Full Throttle (The Revved Series) (6 page)

“There are some pretty cute ladies on some of the other
teams this year,” I tell him, “I met some of the McClain girls last night, and
let me tell you—”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be interested,” he cuts me off, “You of
all people should know—”

“There he is!” Gus roars.

Our heads whips around just in time to catch Enzo sail over
the finish line. Gus lets out a whoop of elation, holding the stop watch high
above his head.

“Half a second better than his last run!” he cackles,
“That’s our boy!”

A satisfied smile spreads across Dad’s face. It’s the most
excited he ever lets himself get, at least on the outside, but that smile still
speaks volumes. It’s going to be a very good year for Team Ferrelli. After so
many seasons of training and perfecting his craft, Enzo is finally poised to be
number one.

The second that Enzo returns to our corner of the course,
the entire team surges around him. Everyone’s eager to offer a pat on the back
or a word of encouragement, but I can’t contain myself. I burst through the
pack, running at full speed. My brother spots me and opens his arms wide. I
leap into his embrace, and he spins me around in the air. Our bubbling laughter
entwines, and a thousand memories come back to me. I’ve always been at Enzo’s
side, supporting him at every turn. It’s where I belong.

“Alright, alright,” my dad says gruffly, breaking up the
chattering crowd, “That was just a preliminary run, folks. I know we’re all
happy to start off with a bang, but let’s keep a little perspective, eh? We’ve
got a long weekend ahead of us, and a much longer tournament. Eyes on the
prize, now.”

The team disbands, and Enzo sets me lightly down on the
pavement. There are other Ferrelli drivers who need attention too, though no
one could deny that Enzo is everyone’s favorite. I plant my hands on my hips
and turn an exaggerated pout on my dad.

“Jeez, way to kill the buzz,” I drawl sarcastically.

“Funny,” he says, slapping Enzo on the back, “Always with
the jokes this one. Where did you learn to be such a smart ass, Siena?”

“Guess it’s hereditary,” I shrug.

“I’m feeling pumped, Pops,” Enzo says excitedly, “My focus
is great. Crystal clear.”

“Keep it up, Son,” Dad replies, “You’re going to need every
ounce. Now come on. I think McClain’s got the preliminary spot after us. We’d
better keep an eye on the competition.”

Team Ferrelli lines up along the barrier once again, and
sure enough, a cherry red McClain car is idling at the starting line. Charlie
and Bex stand to either side of me, peering out onto the track.

“So, who’s McClain’s top dog?” Bex asks, ready to type some
quick notes into her smart phone. “I want to start tweeting about the
preliminaries. Think it’s OK if I get some video?”

“Sure,” I tell her, “McClain’s senior driver is Maxwell
Naughton. He’s placed in the top ten during his last three tournaments.”

“Impressive,” Bex mutters, her thumbs flying across the
screen of her phone.

We watch as Naughton is secured into his car. He’s a couple
years older than Enzo, but his record is fantastic. Naughton’s got the whole
Brooding Brit thing down to a science, with dark eyes and a heavy jaw. As far
as I can tell, this guy is my brother’s main competition in this tournament.
Still, I say a little prayer for him nonetheless as he revs his engine to
start. These guys need all the divine intervention they can get. I have
incredible respect for F1 racers, and not just the ones who are related to me.
These drivers look death in the face every time they get behind the wheel. You
have admire that kind of courage.

Naughton takes off like a shot, soaring past us down the
track. As he disappears around the bend, I look down along the barrier and
catch a glimpse of Harrison, watching his team’s driver from afar. He studies
the senior racer with a calm, cool eye. His gaze is calculating, and incredibly
bright. I’m intrigued, wondering what thoughts might be racing through
Harrison’s gorgeous head. But even more so, I’m left wondering what he’s doing
on this side of the barrier.

I’d assumed that he was some kind of pit technician, but
here he is among the spectators. If he doesn’t work in the pit after all, then
what the hell is his place on the McClain team?

“Here he comes,” Charlie says, nodding toward the finish
line.

“Ooh, great shot...” Bex says, raising her camera to capture
Naughton’s finish.

The bright red car zooms over the finish line, and I hear
Gus make a small, triumphant sound. Enzo must have earned a better time on his
preliminary than Naughton.

“I’ll be damned,” Gus says happily, “We might just have a
winner on our hands.”

My eyes are locked onto Naughton’s car as he speeds down the
track toward us. Usually, drivers take a little while to decelerate from their
runs, but Naughton seems to be charging on full speed ahead.

“Why isn’t he stopping?” I ask.

Team Ferrelli falls silent, and a worried murmur goes up
through the crowd.

“That’s not right,” my dad murmurs.

“What’s going on, Siena?” Bex asks, keeping her camera
trained on Naughton’s trajectory, “Is something—”

The grinding sound of metal against asphalt silences my
friend’s inquiry at once. My heartbeat is suspended in terror as Naughton’s car
flips onto its nose, rolling over and over across the track. The tattered
vehicle slams against the inner barrier and stops cold.

“Holy shit...” Charlie breathes beside me.

It’s all that anyone can manage to say before Naughton’s car
bursts into flame. The spell of frozen silence is broken in an instant as a
dozen technicians and team members rush toward the wreck. Enzo vaults over the
barrier and dashes at Naughton’s smashed vehicle, and my fingers tighten around
the railing as I watch Harrison sprint after him.

“Be careful,” I whisper. If I’m honest, I’m not even sure
who my plea is for—my brother or the handsome stranger I’ve only just met.

Naughton’s car is engulfed by a rippling fireball in a
matter of moments. Rescue workers hold back the concerned drivers, diving into
the blaze to try and rescue Naughton. The crowd is roiling around me, as
everyone jostles and jumps to try and catch a glimpse at the wreckage. I’m
rooted to the ground, unable to budge an inch as Harrison and Enzo try and
throw themselves into the rescue effort.

Finally, someone manages to extract Naughton from the inferno.
The breath leaves my lungs as he’s hauled out of the burning vehicle. Just
moments ago, I watched him climb into his car, whole and strong and handsome.
But the body being carried away from the pile of burning rubble is limp,
blistered, seared. His face, burned and bruised, is by far the hardest thing to
see.

“Oh my God...” Bex whimpers, her hand on her cheek, “Is
he...?”

“No,” I say, “Look, he’s moving.”

An ambulance skids to a halt beside the burning wreck, and a
stretcher is unfolded from the back at once. Naughton is lowered onto the
device, writhing in pain. His agonized cries ring out across the track, sending
rivulets of dread dripping through my body.

“What the hell happened?” Charlie asks, befuddled.

“From the look of it, I’d say his breaks gave out,” Dad says
solemnly. “Poor bastard. Thank God for flame resistant suits.”

Though Naughton is Enzo’s primary competitor in this
tournament, there’s not a hint of glee to be found among the members of Team
Ferrelli. When any driver is hurt, it’s everyone’s tragedy. It doesn’t matter
that Naughton is a McClain man in this moment. It’s a terrible truth that
disaster is the one thing that never fails to unite the full spectrum of F1
teams. But terrible accidents bring us together—we’re only human, despite what
some drivers might tell you.

Once Naughton is safely loaded in, the ambulance tears away
down the track. Those who flew to the driver’s aid disperse back to their own
teams, and I lay a trembling hand on Enzo’s arm as he climbs back over the
barrier.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he says, pulling me into a
hug.

“That could have been you...” I whisper into his shoulder.

“It always could have been me,” he says, smoothing down my
hair, “That’s the nature of the sport, Siena. You know that.”

“I never get used to it,” I tell him, “Watching someone get
wrecked like that.”

“Good,” Enzo says, looking at me intently, “You should never
get used to it. If seeing something like that stopped getting to you...Well.
You wouldn’t be the Siena I know and love anymore, that’s sure.”

“I knew something like this was going to happen,” Dad says,
his jaw tight, “I knew there’d be some kind of surprise lying in wait for us.”

“But now McClain has to race their next best driver,” I say,
“It’s shitty to point out, but that’s not against our favor.”

“You OK Bex?” Charlie asks, moving around me. My best friend
is paralyzed at the railing, staring down at her smart phone in horror. The
video she took of the crash is playing on loop, and she can’t seem to look
away.

“Shit, Siena,” she says softly as I throw my arm around her
shoulder, “This shit...This shit is real.”

“It is,” I tell her, “But you can handle it, Bex.”

“I don’t know if I want to,” she tells me.

But there’s no time to argue the morality of playing into
this high stakes sport right now. There’s a commotion rising up around the
McClain camp that has everyone looking their way. From afar, I watch as the
team owner huddles with the senior managers and technicians. To my surprise, I
see Harrison’s face among their number. What is he doing, deliberating strategy
with the most important people of Team McClain? Maybe he’s some sort of
statistics whiz, or perhaps he has some kind of psychic ability that I wasn’t
made privy to during our illicit little make out session last night.

Harrison’s face is alert and luminous. The wind tosses his
dirty blonde hair, and I feel my knees go to mush. Even amid all this chaos,
this mysterious man has got quite a hold on me.

“What’s their next move?” my dad muses as Team McClain
disperses. Charlie, Bex, Enzo and I huddle together against the barrier,
drawing strength from each other. As tough as it is to swallow, these terrible
accidents happen all the time. We have to press on, no matter what.

“Look,” Enzo says, “McClain's sending out another driver.”

All of our eyes snap forward in time to catch a second
McClain vehicle roll up onto the track. Oddly, this car seems to be newer than
Naughton’s, and hopefully better constructed. What the hell gives? Why wouldn’t
McClain’s senior driver be behind the wheel of their best and newest car?

“Who is that, Bradbury?” Dad says to no one in particular,
“He’s McClain’s backup driver, right?”

“Too tall to be Bradbury,” Gus poses, “I don’t think I
recognize that guy.”

Before any of us can identify the driver, he’s off and
racing. The vibrant red car soars past us, a red smear of light and color in
the brightening morning air. As if on cue, the clouds above finally begin to
disperse, and the persistent fog rises up off the hills and sea beyond the
course. I’m a big believer in omens, and this one doesn’t bode well for
Ferrelli. But then why is my blood run through with such excitement?

“You timing this guy?” my dad asks Gus.

“I’ve got it,” Gus replies, eyes glued to his stopwatch.

“I’m sure he won’t have anything on Enzo,” Charlie says
confidently.

“Don’t jinx it,” says my brother, his eyes stony.

A hush falls over the crowd as McClain’s new driver tears
around the track. This morning has taken a quick turn toward the surreal, and
we’re all knocked off our game. This upset could completely change the dynamics
of the tournament, for all we know. One way or another, things are about to get
interesting.

The McClain car roars around the corner once again, flying
over the finish line and coming to a quick stop. Gus’s face clouds over, and no
one needs to ask him what the stopwatch says. This new guy beat Enzo’s
preliminary time. Sure, these runs don’t count for anything as far as
tournament points go, but it’s still a bad sign. If this guy’s already out
ahead of Enzo, what does that mean for the Grand Prix this weekend?

“Beginner’s luck,” Bex chirps, smiling up at Enzo. The look
he gives her could slice through diamond, it’s that cutting.

Team McClain gathers out on the track, obscuring their new
man. I stand up on my toes, trying to catch a glimpse as he climbs gracefully
out of the driver’s seat. He straightens up, standing taller than any of the
men swarming around him. We all look on, full of curiosity, as he lifts the
helmet from his head. A burst of ash blonde and steely blue sends the world
spinning furiously around me.

“No...” I breathe.

Standing among the throng of McClain team members is
Harrison Davies. He tucks his helmet under his arm, his face flushed and
unbearably beautiful. His satisfaction seems to keep him suspended in the air,
floating on a wave of praise and adoration from his team. The smile on his face
is full of promise, and determination, and an unwillingness to fail. He already
looks like a champion, and the Grand Prix has barely even begun.

“Who the hell is that?” Enzo snaps.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life,” Dad growls.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Gus scoffs, “He’s a kid! A
newbie! What’s he doing in this tournament, I ask you?”

“Maybe they just brought him up from F3 or something?” Charlie
suggests.

“No way,” Enzo says, “There’s not an F3 driver on earth who
can drive like that. This guy knows what the hell he’s doing.”

Bex grabs my hand, wordlessly telegraphing her shock and
sympathy. I hold onto my friend as tightly as I can as an unexpected knot
tightens in my throat. I watch, too shocked to move, as Harrison makes his way
off the track. He’s not some lowly pit guy, or a freeloader touring with the
team. He’s a driver. The driver for Team McClain, my family’s number one rival.
That means that Enzo and Harrison are pitted against each other for the top
prize in this tournament, and only one of them can be victorious.