Full Throttle (The Revved Series) (5 page)

Chapter Four

Flaming Wreckage

Team Ferrelli rolls up to the closed course in a fleet of
private cars. I can’t help but feel a little proud as the heads of other,
lesser-known team members turn our way in awe. Ferrelli, and Lazio for that
matter, are some of the most respected names within Formula One racing. It may
be frustrating, slogging through the world of this manly sport as a young
woman, but my pedigree certainly smoothes the way now and again.

I’m riding along with Enzo and my father, tuning out their
shop talk as I take in the scene beyond our tinted windows. It’s early Friday
morning, and already the city is overflowing with the fervid energy that comes
along with a Formula One Grand Prix.

The teams are just running preliminary rounds today, but
spectators are still scrambling to sneak a look at the action. Formula One
racers are huge celebrities within the world of the sport. I don’t even want to
think about how many Enzo Lazio fan clubs I’ve stumbled upon during my
research. No wonder my brother’s ego is swollen—he’s been told since he was a
kid that greatness runs in his blood. We both have.

“I don’t like the look of those skies,” Dad mutters, as the
car rolls to a stop.

We step out onto the pavement and survey the scene. Though
it’s already eight o’clock, the course is still obscured by stormy skies
overhead. Dark clouds roil ominously, and I feel my stomach tighten with
unease. Even though I’ve been around F1 races my entire life, I still get
nervous when the risk factor goes up even a hair. I’ve seen plenty of miracles,
growing up around F1, but I’ve seen my fair share of tragedies, too.

Every year, a couple of good drivers are seriously injured
while racing in tournaments. Some are even killed. Every year that Enzo makes
it safely through the ringer feels like a gift from God. My mom won’t even come
to the races anymore. She watches from home, since being there in real time
makes her too nervous.

“Good thing we’ve got an early slot,” Enzo says, scanning
the sky, “Let’s get started before those clouds open up.”

The entire team and crew rush into action at Enzo’s word. I
watch as my brother is carried away on the tide of his attendants. As he heads
off to take his runs through the course, Bex and I hang back. Dad, Gus,
Charlie, and the others will make sure that Enzo has all the support he needs,
and we’re left to our own devices once more.

“Well,” Bex sighs, “There go our conquering heroes, off to
battle. What the hell are we supposed to do in the meantime?”

“That’s right,” I say, “You’ve never been through a
tournament before.”

“Nope. You’ll have to instruct me, Master.”

“Alright Grasshopper,” I smile, “First things first. Let’s
scope our course and see who’s out and about. The media will descend on us in
no time, I’m sure. They have a way of finding whoever it is they’re looking
for.”

We set off through the crowd together, our blonde and brunette
heads bobbing through the churning ocean of spectators and support staff. The
hangover I’ve been fighting off since I woke up this morning begins to burn off
as my excitement mounts. There’s absolutely nothing in the world like the
feeling of a course right before a Grand Prix weekend begins. The spirit of
competition and camaraderie hang shimmering in the air, nerves and anticipation
run as high as the vaulting sky overhead.

Wherever else I roam in life, I know I’ll never feel as at
home as I do at a F1 tournament. It hasn’t been easy, carving out a place for
myself in the shadow of my dad and brother, but I refuse to let that deter me.
I’m going to figure out a way to make a name for myself in this sport, no
matter what it takes. Hell, F1 could use with a few more female team owners.

We’d temper the machismo a little bit, get things running
like clockwork. They say that behind every great man is an even greater woman,
but I say it’s time that the women of this sport start making their way to the
forefront.

“Good Lord,” Bex breathes, raking her eyes across a huddle
of Spanish F1 drivers, “These guys are like action figures.”

“You’ve got that right,” I say.

“Hopefully they differ from Ken and GI Joe between the legs,
of course,” she grins.

“Bex,” I say, “You’ve got to watch yourself with these guys.
Do you have any idea how many people show up at these races just to throw
themselves at the drivers? Women, men, you name it. These places are like
smorgasbords for the guys behind the wheel.”

“You’re one to talk, Miss Bathroom Makeout Sesh,” Bex
chides.

“That’s fair,” I allow, “But it’s not like I’m chasing
Harrison down for a quickie in the garage or anything. For all I know, I’ll
never even see the guy...”

My words trail off as a burst of dirty blonde hair catches
my eye just ahead. I stagger to a stop, and Bex promptly runs right into me.
Before us, a half dozen cars sporting the McClain logo are gathered, and a very
familiar, very gorgeous man is leaning against the hood of the nearest one.

Harrison Davies looks no worse for the wear after our night
of tequila shots and dirty dancing. His perfectly balanced, sculpted body looks
relaxed but ready for action. He’s rocking a sinfully well-fitted pair of light
blue jeans, an ab-skimming black tee shirt, and a vintage leather jacket. His
sparkling blue eyes take in the scene unfolding before him with confident
excitement, and his lips are twisted into a knowing grin. For a moment, it’s
all I can do to stand in awe...until those baby blues swing my way, that is.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he laughs, pushing himself away from
the hood, “If it isn’t my new drinking buddy.”

“It certainly is,” I manage to say, “Fancy meeting you here,
Harrison.”

I can feel Bex vibrating out of her skin with curiosity as
Harrison makes his way toward us. Peering over his shoulder, I spot the others
from last night milling about the scene. Andy, Cora, and Sara wave my way
cheerfully, though Shelby can only bring herself to spare a chilly half smile.

“I was wondering I might not run into you this morning,”
Harrison says with his gorgeous accent, “That house tequila is a real
ass-kicker.”

“I can keep up just fine,” I tell him.

“Yes...I can see that,” he says, “What brings you over to
our corner of the course?”

“Just scouting out the competition,” I tell him, “Seeing
what familiar faces might be back again this year.”

“Seems like a good year for some new faces to make a splash
too,” he remarks pointedly.

“Of course,” I smile, “I guess you’re pretty new yourself,
eh Davis?”

“You could say that,” he says.

“Don’t worry,” I tell him, “You’ll catch on soon enough.
Take it from an old pro.”

“What, are you some kind of guru?” he asks, raising an
eyebrow.

“Born and raised,” I say proudly. I can hear myself growing
haughtier by the second, but I just can’t help but get riled up by Harrison.
For whatever reason, I want him to know how serious I am about being here, that
I’m a legitimate authority on F1. Still, I’m not about to go throwing my
brother’s name around just yet. It’s bad for business. I hurry to change the
subject before my pride gets the better of me.

“This is Bex,” I tell Harrison, taking a step back. “Bex,
this is Harrison. We met last night at the club.”

“Pleasure,” Harrison says charmingly, taking Bex’s hand.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” she replies, shooting me a sidelong
glance. “I’m pretty new to these tournaments myself. Siena was nice enough to
land me a job this year with Ferrelli. Tell me, Harrison, what is it that you
do for Team McClain?”

“Davies!” Andy calls from a few yards away, “Let’s go!”

“Ah, I must be off,” Harrison says in his irresistible
cadence.

I could swear that he looks relieved to be called away. Is
he trying to shake me off for some reason? I didn’t think I was being too
forward by stopping to chat.

“See you around, I guess,” I offer nonchalantly, “But if
not, have a good time in Barcelona.”

“I will,” Harrison says, “But only if I do, in fact, see you
around, Siena.”

A tremor of anticipation rolls down my spine as Harrison
takes his leave. When he’s safely out of earshot, Bex grabs hold of my arm and
lets out an excited squeal.

“Holy shit, Siena!” she exclaims, “Way to gloss over the
fact that your hookup last night was a top-of-the-line
babe
.”

“Oh, come on,” I say, leading her away from the McClain
camp, “He’s just a guy, Bex.”

“False,” she insists, “He is a golden freaking god and if
you don’t sleep with him and make adorable little babies I might have to disown
you.”

I shake my head and soldier on through the crowd until we
make it back to our team. Dad is standing at the barrier, looking out toward
the starting line. I join him at his post, following his gaze. Enzo’s sleek,
emerald green car is rolling out onto the track. F1 cars are compact
one-seaters, but with the right person behind the wheel, they’re more like an extension
of the driver.

These machines reach speeds over two hundred miles per hour,
and hug the track so tight that they could, theoretically, drive upside down on
a ceiling. It takes years and years of practice to work up to driving one of
these babies, which is exactly how long Enzo’s been in the game.

Dad starting grooming my brother to succeed him before I was
even born. Enzo graduated from a Big Wheel to a go cart to a box car before
finally getting behind the wheel of a car. Even then, he had to work through
the other racing tiers before Ferrelli would even take him seriously. He may be
Alfonso Lazio’s son, but he still had to prove himself.

Enzo skipped college altogether, so that he could focus on
his racing career. He was built to be an F1 driver—it’s all he’s ever wanted
out of life. Every time I see him pull up to the starting line, my heart swells
up with sisterly pride. Enzo may be arrogant sometimes, but he’s got a pure
heart. It makes me so happy to see him doing what he loves.

“I feel good about this tournament, Siena,” my dad says,
“Your brother’s never been better poised to become a champion.”

“You think this is the year, Dad?” I ask excitedly.

“It could very well be,” he says, “As long as no surprises
crop up, that is.”

“I don’t see how that could happen,” I say, “You two study
the other F1 drivers relentlessly. You know their habits and weaknesses as well
as they do. What could possibly catch you off guard now?”

“I hope you’re right,” Dad says, “But we can't celebrate
Enzo’s victory just yet.”

The sharp, unmistakable sound of Enzo’s car revving up roars
across the track. I grab onto the barrier railing, feeling like a kid again.
Every one of Enzo’s races is more exciting than Christmas morning, New Years
Eve, and every single birthday rolled into one. I hold my breath, waiting for
him to take off. For a moment, the entire world seems to hold its breath...and
then he goes, flying down the track like a bat out of hell. The car speeds past
us, and the tail wind blows my curls back off my shoulders.

The Grand Prix has finally begun for team Ferrelli.

Enzo soars out of sight in an instant, off through the
closed course like a rocket. Gus hovers at Dad’s other elbow, eyes glued to his
stopwatch. The two older men stand stoically, their thick brows furrowed. Enzo
needs to set himself ahead of the pack right from the very start if we’re going
to sweep this thing, and the entire team is on pins on needles waiting to see
how these preliminary runs go.

Charlie sidles up next to me as we wait for Enzo to reappear
and cross the finish line. With both of our fathers in ear shot, I’m sure he’s
not about to start quizzing me about last night again, but his silence is
making me just as itchy. His protectiveness is growing more and more
pronounced, lately. He’s always kept an eye out for me, but the intensity of
his interest is starting to worry me a little bit. I really don’t ever want to
have the “I think of you as just a friend” conversation with him, if I can help
it. There’s no way I’m ever going to want to be with him romantically, but I
don’t want to hurt him either.

“How’s the rest of the turnout look?” Charlie asks me
cordially, keeping his eyes on the track, “See any old friends out in the
crowd? Or new ones, for that matter?”

“A couple,” I reply vaguely, “How’s the crew feel about
Enzo’s chances?”

“All the pit guys are stoked,” he tells me, “We’re all
trying to keep our expectations in check, but it’s hard. This could be an
important year. For all of us.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“It just feels like things are starting to come to
fruition,” Charlie says. He’s slipping into abstract fancy speak, which always
happens when he’s nervous. He’s an brainiac at heart, and always tries to hide
behind lofty ideas. That’s just his way of protecting himself, I guess. Still,
I can’t help but wonder what other things he expects to come to fruition in the
near future.