“Well, as fun as it’s been, I need to be getting back down to the Ferrelli pit,” I say, standing up, “I’d say it’s been a pleasure, except that it hasn’t.”
“I’m afraid we can’t permit you back onto the track, Miss Lazio,” the small man says.
“Excuse me?” I ask, “What authority to do you have—”
“All of it,” Mr. Tanner smiles, “I’ve ruled you to be a security threat to this race, Miss Lazio. You’ll need to keep away from the premises until the Grand Prix has been run.”
“But my team—” I protest.
“They’ll manage without you, I’m sure,” Mr. Tanner says. “I’m sure you’ll be able to watch the final race in Dallas. If your stories check out with the authorities, that is.”
“This is insane,” I say, “I’ve got nothing to do with the destruction of any F1 cars. What could I possibly stand to gain from something like that?”
“You've been getting a lot of press lately,” the tall man points out, “Some people will go to great lengths for a bit of celebrity.”
I’m too furious to even speak. I know that if I open mouth, a string of wildly creative curses and swears will come flooding out, making even more of a mess for me and everyone I care about. So instead of railing against the ignorant, smug trio of men before me, I turn on my heel and march out of the office. I tear through the hallways and out the front door, sucking in deep breaths of air as I stagger into the outdoors once again. From the track, I can hear the familiar sounds of revving engines, cheering fans, the fast-talking announcer. Every cell in my body strains toward the track, but I’m not about to test my luck.
Instead, I whip out my cell and summon one of Ferrelli’s private cars. I need to hightail it back to the hotel, scream into a pillow for about a half hour, and then figure out what the hell is going on here. It kills me to know that I won’t be there to cheer Harrison and Enzo on, but I’m sure they’ll understand my predicament. As much as it can possibly be understood, that is.
Chapter Twelve
Absence and Longing
Watching the Detroit Grand Prix from my hotel room is a bizarre experience. I switch on the flat screen in my room the moment I get in, and find that the race is already halfway run. Settling down in front of the TV, I spot the two cars I care most about in the race out in front of the pack. Despite today’s strange, uncomfortable turn of events, my spirits are lifted at once as I see that Enzo and Harrison are vying for first place—and Marques is nowhere to be seen. Things are playing out perfectly, despite my absence.
“The race got off to a bumpy start this morning,” says the TV announcer, “As the car of Spanish driver Rafael Marques was found to have been tampered with sometime late last night.”
“This really has been quite the dramatic season,” says a second sportscaster, “Of course, Formula One world championships are always exciting affairs. But we’ve seen more than our fair share of odd and tragic occurrences this year.”
“That’s right,” says the first voice, “It all started back in Barcelona, when Maxwell Naughton’s car inexplicably crashed during a routine preliminary run. Then of course, the ascent of the unknown Harrison Davies as a frontrunner took us all by surprise. And speaking of Harrison Davies, how about the epic crash that he and Lorenzo Lazio got into back in Moscow? Rumor has it that whole kerfuffle started over Lazio’s sister Siena getting romantically involved with Davies.”
“That was quite the tabloid scandal,” says the second man, “It’s rather uncharacteristic of F1 to be so muddied with gossip and foul play. And it hasn’t stopped with a star crossed romance, either. Both Lazio and Davies’ cars were tampered with during the London Grand Prix, resulting in the serious injury of drivers Sven Landers and Alexi Rostov. And now this sabotage of Marques’ car? Is it me, or is this all getting to be a bit too much?”
“So far, the teams themselves have been rather quiet about what all this scandal will mean going forward,” says the first voice, “But I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a big shakeup in the rosters of these teams going forward. We already know that Alfonso Lazio, former driver and current shareholder of Team Ferrelli, will be stepping down due to a medial situation.”
“So sad, that,” sighs the second announcer, “Alfonso Lazio is fighting terminal lung cancer even as we speak. There are rumors going around the F1 community that his daughter Siena Lazio, currently the Public Relations Director for Team Ferrelli, will be stepping up to take his place.”
“We’ll see if Ferrelli lets that happen, what with all the drama that’s gone down this year,” replies the first man, “The last thing Team Ferrelli will want is to let another round of scandal follow it into the changing of the guard.”
The screen swims before my eyes. I’m unaccountably devastated by this casual commentary about my life. I know it’s just talk, but still, that’s my life they’re talking about. Since when did my family, my future, become everyone’s business? It almost makes me miss the days before I even came onto Team Ferrelli professionally. Back when I was just the tame little F1 princess, pure and simple. But I’m far too ambitious, far too driven to let the backseat be my fate. I deserve to be a leader in this sport. I know that I could change it for the better. I’m not going to let a few rumors and unfounded gossip keep me from my dream. That’s not who I am.
I rest my elbows on my knees, leaning toward the flat screen TV with rapt attention. Lap after lap goes by, with Enzo and Harrison putting ever more distance between their cars and the rest of the pack. It’s just like when the tour began. I can almost forget, watching the two incredibly talented men in my life do their thing, that matters have gone to absolute shit. Not only is some crazy person trying to do F1 drivers in, someone’s trying to make it look like I’m involved. But I can’t worry about that now. I know full well that I have nothing to hide.
As the final quarter of the race begins, Marques begins to fly out ahead of the pack behind Enzo and Harrison. I feel my fingernails dig into my palms as he soars on. Looks like his car is in tip top shape, now.
The cameras go into split screen for a moment to capture the mood of the crowd. One half of the screen is filled with speeding cars, while the other scans the rapt faces of fans. The image cuts to a view of the McClain stands, where some familiar faces look on intently. Andy and Cora stand clasping hands, as do Sara and Shelby. I wonder if my brother’s flame is feeling as conflicted as I have all along? I observe her face as the camera zooms in, and I’m astonished by what I see. Gone from her expression is the snarky smirk I’ve come to know so well. There’s nothing in her eyes but boundless enthusiasm and, if I’m not mistaken, adoration. And I get the feeling that it’s not at all for Harrison. Maybe I misjudged her, after all.
Again, the camera jumps, this time to the Ferrelli cheering section. Our corner looks so empty these days. It’s only Bex and Charlie holding down the fort since I’ve been kicked out. And their faces look more worried than anything else. I don’t even want to imagine how livid Gus must be right now without me at his side. Or how confused Dad must be, seeing me absent from the crowd. Oh, god...what am I going to tell Dad about all of this? What if sides with those asshole race officials who seem to think I deserve to have a scarlet letter slapped on my chest and be shown the door?
“We’re coming into the last few laps here, folks,” says the sportscaster, dragging my mind back onto the race, “It looks like Enzo Lazio and Harrison Davies are neck and neck.”
“But edging up behind them is none other than Rafael Marques,” says the second announcer, “It seems that his strategy this race has been to conserve speed, while Lazio and Davies have been going full speed ahead since the beginning of the race.”
“Damn!” I mutter, slamming my fist into the couch.
Marques is, indeed, inching up with every passing second. By the penultimate lap, he’s nearly on top of my boys. If they hadn’t spent the entire race trying to edge in past each other, maybe they’d have enough power to keep
ahead of Marques now. But he’s not going to give them a break, not now. I shove my hands through my hair as the three cars gather into a speeding clump, each waiting for an opportunity to break ahead.
As they jet into the final lap, I spring to my feet, pacing fitfully before the TV screen. At this stage in the race, anything could happen. And any upset could be a game changer. Enzo hangs onto the tiniest of leads as the last lap begins. The three leading cars soar around the course in a tight pack, and are halfway around when Harrison suddenly swerves away from the tight formation and lays on the speed. He jets ahead of Enzo, riding some supply of momentum that’s come from seemingly out of nowhere. Enzo swings away just a hair, startled by the sudden change. But in the brief window of that opening, Marques takes off after Harrison. In one long, dragged out moment, the three cars race over the finish line: Harrison in first, Marques in second, and Enzo in third.
There are too many emotions warring through my mind to sort through. I’m elated for Harrison, furious with Marques, and disappointed for Enzo, all at once. This sort of pyrotechnic emotional response can’t possibly do a body any good. I feel lightheaded, starting at the screen, trying to make sense of this outcome.
“Looks like it’s all going to come down to the final race in Dallas,” says the announcer, “Despite Enzo Lazio’s early lead in this tour, extenuating circumstances have intervened to even out the playing field. The world championship title is ripe for the taking, now. Whoever wins the Dallas Grand Prix—Lazio, Davies, or Marques—will become the next world champion.”
“The McClain camp must be feeling pretty good right about now,” says the second announcer, “Harrison Davies pulled quite the draft maneuver on Enzo Lazio right there at the end. For most of the race, it seemed like they were almost racing as a team, stonewalling the rest of the drivers. But I suppose that first place finish was just too tempting for Davies to pass up. I don’t blame the guy. He’s fighting against the jilted reputation of his old man, after all. He must really be itching to prove himself in his debut season.”
“Enzo Lazio’s probably kicking himself right about now,” the first announcer chuckles, “But just look at Marques’ cheering section! That is what I like to call a crowd going wild. He may not have placed first, but all things considered, Marques is today’s true winner.”
I grit my teeth as the camera focuses on Marques, leaping out of his car with arms upraised. You’d think they’d just announced him leader of the free world, from the way he’s carrying on. His team and posse swarm around him, and the driver all but disappears in a jumble of leaping supporters. I keep my eyes glued to the screen as Marques grins widely up at the crowd. In the background, I see Harrison and Enzo climbing out of their own rides, McClain and Ferrelli surging out to meet them. So distracted am I by the somber look on my brother’s face that I almost don’t notice that another oddly familiar visage has graced the screen.
Beside Rafael Marques, a woman appears. I cock my head to the side, trying to place her. I swear, I’ve seen her before, if only I could figure out where. She raises her arms, throwing them around Marques’ shoulders. Her draping sleeves slide down, exposing her biceps—and the sleeves of tattoos that have been inked there. I know those tattoos, I know that woman! She was the bartender from that swanky joint Bex and I visited the other night, the night Marques and I had it out. She was right there when our spat went down, when I ended up punching Marques in the face. What the hell is she doing out there now? Did Marques really pick up the bartender after our fight?
Or did he plant her behind the bar in the first place?
I think back to that damning video the race officials showed me this morning. Remembering the angle of the camera, the vantage point, the shot...it absolutely follows that the video was recorded from behind the bar. A wave of nausea sweeps through me, bringing me heavily back down onto the couch. Rafael Marques had some woman train a camera on our conversation. He set me up. What, did he trail me and Bex to the bar as well? Make sure that we’d conveniently run into each other so he could bait me into saying a bunch of misleading bullshit? Why the hell would he do that?
My heart slams against my ribcage as my iPhone begins to ring. Most of the people in my circle are still up there on the TV screen, celebrating and carrying on after the Grand Prix. Who’s calling me now? I rummage through my purse and snatch up my cell. I let out a little cry as I see that the number on the screen belongs to my dad. He’s probably calling to see why the hell I wasn’t at the Grand Prix, supporting Enzo. Tentatively, I take the call.
“Hi Dad,” I say, trying to keep my voice cheerful. “How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better,” he croaks, “What the hell is going on over there?”
“I know,” I say hurriedly, not wanting him to waste his energy by getting upset, “I thought Enzo had it in the bag too. But you never can tell—”
“I’m not talking about your brother,” Dad cuts me off, “I’m talking about you.”
“Me?”
“Gus called. Said that you got hauled off by some race officials this morning. Something about Rafael Marques’ car?”
“Don’t believe a word you hear,” I tell my father, “It was a bunch of noise, nothing more. Dad, I think Marques is trying to frame me for whatever happened to his car this morning.”
“Siena...”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you,” Dad says, his voice giving back to a terrible hacking cough for a long moment, “But I don’t understand...” he goes on.
“That makes two of us,” I sigh. “I can’t wrap my head around everything that’s been going on.”
“Well, then you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you,” Dad says tentatively, “Siena, the Ferrelli owners got in touch with me yesterday. I told them that I mean to leave you my shares once I’m gone.”
“What did they say?” I ask.
“They’re...reluctant,” Dad tells me, “In fact they, uh, tried to talk me out of it.”
“What? Why?” I exclaim, “What right do they have to tell you what you should do with your shares, Dad?”
“It’s their team too, Siena,” Dad says, “And they’re all feeling a bit skittish, what with all the...publicity we’ve been getting during this tournament.”
“All the gossip, you mean?” I ask.
“All the gossip,” Dad allows, “It’s not good for the team, Siena, not good for the brand. I know you never meant any harm, getting involved with Davies, but can you blame the owners for wanting to distance themselves from the rumor mill? Sex scandals and family feuds are not what F1 is all about, it's not what Ferrelli is about.”
“I know that,” I seethe, “And I never asked for my private life to be made public. You know that. I don’t want the F1 fan base focused on my love life any more than you do.”
“I’m just worried, Siena,” Dad says, “You’re on thin ice with these guys. If any more gossip gets out about you, they might overrule me.”
“Can they do that?” I breathe.
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” Dad says, “They have to look out for the team. Do what’s best for everyone involved.”
“I want what’s best for the team too,” I insist, “You know that, don’t you Dad? You know I’d work like a madwoman making Ferrelli the best it can be?”
“I know, Siena. But the board members don’t know you like I do. They don’t know what you’re capable of.”
“Then I guess I’ll just have to show them, won’t I?” I say determinedly.
“I guess you...you...” Dad’s voice breaks off as he takes the phone away from his mouth. I hear a muffled but brutal coughing fit across the phone line, and feel my heartstrings twist with guilt.
“Dad?” I say, “Dad, are you there?”
“Yeah, sure,” he tells me, “Just a little tickle. Nothing to worry about.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been better, Siena,” he laughs dryly.
“I’m not going to disappoint you,” I tell him, “You know that, right?”
“You haven’t yet,” he says, “You’ve surprised me more than once, but you’ve never once disappointed me.”
“Thanks Dad,” I say softly, “Now let me go and try to straighten all this nonsense out.”
We hang up, and the deafening silence of my Detroit hotel room rushes in once again. On the TV, the cameras have cut away from the track. All of the drivers and teams have dispersed from the track, but the announcers babble on. I turn up the volume to hear their final words.
“Looks like it’s all gonna come down to Dallas,” says the sportscaster, “In a week’s time, we’ll have a new world champion on our hands. And this dramatic, fraught season will finally have drawn to a close.”
I switch off the TV and sit staring off into space, warring with my impulses. On the one hand, I agree with the announcer. This tour can’t be over soon enough. So many things have gone so horribly wrong since this championship started. So many people I care about have gotten hurt or found themselves in harm’s way. My own reputation has been called into question, my professionalism doubted. But even with all of that, how can I regret having gone along for this ride? I have Harrison in my life now, after all. And if my competence and character are being questioned, it only means I have a chance to prove them.
The rumble of voices and shuffling feet sounds up the hallway in no time at all. The door of my hotel room flies open, and Enzo strides across the threshold with Bex and Charlie on his heels. They’re looking for answers, and now. After all, they each saw me get dragged away by those race officials. Enzo closes and locks the door, his every muscle wound tight as a spring. Bex and Charlie sit on either side of me, laying comforting hands on my back and shoulders.
“So?” Enzo demands, “What the hell did those assholes think they were doing, dragging you off like some goddamn criminal?”
“I hope there was just some kind of a misunderstanding?” Charlie says.
Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) Page 11