Faster Deeper (Take Me...#2) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel)

by Masters, Colleen

  “I've been watching Formula One for...oh...my entire life?” I say.

  “That’s true,” Dad laughs.

  “Come to think of it,” I say, “I’m pretty sure my first memory is of a Grand Prix.”

  “Really?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning toward him, “I couldn’t have been older than four. It’s a fuzzy sort of memory, more like a dream than anything else. It’s the day of the Grand Prix, right at the end. Mom’s got me all dressed up in a getup that matches hers—some sporty little sundress. Enzo’s there, practically jumping onto the track with excitement, his black mop of hair going every which way. Mom picks me up in her arms so that I can see the cars cross the finish line. And there’s a flash of green, and I just go berserk. I’m screaming and pointing, going, ‘that’s my dad! that’s my dad!’ You’re neck and neck with this jet black car, but at the last second you fly ahead of him. And the whole world just erupts into noise. We rush down to the pit as you get out of your car, all red in the face and sweaty. I run over to you, and you scoop me up, and I feel like goddamn royalty...”

  A stifled sound pulls my focus away from my tale. Dad has his hands clenched tightly together, trying his best to hold back...tears?

  “Dad...what is it?” I ask quietly, laying a hand on his back.

  “Nothing. Nothing,” he says, sniffing loudly and sitting up straight, “That’s just a damn fine story, Siena. Must have been during my last F2 series, before I moved on up the food chain. I’m glad you can remember me like that. Young, and strong...a champion.”

  “You’ll always be a champion to me,” I tell him, braiding my fingers through his. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “Sure,” he says, “Sure do, kiddo. Well. Anyhow. Just wanted to...”

  “Stop by and check on me?” I offer.

  “Yeah,” he says, “I’m, uh, gonna go grab something to eat. Take your time, though. Take a breather. You deserve it.”

  He walks quickly across the room and leaves me alone with my thoughts once more. I stare after my father, dazed by his behavior. My dad is nothing if not a ruthless, unsentimental strategist. What’s with the waxing nostalgia all of a sudden? Maybe he’s finally starting to soften up a bit in his old age. That might not be such a tragedy. Maybe he’ll thaw enough before the season is over to handle the news of me and Harrison?

  Wishful thinking.

  All of the anxiety that’s been eating away at my nerves since receiving those incriminating photos is rushing back into my bloodstream. I need to relax. The only way I’m going to be able to think through this if I can clear my mind. I throw on some skinny jeans, a white tank, and my favorite leather jacket. With a quick swipe of mascara and a dab of rosy lip gloss, I’m good to go. The worst thing I can do right now is lock myself up in my room and refuse to let the world in. I’ll take a little walk around the hotel grounds. That should clear my head right up.

  I make my way through the exquisitely fancy hotel, marveling at the elegant touches along the way. I’ve always been treated like F1 royalty, and sometimes I forget to stop and be grateful for it. Even with all of this personal drama, this scandal, I’m getting paid to see the world and do what I love. It’s hard to carry gratitude in my heart when it’s already weighed down with so much...but I have to keep at it.

  There’s a small but spotless garden behind our stately gem of a hotel, and I slip out into it to fill my lungs with fresh air. The moment I step outside, I feel a little better. A lot of people get lonely when they travel, but I’ve always felt more at home on the move than static. Maybe it’s because my childhood was split up between two vastly different environments, but I think I’ll be something of a rambler for the rest of my life. You learn to understand people so much more deeply when you’ve been around the world. I wouldn’t trade that awareness for anything.

  The air is just a bit nippy as I make my way through the maze of high, manicured shrubs. This place is something out of War and Peace. I do feel more than a little bit like the lovesick Natasha, longing for her love. But also tempted by a man who no one thinks is good for her. I guess that means Harrison and I have some wild sort of love story going on...I just wish ours was a bit more Nicholas Sparks and a bit less Shakespeare.

  I sink down onto a stone bench, peering up at the bright afternoon sky. A moment of peace like this is hard to come by in my line of work, and I mean to savor it.

  “Son of a bitch,” I mutter, as my ringtone begins to chirp. I whip out my phone and see that Harrison has once again shot me a message. But this time, it’s only two words long:

  “Over here.”

  I whip my head around and feel the air leave my lungs. Harrison is standing across the small stone walkway, wearing light blue jeans, a bomber jacket, and the most serious expression I’ve ever seen on his face.

  “What are you doing here?” I hiss.

  “Look at that,” Harrison remarks, “You actually answered one of my texts. Sort of.”

  “You can’t be here. We can’t be here,” I say, jumping to my feet.

  I try to dart past Harrison, but he catches me up in his arms. He holds onto me firmly, looking down into my panicked eyes.

  “You have to tell me what the hell is going on,” he pleads, “I’m losing my mind, Siena. What happened? Are you angry with me for winning the Budapest Grand Prix? Is that it?”

  “Please,” I beg, tears springing to my eyes, “Harrison, it’s not that—”

  “Did your family finally get to you? Convince you to stay away from me?”

  “No—”

  “Are you tired of me? Scared of me? What? Just give me a clue, Siena. I’m in the dark, here. I can’t stand it.”

  “I just can’t see you, Harrison!” I cry, pushing myself away from him, “I can’t be seen with you.”

  “But why?” he asks, his voice as furious as I’ve ever heard it.

  “I’ll show you,” I say roughly, whipping out my phone.

  I open up the folder of damning photos as thrust the device his way. Comprehension dawns across his face, followed by outraged indignation.

  “What the hell is this?” he growls.

  “I believe it’s what they call blackmail,” I tell him.

  “This is insane,” he says, eyes glued to the pictures, “This can’t be...”

  “But it is,” I tell him, “I’m sorry I shut you out. I just didn’t know what to do. Someone’s got it in for us, Harrison. And I have no idea when this time bomb is going to go off. What are we supposed to do?”

  “I...I haven’t the slightest idea,” he says, shoving a hand through his dirty blonde hair, “But I know what we’re not going to do. We’re not going to let this bastard ruin us. We’ll figure something out, Siena. But you have to promise me that we’ll figure it out together.”

  I throw my arms around his shoulders and let the tears flow freely. I can’t believe I ever even entertained the notion of letting this come between us. Harrison wraps his arms around me and holds me close, helping me shoulder the burden of this secret at last. I still have no idea what we’re going to do, but at least we’re in it together. Together is, after all, exactly where we belong.

  “It’s OK, Siena,” Harrison says, planting a kiss on top of my head.

  “It’s pretty far from OK,” I say.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking. Tell me what you think we should do,” he says, taking my hands in his.

  “I think if we were smart, we’d stop meeting like this. But I’m not feeling too smart these days,” I laugh through my tears. “I don’t think I’m capable of staying away from you, Harrison.”

  “Well, that makes two of us,” he grins.

  “But I do think we should talk about this somewhere less, I don’t know, right in the middle of the goddamn city?” I say.

  “Duly noted,” he says, glancing around.

  It would almost be comical, us peering through the bushes to see if we’ve been caught, except that it’s so damned real.


  “You don’t think...” I breathe, looking over my shoulder.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Harrison says, stepping around me. He darts around the corners of the green maze, his eagle eyes searching for any unwanted paparazzi.

  “See anyone?” I ask.

  “Nope,” he replies, “Maybe our mysterious friend is still on his way here from Budapest. If only he’d stay there...”

  “I don’t want to take any chances,” I tell Harrison, “Will you meet me in two weeks Just before the next Grand Prix?”

  “Two weeks?” Harrison says, incredulously.

  “Don’t be a baby,” I chide, “This isn’t going to be easy on either of us. Let’s meet somewhere in the city. Somewhere no one would suspect.”

  “How about the State Museum?” Harrison suggests.

  “Look at you,” I say, raising my eyebrows, “Wouldn’t have pegged you for the museum-going type.”

  “Well, there’s still a lot that you don’t know about me, Miss Lazio,” Harrison says.

  “I’m sure...” I reply, “The State Museum it is.”

  “It’s the big red one,” he tells me. “You can’t miss it.”

  “Two week’s time, OK? That’ll give us some time to think. Try and figure out who the hell is behind all this.”

  “And what we should do,” Harrison agrees. “Can I at least kiss you goodbye, Siena?”

  “Of course,” I tell him, taking his face in my hands.

  We kiss deeply, daringly, hidden away from the world in the intricate Moscow garden. I can taste the relief coursing through us both. We’re no closer to finding a way out of this mess, but at least we’re both on the same page once more. Between the two of us, we’ll be able to figure a way out of this.

  “Until then,” he says, pulling away from me, “Oh, and by the way, about that thing you said, when I put you in the cab the night before the Budapest Grand Prix?”

  “Oh god...” I mutter, “Harrison, I—”

  “I love you too, Siena,” he tells me, and kisses me passionately on the lips.

  Before I can formulate a coherent thought, he’s disappeared around the corner. And despite all the trouble bearing down on us, I can’t help but let an elated grin play across my face. Harrison Davies, world class F1 driver and all-around perfect man, loves me. Even with all the trouble tumbling down on us, how the hell am I to keep from smiling?

  Chapter Four

  More House Music

  My spirits skyrocket after my garden rendezvous with Harrison. Though there’s so much in flux, so much room for disaster between us, but I have hope again, at least. I head back into the hotel and make a beeline for Bex’s room. I have some major explaining to do about my behavior.

  I rap lightly on her door and wait. In a moment, my best friend appears before me, looking understandably wary. It breaks my heart, knowing what a shabby friend I’ve been to her since meeting Harrison in Barcelona. I have to find some way to make it up to her.

  “What’s up, Siena?” she asks.

  “Oh...a lot, but we don’t have to cover it all now,” I say, “I wanted to see if you were free for a little girl time?”

  “Really?” she asks, “You’re not going to go disappearing into the night again?”

  “Not in the present moment, no,” I tell her.

  “OK,” she says, “I mean, I would love to spend a little time with you.”

  “Why don’t we go out, just the two of us?” I ask, “Unless you’ve got plans...”

  “None that can’t be postponed,” Bex says, “Let’s do it.”

  She swings the door open for me, and I gather my tiny friend up in my arms. Bex is the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had, and I’d hate for any man-related drama to come between us. We’ve been through far too much over the years we’ve known each other to let our friendship dissolve in the name of romance, that’s for damn sure.

  We get dolled up together, picking out dresses and hairstyles and having a grand old time. My heart feels lighter than it has in days, that’s just the effect that Bex has always had on me. Some of the younger Ferrelli team members have been chattering about a club in the center of Moscow called Zhelaniye. And with two weeks until the next Grand Prix, everyone is feeling the urge to let loose and have a little fun. Bex has it on good authority that a bunch of F1 people will be heading to the club tonight, and we intend to be among that number.

  Bex doesn’t even mind not bringing Charlie along. They might be getting awfully close, but clubbing has never exactly been Charlie’s forte. Not unless it’s country clubbing, of course. I run my plans by my father, and he’s more than happy to let me disappear for the night. I’m pretty sure he’s only OK with it because Enzo and his pals are planning on going out too, but I’ll take a little slack wherever I can get it. I start to get excited as the sun begins to set. It’s high time I got back to having a little fun on this season.

  We can hear the thumping bass three blocks away from Zhelaniye, beckoning us toward the club like moths toward the flame. I hold tightly onto Enzo’s arm as we approach the front door, excited to be letting loose after so many tense and anxious days. Bex is to my other side, and I’m so happy to be flanked by my two best friends in the world. It almost makes me miss Harrison a little bit less, having them beside me. But the operative word there is almost. I still ache for his company with every step we take.

  There’s a line snaking down the sidewalk away from the club full of faces I vaguely recognize. It’s like everyone from the F1 caravan under the age of forty has come out tonight, looking to blow off a little steam. Of course, since F1 is such a male-dominated sport, there are plenty of young pit crew workers and auxiliary staff out in the cold tonight. But between Enzo’s celebrity and the fact that he’s accompanied by two lovely young ladies, the three of us are admitted at once. Being a woman in this macho sport has its perks, sometimes.

  The second we step over the threshold of the club, we’re swallowed up by a wall of noise and mad, swinging lights. Every wall is draped in velvet and hung with dozens upon dozens of mirrors. A long wooden bar stands along one wall on the ground level, and I can spot another on the second story loft, separated by a grand staircase and overlooking the dance floor. It’s like we’ve stepped back in time and into the future all at once. The antique touches and pulsating house music complement each other surprisingly well. I’ve certainly never seen anything like Zhelaniye before, and we’ve barely made it through the door.

  “Come on,” Bex says over the music, “First round’s on Enzo.”

  “Naturally,” he smiles, towing me off across the club.

  The three of us sidle up to the long polished bar, and Enzo orders us a round of dirty vodka martinis. We’re furnished at once, and I can tell by the bartender’s shaky smile that he knows exactly who my brother is. What else is new?

  “Lazio!” someone says from down the bar. My brother and I both turn to look, and find ourselves face-to-face with the dynamic duo of Sven Landers and Alexi Rostov.

  “Look what the cat dragged in!” Enzo laughs, clapping Rostov on the back.

  You’d expect all F1 drivers to be on edge around their competitors, but these three have been through so many races together that they’re old pals by now. They rose through the ranks together, shared in so many victories and defeats. I wish that Harrison had been around to grow up with them, instead of being trained in secret. Maybe then some of the tension would be diffused between him and the other drivers.

  “Typical Enzo,” Landers says, his deep blue eyes smiling, “Hogging all the beautiful ladies for himself.”

  “I think that’s up to the beautiful ladies in question,” Bex says, holding out her dainty hand, “I’m Rebecca Bishop. Bex. Ferrelli’s one-woman social media team. And I’d know either of you a mile away.”

  “Well I don't have Twitter but I'd love to buy you a drink,” Rostov says to Bex, “It’s a shame you already have one.”

  “Well, the nigh
t is young,” Bex winks, taking a sip of her drink.

  “You American girls always know how to bring the party,” Landers says.

  “Italian-American,” Enzo says, throwing a protective arm around my shoulder.

  “Oh please,” I mutter, shrugging him off. I can’t help but be a little irritated by Enzo’s easy camaraderie with these flirtatious F1 men. How is it that he can get along with Rostov and Landers and yet be out for blood when it comes to Davies? I suppose that Rostov and Landers are consistent second and third place drivers. Harrison’s the only other potential number one that Enzo’s had to think about in a long while.

  “Care to dance, Miss Bishop?” Rostov asks Bex.

  “I’d be delighted,” she smiles, hopping down off her barstool. Her sinful little black dress barely grazes her mid-thigh, and I notice Rostov's blatant appreciation.

  “What about Charlie?” I whisper to her.

  “If Charlie’s allowed to still have a schoolboy crush on you, I’m allowed to dance the night away with this handsome gentleman,” she says, “Besides, did you hear his accent? How am I supposed to resist that?”

  “Fair point,” I say. I know about being a sucker for a charming accent, alright.

  Bex and Rostov make their way onto the dance floor, and Landers turns to me excitedly.

  “What do you say?” he asks.

  “I think I’ll hang back for a spell,” I tell him, “You two wander off and find some F1 groupies to entertain.”

  “If you insist,” Landers says, sighing theatrically.

  “You OK here on your own?” Enzo asks.

  “You bet,” I tell him, holding up my drink, “I’ve got all the company I need for the time being, buddy.”

  I watch as the two men disappear into the throbbing crowd, in search of some breathless girls to woo. How did I manage to skip over being a breathless girl entirely? I seem to have gone from dating silly little boys to being heartsick, blackmailed, and undyingly devoted to the man of my dreams. When it rains it pours, I suppose.

  My first martini is gone in a flash, and I find myself alone at the bar with an empty glass. I’m dressed in a scarlet, hourglass-hugging dress and tall black stilettos. My dark brown hair hangs in loose curls down my back, and I’ve managed to execute the perfect cat eye makeup. I wish Harrison could see me here. I never feel more beautiful than when he’s got his eyes on me. Of course, I wouldn’t need this whole getup to be beautiful in Harrison’s eyes. He likes me just as well without a stitch—