Take Me: Faster Longer Part 7

Back To America

We sleep soundly that night, wrapped up in each other's arms. And good thing too-we have to be up first thing in the morning to make tracks for the next Grand Prix city. We're closing in on the end of the season, a fact which catches me off guard every time it occurs to me.

So much has happened over the course of these past few months that many times I forgot we were even in the midst of a tour. But now that we're so close to the end, that old excitement begins to tug at my every cell. That feeling is tempered with nerves this time around, of course. Not to mention sadness and apprehension. But still, a champions.h.i.+p race is a champions.h.i.+p race. There's no way I can keep from getting a little riled up. And I'm particularly thrilled about the locations of the last two races: Detroit and Dallas. I'll finally be back in my home country.

For the long jet ride back to the states, I've convinced Enzo, Bex, and Charlie to ride along with me, Harrison, and some of the other McClain folks. Enzo doesn't take much convincing-we're suddenly on much better terms. It helps, as well, that Shelby will be with us. I'm still not entirely sure what my brother sees in her, but I'm more than willing to exploit it if it means we all get to spend a little time together before the next race. Enzo goes for the bait, hook, line, and sinker, and we're all off together.

"You all must be excited to be getting back on your own turf," offers Sara, McClain's redheaded social media expert, breaking the silence in the cabin.

"That's for sure," Bex smiles, "I can't tell you how happy I'll be to get my hands on some drip coffee and a People Magazine."

"I personally just can't wait until this season is finally over," says Cora, taking us all by surprise.

"It's never been an easy sport," Andy reminds his wife.

"Yes, well," she says, "Excuse me if I begin to prefer croquet after this mess is done with."

That single sentiment sets us all into an uncomfortable silence as we sail over the Atlantic. The events of this year have made all of us consider our dedication to the sport-a fact that is sure to set more than a few of us at odds. I catch Bex and Charlie trade a quiet glance of agreement at Cora's dismissal of the F1 universe. I'd be disappointed but not surprised if those two bailed on the sport and found a peaceful life together somewhere far less tumultuous. But for me, a move like that has never been an option.

When we touch down in the harshly beautiful city of Detroit, I'm bouncing up and down in my seat, full of antic.i.p.ation and eagerness to get back on American soil. Italy may be where my family is from, but I was born right here in the United States. And this will always be my heart's true home. I wonder what the chances are of getting Harrison to switch over to IndyCar racing from Formula One? I chuckle quietly to myself just thinking about it as our jet gets ready to land, gliding down out of the clouds once more.

"Home sweet home, right Siena?" Bex asks, lacing her fingers with mine as we step out onto the runway.

"As close as we've been in a while, anyway," I smile.

We move as a pack across the tarmac, McClain and Ferrelli teammates all mixed in together. It would make me happy, our coming together, if Harrison and Enzo didn't still insist on keeping to extreme ends of the group. Even with the tragedy that unfolded in London, there doesn't seem to be anything I can do to get them to like each other. I know that patience is supposed to be a virtue, but I'm no saint. All I want is for the two most important guys in my life to get along.

"Oh, Christ," Harrison mutters.

As we walk into the terminal, a cloud of media types descend upon us once again. We try to close ranks and move through them, but they surround us, trapping us in their midst. Their volleys of questions and flas.h.i.+ng cameras engulf us once again. But after a moment, certain words start to stand out in their shouted inquiries. I p.r.i.c.k up my ears and catch a few names in particular as they sail through the air.

"What do the fates of Alexi Rostov and Sven Landers mean for McClain and Ferrelli?"

"Do you feel responsible for what happened to Rostov and Landers, as it was your cars that stalled?"

"Are McClain and Ferrelli teaming up against the rest of the Formula One teams?"

"Were your technical malfunctions part of a ruse gone wrong?"

Panic sends my blood racing through my veins. What do they mean, Rostov and Landers' fates? What's happened to them? When we got on the jet, there were still in the ICU back in London. The lot of us elbow our way through the crowd of press and find our way out into the parking lot. Like clockwork, a caravan of private cars arrive to whisk us away to the next hotel.

I jump into the backseat of the nearest town car with Harrison on my heels and clutch his hand the whole ride through. We rush through check in and race up to our block of rooms, the whole group of us. No sooner do we find a European news station then our fears are finally met, head on. There, on the screen, are portraits of Alexi and Sven. And the newscaster's words cut like a knife through each and every one of us.

"Alexi Rostov and Sven Landers have been removed from the intensive care unit and continue to recuperate from their many lifesaving surgeries. An expert team of doctors was able to bring these men back from the brink of death, but just barely. It is my sorry duty to inform the viewing public that neither of these fine drivers will be returning to the Formula One World Champions.h.i.+p currently underway. It is more than likely that neither will ever race again."

Harrison's hand finds mine and squeezes hard. His and Enzo's disbelieving eyes are fixed on the screen. I can see the guilt welling up behind their eyes, the despair. I know what they're thinking-that they were the ones being targeted in the London Grand Prix. Their cars were the ones that were tampered with, after all. Rostov and Landers should never have been involved.

"Both Landers and Rostov have sustained significant burns, covering thirty and twenty percent of their bodies respectively," the stern newscaster continues, "In addition to several broken bones, the men are both suffering from nerve damage. Though brain function seems to be returning gradually, neither of the drivers has regained full consciousness. Doctors are reporting that paralysis is very likely. This is a very sad turn of events for these talented young racers. Both men are still early in their careers, and lead drivers for their home countries. It is possible, of course, that their prognoses will improve in the coming days, but fans are urged not to get their hopes up for any speedy recoveries. Police and Race Officials are still searching tirelessly for any evidence of foul play, but no hard proof has turned up as of yet."

"How the h.e.l.l is that possible?" Enzo explodes, pacing up and down the room, "Someone rigged our cars right under the race officials' noses. How has no evidence made its way to the surface yet?"

"Whoever messed with you guys is probably a pro," Shelby says, taking hold of Enzo's arm, "He probably covered his tracks."

"Can you all give us a minute?" I ask our gathered friends. Andy, Cora, Sara, Bex, and Charlie nod solemnly and take their leave. Shelby starts to go as well, but Enzo holds her back. I stifle a sigh and bite my tongue. If this woman is a source of comfort to my brother, far be it from me to be a hypocrite. Enzo and I will just have to learn to get along despite our mutual dislike for the other's choice in significant others. We owe each other that much.

"Those poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," Harrison mutters, his eyes still fixed to the TV screen. "It's not fair. They didn't do anything wrong."

"And you did?" I ask, exasperated. "This has gone way too far, you guys. It was one thing when someone was trying to stir up some kind of rivalry between the two of you, but this is serious. Rostov and Landers are lucky to still be alive, you two could have been seriously hurt in the Moscow wreck. It seems like everyone who starts doing well in the standings ends up in danger of being sabotaged."

"I guess that means Marques is next, eh?" Enzo laughs shortly, "He's been creeping up through the ranks while we've all been...distracted. Maybe we should be warning him."

"As much as I want to look out for my fellow racers," Harrison says slowly, "I'm having a difficult time giving half a proper s.h.i.+t about Rafael Marques."

"I hate the guy too," Enzo says, "But someone's picking off all the racers who are doing well. Don't you think we at least owe it to the rest of the guys to say something to Marques?"

"I could do it," I offer.

"h.e.l.l no," Enzo and Harrison say in unison.

"It wouldn't be right for either of you to say something," I go on, "But I could pay him a visit before preliminaries in a few days. Make sure he's on his toes. It's the least we could do. And I mean the very least. I don't trust either of you to talk to him without giving him a black eye, anyway."

"You're probably right there," Harrison grumbles.

"Let me do this," I insist, "Hopefully, the police will have come up with some evidence by this weekend, and we can run the Detroit Grand Prix with as much peace of mind as we can get."

Harrison and Enzo begrudgingly accept my idea. It's settled, then. I'm to be our emissary to the abominable Rafael Marques.

Lucky me.

Chapter Nine.

Snake in Racer's Clothing

I stall for the entire week leading up to the penultimate Grand Prix. Though I know it's my task to warn Marques to take precautions against whoever's been messing with the F1 hot shots, I'm reluctant to be alone with that man. There's something about him that I've never trusted, something that's always seemed too reckless and forceful for my liking. I'll get around to talking to him, for sure. He's a driver, after all, and we have to look out for each other in this crazy sport. I just happen to keep finding things to occupy my mind that are conveniently higher up on my list of priorities than speaking with that repugnant man.

The most important thing to keep track of this week is the reconstruction of Harrison's and Enzo's cars. Both cars had to be completely taken apart after the fiasco in London. Race officials, along with the police, tried to pinpoint what exactly happened to the cars. But no dice. There were no prints, no clues, nothing to go off of. Whoever messed with those two formula cars knew exactly what they were doing. This fact only makes everyone all the more uneasy. No one knows F1 cars the way F1 professionals do. That means chances are good that someone within the sport has been terrorizing top drivers. And the thought of an inside job is too reprehensible to dwell on for long.

Harrison and Enzo practically live in their cars for the entire week leading up to the Detroit Grand Prix. They don't want to take any chances this time around. h.e.l.l, neither of them can afford to fall any further in the rankings. Right now, the margins are so slim between Harrison, Enzo, and Marques' points that any one of them could walk away with the champions.h.i.+p.

With my boys so invested in their training, I'm left to my own devices for most of the week. I know that having time off from my work life and my relations.h.i.+p is supposed to be freeing or something, but I find myself losing my mind when it's not occupied with a PR crisis or Harrison Davies. The sad truth of the London wreck is that Landers and Rostov's accident has taken the publicity heat off me and Harrison for a spell. I hate to think of it that way, but it's true. No one has much time to care who I'm sleeping with and why when two of the sport's darlings are still unconscious in the hospital.

On the Thursday before the Grand Prix, I find myself pacing my hotel room once more, frantic and full of energy. There are so many things going on in my life right now that I have no control over. The Detroit Grand Prix, the media fiasco that could rev up again any second, my father's failing health, the still-simmering hatred between Harrison and Enzo...I just wish that I could do anything to get control of my situation. I feel helpless and frustrated, stuck here on my own. I just want to be of use to somebody.

I jump a foot in the air as someone knocks tentatively at my door. With Enzo and Harrison wrapped up training, who could possibly want to see me?

"Come in," I call, crossing my arms across my chest.

The door swings slowly open, and a blonde-haired pixie peeks into the room.

"Bex!" I cry, holding my arms open to my best friend, "G.o.d, you're a sight for sore eyes."

"You know I've been right here for the past few weeks?" she laughs, crossing the room and wrapping me up in a hug.

"I know. I'm sorry I've been so preoccupied," I say, "Between that article, and my dad, and the wreck of course..."

"You never have to apologize to me," Bex smiles, "That's what friends are for, right?"

"Right," I sigh.

"Besides, I haven't exactly been so available myself," she says, "Charlie and I have been spending every waking minute together."

"You're not sick of him, are you?" I ask.

"On the contrary," she laughs, "I, uh...I'm really coming to care about him, Siena."

"That's wonderful!" I exclaim, "G.o.d, at least one of us gets to have a normal relations.h.i.+p." I backpedal as her smile falls a hair. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make everything all about me, again."

"No, it's OK. You've got a lot going on right now," Bex says, "I was just, um, going to ask for a little advice. A little romantic advice, I guess."

"Fire away," I tell her, sitting down on my bed.

"OK," she says, sitting cross-legged beside me, "Well, I know it's only been a couple of months, but me and Charlie have really been hitting it off."

"I can tell," I say.

"Right. And...I guess...The season is going to be over in a few weeks, and I'm just not really sure if I should be worried or not."

"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 relations.h.i.+p 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 champions.h.i.+p 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, s.h.i.+t," 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, "h.e.l.l, 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 s.h.i.+rt 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 cla.s.sic 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 s.p.a.ce. 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 sw.a.n.ky room, "I feel sort of out of place here."