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

by Masters, Colleen

  “Worried?” I ask.

  “Sure,” she says, “I mean, these things seem pretty intense. There’s risk, and drama, and victory—all the biggest ideas and feelings in the world. I guess I’m just a little worried that things won’t be the same, once we’re just out in the normal world again. How can you be sure that a relationship is going to hold up without all this excitement?”

  I stare at Bex, my heart sinking with her every word. To be honest, I’ve never thought about it that way. Never once have I paused to consider what might happen to me and Harrison in a few weeks’ time, when this wild ride comes to a stop. What are we supposed to do until the next championship season rolls around, order pizza and watch Netflix like normal couples? Somehow, I have a little trouble picturing that.

  “Siena?” Bex prompts, “What do you think?”

  “I think...if you’ve really got a solid thing, then it won’t matter that the tour is over,” I say, as much to her as to myself. “Just trust that the two of you will know what to do with each other back in the real world. I’m sure the rest will take care of itself.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Bex sighs, “At least Charlie’s just a devoted fan of Team Ferrelli. It’s not like his entire life is wrapped up in racing. I don’t know what I’d do if I thought he was more interested in racing than he was in me...Oh, shit,” Bex mutters, seeing the look on my face, “I wasn’t talking about you and...I’m sorry, Siena. That was dumb.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say, feigning nonchalance, “Hell, I was raised by a couple guys who care more about this sport than anything else in the world. And I guess I turned out OK, right?”

  “Better than OK, I’d say,” Bex smiles. “Hey, what are you doing right now?”

  “Stewing in my own anxiety,” I say dryly.

  “Well, do you feel like taking a break?” Bex asks, “It’s happy hour, after all. I know there are a couple of great bars downtown that we could hit up, if you feel like it.”

  “Why does it feel like forever since we went out together?” I ask, “Man, remember how easy it was at the beginning of the year?”

  “It was like another lifetime,” Bex sighs, affecting an overly dramatic tone, “Oh, to be young again!”

  “Shut up,” I laugh, tossing a pillow her way, “I’m just saying. Things have gotten so complicated since Barcelona.”

  “Well, that’s life isn’t it? When it rains it pours. All you can do is keep a good umbrella around and invest in some waterproof mascara.”

  “Words to live by,” I laugh.

  “Come on. Put on something besides jeans and a tee shirt for once and come out with me,” Bex insists, “I’ll even leave Charlie here, I promise.”

  “OK,” I agree, “But only because you’re so darn cute.”

  It feels just like old times as Bex and I doll ourselves up together. We fall back so easily into our college dynamic any time we’re about to head out on the town. I may be the one with my picture in the tabloids for my illicit affair, but Bex will always be better versed in the ways of the heart...more precisely, the hearts of men. But these days, we’re both wading further into the uncharted territory of seriously falling for the people we’re with. It’s times like these where a carefree night out is just what the doctor ordered.

  Bex digs through my closet and extracts a red hot little number for my appraisal. It’s a risky little dress, short and low cut at once.

  “Where’s the other half of it?” I ask.

  “Just put it on,” she says, tossing the dress my way.

  I obey, as I always do, and complete the look with a pair of nude pumps and some smoky eye. I haven’t been dressed up for weeks, and I have to admit it feels good to look like a person. Bex throws on a classic LBD and some bright red lipstick, and we’re off to have some fun. I let my best friend lead the way, and try my hardest not to think of Harrison, hard at work learning the ins and outs of his new and improved car. I’m not helping anyone by moping around my hotel room. I may as well have a little fun where I can get it.

  * * *

  The night is young when Bex and I stroll into the bar. The modestly-sized establishment is cooler than I expected. Deliciously trashy pop plays overhead as sleekly clad bodies move around the narrow space. I raise my eyes at Bex in the low light.

  “What is this, a speakeasy or something?” I ask.

  “I’ve heard good things about it,” she replies, “It’s better than some beer and hot wings sports bar, right?”

  “I’m not sure about that...” I say, looking around the swanky room, “I feel sort of out of place here.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Bex says, “You’ve just gotten too used to race day clothes, lately. Or Harrison’s tee shirts, rather.”

  “God, I feel like one of those pathetic girlfriends who gets lonely every time she goes out without her guy,” I groan, pushing back my mess of curls.

  “Me too,” Bex admits, “But we must meet our dilemma head on!”

  She moves away from me to the bar to get us some drinks, and I sink down onto the nearest stool. Not a second goes by before a shot materializes in front of me. I look up at the bartender, surprised.

  “I don’t think that’s for me,” I tell her. Bex knows that my drink is a margarita.

  “Oh, it’s for you,” the tatted-up barkeep tells me. “Looks like you’ve got a not-so-secret admirer down there.”

  I follow her eyes and spot a man at the other end of the bar raising a shot glass to me. In the dim lighting, I don’t recognize him for a moment. But as he flashes me a grin, his face comes into focus. I feel my mouth twist in annoyance as I see that it’s Rafael Marques sitting there. “Oh god...” I mutter, as he strides down the bar toward me.

  “Don’t you look as fine as ever tonight?” he purrs, taking a seat next to me.

  “I’m saving that seat for someone,” I say shortly.

  “I think you’re lying,” he sniffs, “I think you came here alone, in search of me. Looks like it’s your lucky day. But you didn’t have to sit here, baiting me in that sexy red dress. You could have just come and said hello. I don't bite, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, but does this little tactic ever work on women?” I snap.

  “All the time,” he winks.

  I roll my eyes at him, exasperated by his unwarranted cockiness as ever. But maybe this little rendezvous is a blessing in disguise. I said I’d talk to the guy, after all.

  “Listen, Rafael. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

  “Really?” he says, leaning in close to me, “I bet I can guess what it is.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” I tell him, “It’s about the Grand Prix this weekend.”

  “You’re wondering whether you can come cheer me on from my pit? I don’t blame you. I’d want to back a winner, if I were in your position.”

  “It seems like someone is going after drivers as they rise in the ranks,” I say, ignoring his arrogant remarks, “Enzo and Harrison wanted me to warn you to be on the lookout.”

  “I see...” Marques says. For the first time, I see a touch of seriousness come into his eyes, “That’s...kind of heavy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s just a feeling they have. A feeling we all have. Between the wrecks, and the personal drama, it seems like someone is trying to manipulate the standings. None of us are too fond of your ego, but we’re all F1 professionals, in the end. So we just wanted to make sure that you were taking measures to protect yourself.”

  “Like, what kind of measures?” Rafael asks.

  “I don’t know. Keeping extra security on around your car. Getting your vehicle thoroughly checked out right before the race. That kind of thing.”

  “So what you’re saying is that I should watch out? Your brother and lover boy are telling me to check myself?”

  “In so many words,” I tell him.

  “Well, what are their words, exactly?” Marques presses.

  I take a deep breath, swallowing my fru
stration. Does this guy really need me to spell it out for him?

  “We all think it would be wise of you to watch your back,” I tell him, “Someone has been going after the more talented drivers in this tournament, and you might not be safe. And it seems like whoever’s behind the attacks so far isn’t afraid to play dirty. If you keep doing well, you’re going to get what they think is coming to you. We’re afraid that someone is going to hurt you...Why the hell are you smiling like that?”

  “You’ve just given me a lot to think about, Siena,” Marques says, downing his shot in one go, “You’re a fascinating woman. I’d so very much like to get to know you better.”

  I jump as Marques lays his hands on my bare thighs. I try to shove him away, but he refuses to budge. Panic spikes in my veins at his insistent touch.

  “Get the hell off of me, Marques,” I growl.

  “But I don’t want to,” he grins.

  “I swear to god, I’ll end you if you don’t get your filthy hands off me!” I shout.

  “Say it again,” he says, moving his face toward mine, “I love it when you talk tough.”

  “It’s not just talk,” I spit, cocking back my fist.

  I let fly and slug him right across the cheek. A howl rips out of his throat as he staggers away from me at last, his face bleeding, cut from the rings on my fingers.

  Sorry I'm not sorry.

  “Siena, what happened?” Bex says, arriving back from the bar just in the nick of time.

  “Come on,” I tell her, “We’re getting out of here, now.”

  “Did you all see that?” Marques demands, “That woman assaulted me! Just now, in front of all of you! You’re all witnesses!”

  “If you want to talk assault, Marques,” I growl, “We can discuss the many, many times you’ve sexually harassed me over the course of this season. Do you really want to mess with me? Because I won’t hold back.”

  “What are you going to so, send your thug boyfriend after me?” Marques shoots back.

  “Clearly, I can take care of myself,” I tell him, grabbing onto Bex’s hand, “Maybe you should take some notes, Rafael.”

  I storm out of the bar with Bex on my heels. I should have known better than to think that Rafael Marques would take any warning of mine seriously. Clearly, the only words he cares to hear out of a woman’s mouth are “faster, harder”. Well, I won’t feel guilty if something happens to him, now. I’ve said my peace, and it’s on him to look out for his own damn self.

  I’m still vibrating with anger when Bex and I arrive back at the hotel, stone sober. My best friend stares at me with wide eyes as I throw myself down onto the bed, beside myself.

  “What the hell happened back there?” she asks, “I walk away for one minute—”

  “That asshole tried to cop a feel is what happened,” I growl, “I can’t believe the nerve of some people. I was just trying to tell him to look out for himself, and that’s how he repays me? I can’t believe a man like that is even allowed to be a part of this sport.”

  “Oh yeah. A professional athlete who happens to be an asshole. Color me shocked,” Bex says, rolling her eyes.

  “Most of the drivers I know are great guys,” I say defensively, “Harrison, Enzo—”

  “Both of whom are stubborn hot heads,” she points out.

  “They’re nothing like that dick head Marques. Neither are Landers and Rostov.”

  “I’m just saying,” Bex sighs, “You can’t put these guys up on pedestals. They’ll just disappoint you.”

  “Are you driving at something, Bex?” I ask.

  “Just be careful,” she says, “I don’t want to see you getting burned. Are you going to tell Harrison what Marques tried to pull?”

  “No,” I tell her, “The Grand Prix weekend is going to kick off tomorrow. He needs his wits about him if he’s going to do well.”

  Bex and I trade terse goodnights, and she retires to her own room. I lay on my back, still wrapped up in my sexy red dress, and try not to seethe about tonight’s events. I need to bring the positive energy this weekend if I’m going to help Enzo and Harrison do well, after all. It’s just about the only thing I can do, since I stopped being a PR whiz and started being a PR problem. I fall asleep, praying that this will be the weekend that things turn around for us. It just has to be.

  Chapter Ten

  Motor City

  As the Grand Prix weekend begins, it seems that my wishes might just be coming true. Harrison and Enzo both have fantastic preliminary runs on Friday, their times rivaling those they reached before the Moscow wreck. As much as I missed spending time with both of them this week, I guess the extra practice in their renovated cars paid off. A little alone time is a small price to pay for those kinds of results.

  My boys don’t disappoint during the qualifying race, either. They’re back to their old selves as they rip through the competition, passing Marques' time as if it were nothing. I can’t help but be a little smugly satisfied as Harrison secures pole position with Enzo right behind him. Marques may have gotten a few lucky first place finishes while my brother and Harrison were incapacitated, but in a fair race he has no chance at all. One of my boys is going to take home the championship, I just know it.

  I’m gunning for Harrison to win the Detroit Grand Prix, even over Enzo—not that I’d ever say it loud out. He’s trailing just a bit behind in points, and is precariously close to falling behind Marques. I wouldn’t be able to stand it if that son of a bitch bested Harrison in this tournament. He doesn’t deserve to be driving in same league as Harrison and Enzo. Especially when Rostov and Landers, awesome men and drivers, have fallen so tragically out of the race.

  Just after the qualifying race on Saturday morning, I pay a visit to Harrison’s trailer to congratulate him on scoring pole position. But when I slip into the tiny space, I find him sitting motionless on the couch listening to a sports radio broadcast.

  “...still unclear as to what the specific injuries are, but the prognosis is grim,” an announcer is saying, “Alexi Rostov is unlikely to ever walk again, much less race. Sven Landers, for his part, has sustained such serious burns on his arms and hands that prosthetics are likely to be the favorable solution.”

  Without speaking, I cross to Harrison and wrap him my arms around his shoulders.

  “It isn’t right,” he growls, “Those two men should never have gotten hurt.”

  “No driver should ever get hurt,” I tell him, “But that’s the nature of it.”

  “By why do I deserve to walk away unscathed?” he demands, shaking free of my embrace. “Why am I still here, about to start from pole position in the next Grand Prix, while those two lay in the hospital?”

  “You got lucky,” I tell him, “I don’t know what else to say, Harrison.”

  “You are my luck,” he says quietly, “I honestly believe it. You’re the only reason I’ve come through all this alright.”

  “Don’t go jinxing it,” I warn him, “You’ve still got two more races to run. And I’m going to need you in tip top shape so that we can celebrate the right way.”

  “The right way?” Harrison asks, “What way would that be?”

  I close the space between us, laying my hands against his chest. “Oh, I think you know,” I smile, planting a kiss just below his stubbly jaw.

  “Ah,” he says, wrapping his arms around my waist, “I suppose I do.”

  I tug him over toward the couch with a determined grin. Thank god we’ve got a sure fire way to blow off steam when things get crazy around here. Lord knows, they’re sure not going to calm down anytime soon.

  “You promise you’ll always be there to cheer me on?” Harrison asks, as I lay down on the couch before him.

  “I promise,” I whisper, pulling him down on top of me, “You’ll always have your good luck charm rooting for you. Now come here and let me show you how much I believe in you, Mr. Soon to be World Champion.”

  “That’s some pillow talk,” Harrison laughs, “But I thin
k I like it, Miss Lazio.”

  It’s a good thing these trailers have good suspension. Otherwise the wild rocking would totally give us away. Best not to add more fuel to the media fire just when they’re finally losing interest in our love story.

  * * *

  The next morning rolls around in the blink of an eye, and the second to last race is upon us at last. I spend the entire morning with Enzo, talking him up while fielding phone calls from my father. Even though Dad’s been staying at home, trying to hide his worsening condition, he still has plenty of wisdom to offer his kids from afar.

  “Make sure you tell him to reserve some speed,” Dad says across the line, his voice raspy and soft. It breaks my heart to hear him sounding so much older than his years.

  “I’ll tell him, Dad,” I promise.

  “And you tell that boyfriend of yours not to try any funny business,” he goes on.

  “That I won’t do,” I say, “Though I suspect you’re kidding. Right?”

  “Maybe,” he says gruffly, “Your mother’s making me hang up the phone. But you hold down the fort while I’m gone, Siena! If you’re going to be running this team, you need to make sure everything goes smoothly today. Think of it as practice.”

  We trade goodbyes, and I turn my attention back to Enzo. I stand in his trailer, watching him prepare. His focus is razor sharp, and I can tell that he’s more determined than ever to walk away with first place today.

  “You doing OK?” I ask.

  “Fine,” he replies.

  “I know it’s been a rough few weeks, with Sven and Alexi—”

  “I can’t talk about them right now,” Enzo cuts me off, “I’m already racing for Dad. And I know I’ll be racing for them, too. It’s a lot for one person to shoulder.”

  “I’m sure it is,” I say softly, laying a hand on his arm, “I wish you’d let me take some of the burden from you, Enzo. Maybe if you just talked to me—?”

  “That’s never been the way we worked,” Enzo says, sadness tugging at the edges of his voice, “We’ve always been so close that we never needed to waste words explaining ourselves. But that’s all changing, isn’t it?”