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

by Masters, Colleen

  “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouts, “I told you—”

  “I know, I know!” I cry, “But Gus—”

  “You wanna get yourself banned from the team? Break your father’s heart?”

  “I need you to call the ownership and—”

  “I need you to get out of the pit,” Gus says firmly. He turns away, completely icing me out. Furious, I storm away, my brain scrambling to find another way.

  My phone vibrates against my palm, and I glance down to see that Bex has texted me, asking if I’m holding up OK.

  “Come to the Ferrelli trailer,” I text her, “Hurry.”

  In no time flat, Bex, Charlie and I are huddled together in Enzo’s trailer.

  “I thought you weren’t allowed to be here?” Charlie says anxiously.

  “Things have changed,” I tell him, producing my phone.

  I let Marques’ admission ring through the trailer, watching as Bex and Charlie’s jaws drop further and further.

  “That son of a bitch,” Charlie mutters. “How cocky he is to just freely admit all that shit!”

  “Oh, he's going down,” I tell him, my thumbs flying across the screen of my phone.

  Bex and Charlie’s phones both buzz as they receive the message I’ve sent them. “You each have a copy of this conversation now. If the Ferrelli owners won’t hear me, if we can’t go to the race authorities, there’s still one place we can turn. The internet.”

  As the second two quarters of the race go by, the three of us get to work. We email, text and post our recording everywhere we can think of. But I won’t stop at three vigilantes. I call in backup. With a couple of well-placed texts, I get Shelby and Sara to come running. After hearing Marques talk about their driver, they’re more than happy to help. In no time, Enzo’s trailer is the epicenter of our effort to bring Marques down before something goes terribly wrong on the track.

  “Pull up the race on the TV,” I command.

  Charlie does so, and the race springs up before us. Marques is in second place, right behind Harrison. Enzo lingers just behind, and the three race along in a tight pack. So far, no foul play that I can see. But who knows how long that will hold out.

  “We just need one website to bite,” I mutter, “Just one, and he’s—”

  “It’s done,” Bex breathes, waving her phone. “We’ve got him!” There on her screen is a brand new blog post by one of the most influential sports networks around:

  BREAKING: Rafael Marques May Be Responsible for F1 Tournament Violence.

  And there, beneath the headline, is a transcribed version of our conversation, with the video file to boot. A cheer goes up in the trailer as we fall on top of each other, hugging and laughing, celebrating our little victory. But we’re not out of the woods yet.

  “It’s blowing up everywhere!” Sara exclaims.

  “Turn up the TV,” Shelby shouts.

  “This just in...” the race announcer says, “We’re getting reports of a new recording of Rafael Marques boasting about his orchestration of the flurry of violence that’s gripped this Formula One season. Here, have a listen.”

  The TV waves are flooded with Marques’s sneering voice, punctuated by my own. The drivers are closing in on their final five laps as the world hears the Spanish driver’s admission loud and clear. He’s toast.

  “Miss Lazio!” a voice calls from the door.

  We all spin around to see a trio of race officials hurry into the crowded room. One of the men crossed to me, brandishing his Blackberry.

  “Is this real?” he asks, referring to the audio file.

  “It’s real,” I confirm, “We have to stop Marques before—”

  “The authorities are on their way,” the man says, “But they may not get here before the race is finished. Could Marques have something planned for the finish line?”

  The prospect spurs me into action. I race out into the open air, straight up to the barrier. Harrison, Marques, and Enzo roar by just as I slam up against the concrete wall, the sounds of their engines deafening. I can’t even think about winning or losing right now, just as long as my boys make it out OK. I keep waiting to hear blaring sirens or see police cruisers soar onto the track, but two more laps go by, and suddenly they’re on the second the last.

  And to my horror, Marques has passed Harrison.

  The cars soar through the penultimate lap. When they reappear, the final lap of the championship, the single stretch that will determine the winner, is underway.

  Enzo and Harrison edge along the length of Marques’ car, looking for an opening. But the Spanish driver isn’t giving up an inch. As they fly past us, I can see clearly that it’s no use. Marques is going to win this thing.

  Just as an enormous wave of disappointment readies itself to crash through me, the world all but stops before my eyes. Harrison’s car is flying ahead on a draft of speed, right out in front of Marques’. I wait to see my man soar over the finish line ahead of all the others, but my expectations are foiled. He lingers in front of Marques and holds his speed as Enzo edges along to meet him. I can almost see my brother and Harrison trade glances as they draw even with one another, speeding toward the finish line.

  And that’s when Harrison spins out.

  The crowd gasps as his car turns about in a controlled loop. Marques panics and slams on his breaks, toppling and spinning dangerously away toward the wall. His hood crunches against the concrete as Enzo speeds on ahead. Harrison regains control of his car and takes off after my brother like a shot. I watch from afar as Enzo jolts over the finish line ahead of every other driver, and Harrison arrives right behind him.

  A roaring cheer rips out of my throat from the very core of me as the crowd goes absolutely mad. The rest of the cars zoom, one after another, straight past Marques and onward to their own finishes. Enzo and Harrison loop around the track in a victory lap, gracefully decelerating as their teams race out to meet them in the pit.

  I vault down onto the track, unable to feel anything but joy. The emerald and ruby cars are mobbed as they finally come to a stop. Champagne rains down on the assembled crowd as Harrison and Enzo pull themselves out of their cars, and I’m suspended between them. I watch them each search me out and find me, and reach out my arms as they come running.

  Without pausing, they throw their arms around me together, and the three of us are wrapped up in a crushing embrace. Sudden tears roll down my cheeks as I hold onto them both. The crowd surges around us, surrounding us with love and triumph.

  “You stopped that asshole in his tracks,” Enzo laughs, clapping Harrison on the back.

  “We did,” Harrison says, looking intently at my brother, “We did good, Lazio.”

  “Hell yes we did, Davies,” Enzo laughs.

  “You two don’t know the half of it,” I say, laughing through my happy tears, “Just wait until you turn on the news...”

  An ecstatic cry cuts through the noise around us, and I whip my head around toward its source. I gasp as an unexpected scene greets my baffled eyes. Charlie and Bex are all but frozen in a perfect tableau. Bex stares, beyond words, as Charlie kneels before her on the track, holding up a tiny box with something decidedly shiny glinting inside.

  “Holy shit!” I exclaim, “You guys—You—You’re—”

  “Quite the day, huh?” Shelby grins, appearing at Enzo’s elbow.

  “I’ll say,” Harrison smiles, scooping me up in his arms.

  “You took second for Enzo,” I say, looking up into his gorgeous blue eyes, those bottomless orbs I’ve come to know so well.

  “I took second for us,” he tells me, and brings his lips fervently to mine.

  Our mouths move together, and I kiss the man I love in front of the entire world. Wrapping my arms around his broad shoulders, the rest of the incredible scene around us melts away. All of this—the scandal, the drama, the excitement—has always paled in comparison to what we really share. At the end of the day, we’re just two people madly in love. The
rest is simply circumstance.

  Howling sirens tear through the celebratory cheering, and we all turn to see an ambulance and three police cars race onto the track and surround Marques’ ruined car. The driver staggers out of his minor wreck and is handcuffed immediately, led away like the criminal he is into the ambulance.

  “What the hell is that?” Harrison asks.

  “You’ll find out in time,” I tell him, “But right now, you have some more celebrating to do, Davies.”

  He takes my face in his strong hands and kisses me again, with abandon. I give myself over to this all but perfect moment. Surrounded by the people I love, in the world I love, having done my part to keep my sport safe and just—I am truly happy.

  “What do you think?” Harrison asks, pulling away from our kiss, “Was I worth all the trouble, Miss Lazio?”

  “And then some,” I smile, “But next season, maybe let’s take a slightly less...scandalous approach, huh?”

  “I’m not making any promises,” he tells me, “But I’ll do my best.”

  A hundred clamoring reporters rush us as Enzo is handed the first place trophy. They’ll have plenty of questions for us, I’m sure, but they can wait. I’m too busy enjoying this perfect moment, too happy to give a damn about appearances. My dad must be so proud right now, and the thought brings tears to my eyes.

  I wrap my arm around Harrison’s waist and let the world race on at full speed around us. Because for this moment, and every moment we’re together, we are truly champions.

  Epilogue

  I wake the next morning as sunshine splashes across my face through the hotel window. I can't help but smile as I recount the debauchery and revelry that went on during last night's celebration. After we all cleared off the track, the Team McClain and Team Ferrelli camps made a beeline for the nearest bar. Each willing to bury the hatchet, at least for one night, to celebrate Enzo's driver championship win, and McClain's team championship win.

  Unfortunately, my stomach was bothering me and after only two glasses of champagne I wasn't up for much in the way of getting sloshed. We still had a great time though, and seeing Harrison and Enzo drunk together singing a Karaoke rendition of Queen's We are the Champions was literally priceless.

  I turn to nuzzle into Harrison's muscular chest, he smiles, still asleep, and puts his arm around me.

  I hear a light knock at my hotel room door and I slowly rise, my stomach still feeling weak from last night. I grab a robe off the bathroom door and wrap the plush garment around my body, attempting to smooth down my sex hair as I go to answer the door.

  Bex's bright face greets me through the crack in the door, the new rock glimmering on her left ring finger distracts me immediately. Charlie done good.

  “I hate to bother you babe, but do you have any tampons? ” she asks with a sheepish grin. “I thought I'd ask before I make a trip out to CVS.”

  And then it hits me like a truck load of bricks.

  “Shit! ” I hiss, hurrying into the hall and closing the door lightly behind me, careful not to wake Harrison. “I just realized I haven't gotten my period in over a month! Things have been so chaotic lately that I just completely forgot about it...”

  “Oh, Siena...” Bex says, her face dropping for my sake.

  “Bex what if—”

  My voice is cut off suddenly as my stomach does a triple back flip. I bring my hand to my mouth, and run back inside, tearing open the bathroom door and diving headfirst into the toilet.

  And I let loose, literally spilling my guts to the Porcelain God.

  After what seems like a good five minute volley, I pick myself up just enough to look out of the bathroom and see that Harrison's still sound asleep.

  Jesus, what have we gotten ourselves into now.

  ###

  I hope you enjoyed reading!

  Faster Hotter (Take Me...#4) is coming January 2014!

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