“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.”
“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.
Chapter Six
Back To Britain
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 was
n’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...”
Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) Page 6