Take Me Series (COMPLETE BOX SET)

by Masters, Colleen

  By the time Dad and I reach the Ferrelli pocket of the F1 madness, the media has already descended. They can’t start grilling Enzo without me there to run interference. My brother just lost to Harrison Davies, the bad boy rookie who’s shaping up to be Enzo’s biggest rival. And quite possibly the man I love, but no way can I think about that right now. I shoulder through a solid wall of reporters and see Enzo up ahead beside his car. His jaw is clenched tight, and I can see the anger billowing behind his eyes. Time for me to step in.

  “I’ll begin taking questions now,” I announce, turning toward the sea of flashbulbs and waving hands. Dozens of voices call out my name, and I point to the nearest reporter.

  “Miss Lazio,” the wiry man begins, “This is the first race that Enzo has lost since the season began. Can you describe the mood of Team Ferrelli right now?”

  “Never been better,” I say dryly, drawing a chuckle from the press, “But seriously. We may not have won this particular race, but we did come in second. By my count, that's still a fantastic outcome. And our team is well ahead in points, so we’re not too concerned. Next question, please.”

  “Was Mr. Lazio surprised to have been beaten by Mr. Davies?” asks a young woman to my left, “Enzo seemed pretty confident that Harrison wouldn’t be a threat during this season.”

  I can practically feel the heat coming off of Enzo’s body as his anger comes to a boil. Time to deflect, hard.

  “That’s the wonderful thing about F1, isn’t it?” I smile, “Always room for plenty of surprises. Next question?”

  “Do you think Enzo got a little too cocky for his own good?” the last reporter presses. “Perhaps if he’d been more on guard against Harrison—”

  “Davies got lucky,” Enzo spits, “It won’t happen again.”

  “That’s all for now!” I say quickly, tugging Enzo away from the press. They clamor after us, shouting questions to our retreating backs, but there’s no way I’m letting them goad Enzo into saying something he’s going to regret.

  We book it to the nearest Ferrelli car and jump into the backseat where Dad is already waiting. As we take off back toward the hotel, we’re utterly silent. Dad is oscillating between disappointment and outrage while Enzo simmers in his own frustration and embarrassment. Me, I’m trying to keep a neutral smile on my face while my heart cracks into a thousand messy pieces. Between the three of us, we’ve got the whole spectrum of anguish pretty much covered.

  “We’ll get an early start to Moscow,” Dad finally says, “We’ve got a couple of weeks before the next Grand Prix. Everything will be sorted out in no time, Enzo. Never you fear.”

  “Fear?” Enzo says, his voice hollow, “How can you say that, Dad? You saw what happened out there as clearly as I did.”

  “Davies snuck around you while you were distracted trying to prevent a wreck,” Dad says crisply.

  “No,” Enzo says, “Davies had the better strategy, plain and simple. He’s not just some punk ass bad boy with something to prove. The guy can race.”

  “He can,” I say softly, my heart full of longing. I wish I could have run to Harrison the second he crossed the finish line, been there for his victory.

  “He’s my only real competition,” Enzo goes on, settling back into his seat, “And that means I have to destroy him.”

  I feel the air leave the backseat cabin as I whip around to face my brother.

  “What...What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to end Harrison Davies,” Enzo goes on, “I don’t just want to beat him. I want him out of the sport.”

  “But...Enzo, why?” I ask, “Just because he’s a challenger?”

  “I care too much about this sport to let assholes like him drag it through the mud,” Enzo goes on. “F1 racers should be elite. And professional.”

  “Enzo, the only time Harrison acted unprofessionally is when you started it!” I gasp, exasperated, “Why don’t you focus on winning the next Grand Prix instead of plotting your revenge on Harrison Davies?”

  “Your sister’s right,” Dad says.

  “What?” Enzo and I chorus. It isn’t often that my father and I see eye-to-eye.

  “If you let yourself get all wrapped up in going after Davies, all you’re going to do is tank your own chances at winning. Forget about him, Enzo. You have to think of him as just another racer. Can you do that, son?”

  Enzo is silent in reply. He can’t help but take Harrison’s success personally. I wonder if some deeply buried part of him knows that he has good reason to be suspicious of Harrison Davies. The severity of my situation rears its ugly head as I consider what Enzo would do if he found out I was actually sleeping with the enemy. Who would he be more furious with, Harrison or me? From Harrison, he’d have no reason to suspect loyalty, but from me he expects the world. He can’t find out about us. Not while he carries such a heated grudge against Harrison.

  But how am I going to keep my blackmailer from outing me? I have no idea who could possibly be behind those photos, so how can I know what would make them tick? What I don’t understand is why, if those pictures exist at all, they haven’t already been splattered across every blog and newscast known to man. Why threaten me, rather than just destroy my reputation and, well, the rest of my life? I need to figure out where those shots came from, and who’s been trailing me around like a damned spy all this time.

  The question is, how?

  I feel my iPhone buzz against my thigh as we pull up to the hotel, but I don’t dare check it in front of my dad and brother. For all I know, it could be a full frontal nudie shot of me straddling Ferrelli’s new competitor. I have no idea how far this surveillance effort has already gone. I hurry up to my room, claiming some kind of headache, and lock the door swiftly behind me. Once I know for sure that I’m absolutely alone, I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and see that a second batch of photos has, indeed, arrived.

  Settling down onto my bed, I open the stuffed folder and look through the images, one by one. There we are leaving the Budapest bar, leaving the restaurant, walking hand-in-hand. There we are in Toronto and Monte Carlo. There we are in Barcelona, returning from the beach looking flushed and rumpled. That’s how far these photos date back to. There are no shots of our first night at the club together, but that’s no saving grace. I count at least fifty images here, each more damning than the rest. Someone’s been trailing Harrison and I since Barcelona, snapping shots of our meetings.

  If even one of these photos leaked, it would be the end of our secrecy. The entire world would know that Harrison and I have been sneaking around together. The gossip mills would love it, but McClain would be furious. This is Harrison’s first season ever, it would be disastrous for him to get swept up in a scandal. Drama may be built into this sport, but not this kind of drama. Rivalries and strategy and suspense are all well and good, but sex scandals only serve to undermine the prestige of the sport.

  But as bad as it would be for Harrison, us being found out would be even worse for me. I’d probably lose my job, for starters. But far worse would be my family’s utter heartbreak if they knew I’d been running around with our main competition. I can’t even stand to think of the look on Enzo’s face, should he find out. I can’t let it happen, no matter what. But can I really follow the blackmailer’s terms? Can I really just stop seeing Harrison, once and for all?

  As if on cue, a new message from Harrison pops up onto my phone. I stare down at the tiny scrawl of text and feel my heart lodge itself in my throat.

  “You disappeared,” the text reads, “Wanted to blow you a celebratory kiss. Proud of me?”

  My pulse quickens as I stare at his words. What am I supposed to do? Can I even respond without egging the blackmailer on? What if whoever is doing this has access to Harrison’s phone, or mine? With a heavy heart, I delete Harrison’s text. I can’t bring myself to respond to him, not now. I need time to think.

  I fall back onto the cushy hotel bed and let my baffled, outrag
ed tears begin to flow. I feel so violated. Those moments between Harrison and I were private, our own secret world. And someone wants to use them to hurt us. Who the hell would do something like this, and why? I may not know for sure, but a few distinct possibilities begin to clarify in my mind. A certain Ivy League watch dog is at the top of my shit list, that’s for sure. And if it’s really Charlie behind all this, he’d better brace himself for when I get my hands on him.

  Chapter Two

  Getting To The Bottom

  With no small effort, I drag myself up out of bed and start gathering my things. I toss articles of clothing and toiletries into my suitcase at random, unable to bring my mind fully to the task. Dad told me to be ready to go in half an hour, and the last thing I want is for someone to come and find me a sobbing mess. Of course, I could blame it on the fact that Enzo placed second this go-around. Nobody would doubt it for a second, I’m sure.

  I give my room one last once over and slip out into the hall. We’re convening in the lobby before making the trip to Moscow, Russia—the city that’s hosting the next Grand Prix. At least this trek will be a relatively short one. The second we touchdown, I’ll be able to put my mind to figuring out what on earth I’m supposed to do next. Right now, I don’t even know if I can safely answer a text message from Harrison without getting us both in the trouble of our lives. I just need a minute to think this all through.

  A door opens down the hallway in front of me, and a trill of laughter spills out. I stop short as two people tumble through the doorway and into the hall, and feel my jaw drop as I realize that I recognize them. Bex and Charlie straighten up as they spot me, trying to suppress their giddy grins.

  “What the hell...?” I mutter.

  “Sorry Siena,” Bex breathes, “Didn’t meant to scare you. We were just—”

  “Packing up,” Charlie says, struggling to keep a straight face.

  “Right,” I say, feeling a hot rush of anger course through my blood as Charlie smiles bashfully. “Packing up. I get it.”

  “Are you OK, Siena?” Bex asks, “You look a little...”

  “Distracted,” I offer, “You know, I am feeling a little bit off. Can’t really put my finger on why that might be, though. What do you think, Charlie? Any idea why I might be a little down in the dumps?”

  “Um...Siena, I have no idea,” Charlie says, shooting a quick glance at Bex, “Are you just bummed that Enzo—?”

  “No,” I snap, “Wrong. Oh well. I’ll just let you two get back to whatever it is you’re doing. I wouldn’t want to intrude on any private moment. Or pry into your personal lives. It’s not really my style. It’s not really what civilized people do.”

  “Why don’t you get our stuff,” Bex says to Charlie, “I’m gonna walk Siena down—”

  “I’m fine on my own, Bex,” I say, a little more harshly than I mean to, “See you love birds in Moscow, I guess.”

  I charge past them, hot tears pricking my eyes. If Charlie has anything to do with those photos, as I’m guessing he does, this is a double betrayal. It’s bad enough that he’s probably involved, but if Bex is moony-eyed over him all of a sudden...it’s too much. Is there anyone on this entire season that I can trust?

  Dad, Enzo, Gus, and the other guys of Team Ferrelli are all waiting in the lobby by the time I get downstairs. A stormy silence hangs over them all, despite the falsely cheerful smiles they’re all wearing. Everyone is trying to pretend like nothing is wrong after our second place finish, but they’re doing a piss-poor job. The truth is that deep down everyone is scared shitless about Harrison. That includes me, for different reasons, of course.

  “Have you seen Charlie?” Gus asks, as I draw up to the group.

  “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be coming in a second,” I say dryly, noting my accidental double entendre.

  Oh God...I wonder how far things have gotten between Bex and Charlie? They must have been eyeing each other the whole time this season’s been going on, and I never even noticed. Thinking about the two of them together makes me incredibly sad. If everything with Harrison wasn’t about to go to shit, I’d think it was wonderful that they were getting together. But if Bex is sidling up to Charlie just as he prepares to ruin my chances of happiness, then I’m going to lose them both.

  Of course, there’s always the chance that Charlie has nothing to do with those pictures. Sure, he’s the most likely suspect, but if he really has been carrying on with Bex this whole trip, would he have the extra time to be tailing me and Harrison? Maybe there’s someone else out there who’s just as eager to keep us apart. Someone who’d be willing to put a permanent stain on Harrison’s racing career if it meant breaking us apart.

  “Oh no...” Dad mutters, looking toward the hotel’s entrance.

  I follow his gaze across the lobby and feel my insides twist painfully. Through the sliding glass doors strides Team McClain, with Harrison Davies front and center. I barely notice Bex and Charlie slip in among our number as Harrison spots us across the space. His eyes linger on me for just a moment, but I can read the question in his eyes even from here. He’s wondering why I’m not responding to his texts, whether I’m angry that he beat my brother, if anything is different between us. The short answer is, of course, that things are very different between us now. But how can I tell him that without pissing off my blackmailer?

  The other young people of Team McClain stroll in after Harrison. Andy and Cora walk arm in arm beside him while Sara and Shelby linger behind, their eyes buried in their iPhones. One by one, they spot me across the way. Cora and Andy give friendly smiles, Sara manages a little wave, and Shelby raises her cold eyes right to mine. I watch as the faintest hint of a smile plays across her lips—and it’s not the friendly kind, either.

  Shelby. Of course. Why didn’t I think of her straight away? She could easily be the mystery caller who’s threatening to out me and Harrison as a couple. From the start, it was clear she didn’t like me. And she was there that first night in Barcelona when things first started to heat up between Harrison and I. Could she really have been trailing us from then on out, lurking in shadows, waiting to snap incriminating pictures of us? I have no idea. I’ve barely met the girl. Why the hell would be she doing a thing like this? Maybe she’s carrying a torch for Harrison, and I went and got in her way? It’s insane, but not impossible.

  I look back and forth between Charlie and Shelby. Which one of them is more likely to be behind this? Or—and this thought scares me more than anything—what if it’s not either of them? What if some complete stranger is out there with a batch of pictures that could ruin my life? Someone I can’t reason with or understand, someone who’s just out to make our lives miserable. This isn’t how I pictured things going at all. I was just starting to hope that maybe Harrison and I could find a way to become public without inciting a shit storm. But any chance of that seems about as likely as the Pope converting to Judaism right about now.

  Enzo takes a swaggering step forward, snapping me out of my panicked mind. My brother heads straight for Harrison, who breaks away from his own pack. They walk toward each other across the marble lobby, and the rest of us fall silent. I halfway expect them to take their forty paces before opening fire on each other. But I have a feeling that if a duel does occur between these two, it’s going to go down on the track, not in the lobby of some fancy hotel.

  “Heading out early, Lazio?” Harrison asks, drawing up to my brother. The two men are almost exactly the same size. They’re both tall and muscular, without being outrageously built. I wonder who would come out on top in a fight, if it came to it? Oh Christ, I hope it doesn’t ever come to that. I don’t think I could stand it.

  “Just getting a head start,” my brother replies, crossing his arms.

  “Hoping to get some extra practice in before the next race?” Harrison smiles.

  He’s ribbing Enzo, trying to piss him off. Jesus, do we have to watch this little pissing contest right now? Sometimes even the most manly men can act like o
vergrown boys.

  “I don’t really believe in being reckless,” Enzo says coolly, “We run a pretty tight ship.”

  “Yes, I see that,” Harrison says, nodding to the rest of us, “But you know, Lazio, sometimes it’s good to shake things up a bit.”

  “You call sleeping through your preliminary shaking things up?” Enzo scoffs.

  “Paid off, didn’t it?” Harrison smiles.

  “It’s dangerous,” Enzo says, “All you do, Davies, is make an already risky sport riskier for us all. It’s inconsiderate, and unsportsmanlike.”

  “But I suppose that cutting off drivers left and right and making personal attacks is the height of acting like a true gentleman, eh Lazio?” Harrison shoots back.

  “No one’s attacking you,” Enzo says, “Don’t be so dramatic.”

  “You know full well what I’m talking about. And you know that I’m right,” Harrison says, “We both know that I’m making you nervous, especially now that I’ve beat your ass, and you’re trying to make yourself feel better by taking cheap shots at my family. Well guess what, Lazio? I’m not my father. And you’re not yours. It’s just you, me, and the rest of the drivers out there. We’re equals.”

  “You are not my equal,” Enzo spits, “You’re a lucky rookie who’s going to get his ass handed to him by the time this championship is over.”

  “You’re dreaming,” Harrison says with a grin.

  “You’re deluded,” Enzo returns, “You’ll burn out in no time, Davies. Sooner or later, you’ll crack. You’ll slip up, and the world will be able to see you for who you really are. A no-good, womanizing, drunkard of a racer who’ll fizzle and die out before long.”

  I watch as Enzo’s words sink into Harrison’s mind. I know he’s thinking the exact same thing as I am: he really does have something to hide these days, but it’s got nothing to do with his father. It’s me he has to worry about.

  “See you in Russia, Lazio,” Harrison says, snapping out of it, “I’ll be the one racing laps around your ass.”