Take Me: Faster Longer Part 8

"Don't sweat it," Bex says, "You've just gotten too used to race day clothes, lately. Or Harrison's tee s.h.i.+rts, rather."

"G.o.d, I feel like one of those pathetic girlfriends who gets lonely every time she goes out without her guy," I groan, pus.h.i.+ng 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 gla.s.s 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 G.o.d..." 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 s.e.xy red dress. You could have just come and said h.e.l.lo. 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 c.o.c.kiness 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 frustration. 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 h.e.l.l 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 h.e.l.l off of me, Marques," I growl.

"But I don't want to," he grins.

"I swear to G.o.d, 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, c.o.c.king 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 a.s.saulted me! Just now, in front of all of you! You're all witnesses!"

"If you want to talk a.s.sault, Marques," I growl, "We can discuss the many, many times you've s.e.xually hara.s.sed 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 d.a.m.n 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 h.e.l.l happened back there?" she asks, "I walk away for one minute-"

"That a.s.shole 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 a.s.shole. 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 d.i.c.k 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 s.e.xy 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 compet.i.tion, pa.s.sing 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 champions.h.i.+p, 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 b.i.t.c.h 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 Sat.u.r.day morning, I pay a visit to Harrison's trailer to congratulate him on scoring pole position. But when I slip into the tiny s.p.a.ce, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 G.o.d 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 think 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?"

"I guess it is," I tell him, "I think this is just what growing up feels like, Enzo. We've always treated each other the way we did when we were kids. We're just...getting to know each other again. As adults."

"Well, it freakin' sucks," Enzo mutters, the corners of his mouth twisting up into a sad smile. "You know I love you though, right Siena?"

"I know, Enzo," I tell him, pulling my brother into a hug. Ever since the London crash, when we found each other in the chaos that ensued afterward, it's like we've found a new understanding. It's shaky yet, but we're getting there.