says, taking my hand and
pulling me into the room.

“As requested,” I reply, looking around the dimly lit space,
“Are you sure no one’s going to happen upon us here?”

“I’m certain that they won’t,” he tells me, lacing his
fingers through mine, “I rented out an extra room for the evening. The rest of
my team is five flights away.”

“Clever man,” I smile, leaning back against the closed door.

Harrison steps toward me, closing the space between our
bodies. He pins my hands over my head, brings those full lips down to mine. I
accept his deep kiss, and a low moan escapes my throat. The moment he touches
me, need begins to pulse between my legs, along every inch of my skin.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harrison says, kissing down
along my neck, “You’re thinking that I asked you up here to lay you down across
my bed and have my way with you over and over again. Am I right?”

“Didn’t you?” I ask.

“Well...yes and no,” he tells me, nipping lightly at my ear.
“That may very well be how we conclude our evening, but first, I need you to do
something for me.”

“Oh?” I say, arching an eyebrow, “And what might that be?”

He winks in response and takes me by the hand, leading me
into the darkened suite. We step into the living room, and I stop short. A
table is set in the center of the room, with a beautiful dinner spread out
across it. Beyond the table, a gorgeous view of the city sprawls out before us.
Harrison looks at me expectantly.

“Have dinner with me?” he asks. For once, his request isn’t
phrased as a statement. He’s actually asked me on...a date?

“Of course. Sure,” I say, flustered and giddy.

We sit down across from each other, and Harrison produces a
bottle of chilled white wine. Pouring me a generous glass, he says, “I would
have gotten you your signature drink, but I didn’t know how long it would take
for you to skip out on your team.”

“I haven’t skipped out,” I tell him, “I’m just...”

“Visiting?” he suggests.

“Right.”

“It occurred to me this morning that we haven’t had much of
a proper chance to get to know each other,” Harrison says, filling his own
glass.

“Could that be because we spend most of our time doing more
interesting things with our lips than talking?” I ask.

“You keep talking like that, and I’ll have no choice but to
carry you into the next room, Miss Lazio,” he informs me.

“Maybe that was my plan, Mr. Davies.”

“I knew you only wanted me for my body,” he sighs
theatrically. “I’m hurt.”

“You just don’t strike me as the dinner and conversation
type,” I tell him.

“I’m not. With most women,” he says, “But I’m learning very
quickly that you, Siena, are an entirely different matter.”

I can’t help but be excited by the idea that I could be
something more to Harrison than a Grand Prix fling. But still, best to tread
lightly. He’s a bad boy, after all. As connected to him as I feel, it’s
true—there’s a lot we still don’t know about each other.

“So tell me, Harrison,” I say, filling my plate with all
manner of delicious offerings, “How does a rookie driver completely blindside
an entire sport, come out of thin air, and earn himself a chance at winning?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, “The good ones tend to be. But
the short version of it is this. I’m no rookie, Siena. I was scouted by McClain
when I was eleven years old. They’ve been grooming me all my life for this. My
opportunity to get on the track came about a bit unexpectedly, to be sure, but
I intend to make the most of it.”

“You’ve been training since you were eleven?” I ask
wondrously, “Didn’t your parents have any qualms about that?”

“One thing we have in common, Siena, is being beholden to
the family business. Have you ever heard of a driver named Walther Davies?”

“Walther Davies...Of course,” I say, “He was famous, back in
the day. You’re—?”

“His son,” Harrison says.

“How did I not make that connection?” I say, sitting back in
my chair.

“Well, it’s not as though he retired gracefully,” Harrison
says, “His career was rather...short-lived. And so was he, as it turns out.”

“Oh god. That’s right...He passed away, didn’t he?”

“Six years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I say, reaching for his hand.

“Don’t be,” he shrugs, “He was an asshole. Only reason he
gave any shit at all about me was because I could drive. That man had me in a
boxcar by the time I was five years old. Don’t know what he would have done if
I’d turned out to be a shit racer, or a girl. It was his idea to get McClain to
train me in secret. He wanted me to have this grand reveal when I was good
enough to race in the tournaments. Drank himself to death before he could see
it, though. Is that what they call poetic justice or something?”

“What about your mother?” I ask.

“Let’s just say that she’s used to making sacrifices in the
name of the sport,” Harrison says dryly, “Jackie, my mother, was a bit of a
sacrificial lamb, as far as her marriage to my dad went. She was from one of
those horribly wealthy British families. Or at least, they were wealthy for a
time. By the time Jackie was of marrying age, they were on the edge of
bankruptcy. They needed to marry her off to a rich, famous bloke. Lo and
behold, my father was the first man to wander along that fit the description.
They didn’t much mind that he was a raging asshole with a knack for barely
legal women and bourbon...I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”

“And I thought my family was messed up,” I say. “Enzo and I
were raised in the sport too. But save for a bit of heavy favoritism, I can’t
much complain.”

“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Harrison tells me, “I
can see how driven you are, Siena. It must be hard to have such...strong family
ties holding you in one place.”

“It is,” I admit, “God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you
about this...”

“I don’t buy that,” he says, “I think you know how well I
understand you, Siena. The moment we met, something just felt familiar about
you. I know what it’s like, growing up in this world. It’s almost like I know
you already. Don’t you feel that, too?”

“I...I do, Harrison,” I tell him, “But I have to be careful
with you. This isn’t exactly a risk-free situation we’ve gotten ourselves
into.”

“No,” Harrison agrees, “But then, I wouldn’t much care for a
life without some risk.”

We lapse into a supercharged silence, and every word I’ve
ever known seems to evaporate into thin air. I’m suddenly reminded of the one
and only talk my mother and I ever had about sex. When I was a young teenager,
she sat me down and gave me some advice about how to know when the time was
right to sleep with someone. She told me that the moment to give yourself over
to someone like that is the moment when there are no more words left between
you. I don’t think I ever understood what she really meant by that until this
very moment in time.

Sitting across from Harrison, alone in this gorgeous hotel
room overlooking the stunning city of Barcelona, what else could I possibly do
but let go and embrace the moment? Already, I feel more honestly myself around
him than with any man I’ve ever met. How can it be that we’ve only known each
other for a couple of days? He’s right. It does feel like I knew him long
before we locked eyes at the club the other evening. There’s something shared
between us that goes far deeper than words.

The sparkling intensity of Harrison’s clear blue eyes is
almost too much to bear. I push myself up from the table and make my way toward
the tall windows overlooking the sea. Down below, the stretch of beach where we
gave over to each other just last night gleams like a beacon. Just yesterday,
being with him felt so much easier. But now, with the rivalry between Harrison
and Enzo heating up with every lap they race, everything seems so terribly
complicated.

I watch in the reflection of the window as Harrison stands
and crosses to me. Silently, he stops behind me and wraps his strong arms
around my body. I relax into him, malleable and willing in his embrace. His
slightest touch has the power to open me up, make me eager and
adventurous—exactly the person I want to be.

I gaze at our reflection in the darkened glass; I look so
small against Harrison’s staggeringly build. But his tall, rugged body doesn’t
make me feel meek in comparison. With him, I feel more powerful, more uninhibited
than ever. And I have to admit...we make a remarkably good-looking couple. His
sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, and tanned skin are the perfect complement to my
chestnut curls, chocolate brown eyes, and olive complexion. It’s like we were
built for each other.

“How can it feel so right to be here when I know it’s so
wrong?” I ask softly.

“We
are
right together, Siena,” Harrison says, letting his hands run down the curvy
sides of my body, “It’s this circumstance that’s wrong.”