Figuring it Out

From the very moment we touch down in Dallas, the world seems to spin just a little bit faster. The entire F1 caravan has been whipped into a frenzy in antic.i.p.ation of this final race.

Every team, every driver, every fan, is revved and ready as the last week of the tournament season. I'm not easily overwhelmed, having spent most of my young life watching my dad and his friends whip around race tracks at 200 miles per hour, but even my head's starting to swim these days. Of course, I've got a bit more to worry about than the average F1 fan. There's so much riding on this last leg of our long journey.

I barely have time to set down my suitcases in Dallas before I'm drawn into the PR whirlpool surrounding this last Grand Prix. Press conferences, interviews, and photo ops whiz by left and right as I struggle to wrap my brain around each task at hand. In the blink of an eye, half the week is gone. I can scarcely even account for the hours. With Harrison and Enzo training every spare second, I fall into a strange, public solitude. I'm constantly surrounded by people, but I feel incredibly alone. The insane pressure I'm feeling falls down around me like a stone wall, making me feel as isolated as ever.

On Thursday evening, the night before the Dallas preliminaries are to be run, I find myself actually alone for once-cross-legged on my bed, pouring over every news article that's come out about me, my family, and Harrison since this tour began. The mysterious mastermind behind all the harm that's befallen this tournament still manages to elude me.

Try as I might, I just can't seem to imagine who would be willing to pull so many awful, manipulative stunts. But with Rostov and Landers out for the count, Maxwell Naughton recovering abroad, and Enzo and Harrison still very much in danger, the list of Formula One casualties is too long for me to stop digging now. If I can figure out who's to blame for all of this, and prove it, I'll be able to do more for F1 in a single revelation than most people do over the course of an entire career.

"Siena?" I hear a voice say through the crack in my bedroom door.

I look up, my eyes swimming from having stared so long at my laptop screen. I'm almost surprised to hear my best friend's voice again. In the past few weeks, we've barely been in the same room. I unfold myself from the bed, wincing as my stiff muscles ache beneath me. I've lost track of how many hours I've been pretzeled up, staring at my computer.

"Hi stranger," I say, pulling open the door.

"Don't tell me you've forgotten my name," Bex laughs, scooting over the threshold and wrapping her arms around me.

I hug my pixieish friend tightly. It's so easy to get caught up in romance, but sometimes friendship can be just as much of a comfort. Especially when the friend in question is as unflappable and supportive as Bex. I pull her into my room and ease the door shut behind us.

"I just wanted to make sure you hadn't pa.s.sed out or lapsed into an internet coma," she says, looking up into my face. "Dear lord, look at those bags under your eyes. And when was the last time you brushed your hair?"

"Thanks a lot, pal," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Hey. I'm just being honest with you," Bex says, crossing to my bed, "just because your life is in turmoil, doesn't mean your curls have to be."

"I should get that on a mug or something," I laugh.

"So, what the h.e.l.l is up?" Bex asks, plopping down onto my bed. "What's your game plan, Siena?"

"Try to figure out who's been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g with us and out them to the press, naturally," I say simply.

"Any idea who that special someone might be?" Bex asks.

"So far, not a clue," I say miserably. "Well, that's not entirely true. There are plenty of clues, plenty of leads. I'm just having trouble figuring out where they point."

"Tell me what you know so far," Bex says.

"Well, the shadiest character that's cropped up so far is the kid who was following me and Harrison around, sneaking pictures," I tell her. "I haven't seen him since Enzo and Harrison almost beat the h.e.l.l out of him at the Italy press conference. But I'm fairly positive that he's the anonymous author behind that first insane story that ratted us out to the public."

"But you don't think he's the boss?" Bex asks.

"No way," I tell her, "he's just a kid. Definitely working for someone. He said so himself. But I have no idea who."

"Well, it has to be someone who stands to gain something from messing with the leader board," Bex says.

"But that could be anyone," I point out. "Some advertiser could be trying to drive up ratings, someone could have bet their life's savings on one racer over another. There are plenty of reasons that someone might want to fix this thing."

"That may be so," Bex says, "but I bet there's one person who's got more to lose than anyone else, right? Someone who needs this thing to go a certain way...maybe another racer?"

"Like who?" I ask.

"Well, I don't know," she says, "what other leads do you have?"

"I mean, we can pretty much rule out Landers and Rostov, given what happened to them. Enzo and Harrison can't be involved."

"Let's hope not," she says.

"I did honestly think for a time that Charlie or Shelby could be messing with everything, but that was back when the only people in harm's way were me and Harrison. But whatever's going on is bigger than petty jealousy or an angry ex. Now, it seems no one's safe."

"You don't think something's going to happen on Sunday?" Bex asks fearfully.

"I have no idea. I hope not," I tell her.

"That's good," she says with a glint in her eye. "Sunday needs to be smooth sailing."

"Well sure," I say, "you mean for the Grand Prix, right?"

"Right," she says, just a bit too quickly.

"Bex Bishop, are you keeping something from me?" I ask.

"What, me?" she says. "Why, I would never."

"You only start talking like a southern belle when you've got a juicy secret," I insist. "What's going on with you Bex?"

"Hopefully, you'll know on Sunday," she says, standing up quickly. "I just wanted to come and make sure you were OK. Get back to work, super sleuth."

"Bex, wait!" I say, but she slips out the door before I can say another word. I can't even begin to guess what she's got up her sleeve. Life is never boring with Bex around. Not like I need any more excitement these days.

I return to my computer, curling up on top of the covers as I troll through information. Other than that punk paparazzo, there's one person who I'm very curious about. The bartender from Detroit who seems to be a close personal friend of Rafael Marques, the woman who could have very well produced that video that made it look as though I'd threatened the Spanish driver. Is she another agent of the person who sent that kid with a camera into action? Is she cozying up to Marques to gain access to the F1 world that would be unavailable otherwise? Is Marques involved and would he go so far as to sabotage his own car?

At some point in my musing, I must doze off, because the next thing I know I'm being nudged out of a shallow slumber by the weight of someone beside me in bed. I look blearily around and spot a very familiar face perched on the edge of my bed. Harrison sprawls across the comforter, pulling me close to him. I curl up against his body, my back pressed against his chest. I soak in the feel of him beside me. We haven't seen each other all day, and the relief that comes with feeling his touch is unbelievable.

"What are you doing here?" I ask sleepily. "Shouldn't you be practicing?"

"It's two o'clock in the morning," he laughs.

"Oh s.h.i.t. Really?" I groan. "Glad I've got a whole four hours to try and get some shut eye. Not that it seems likely."

"Siena, you've got to take it a little easier," Harrison says, running his hand down my arm. "You're killing yourself over this thing."

"Well, what choice do I have?" I ask, "With so much at stake-"

"I don't give a d.a.m.n what's at stake," Harrison says, "not if you're making yourself miserable. Nothing is worth that."

"There's so much hanging on this race," I say quietly, "I just don't know what to do anymore. I've been slamming my head against the wall, trying to figure out how to fix everything for everyone."

"What is it you think you can fix?" Harrison asks, not unkindly.

"The fact that people keep getting hurt. The way we're being messed with. My Dad, all worried over whether I'm going to ruin his legacy-"

"But see?" Harrison says, slipping his arm around my waist, "None of that is in your control, Siena. Not really."

"What do you mean?" I ask, a bit snappier than I mean to. "Of course it's in my control. It's my job to be in control."

"No," he says gently, "the only thing you can control in this crazy, messed up world is your own actions. Everything else will happen on its own, whether or not you're willing to accept it."

"Is that supposed to be comforting?" I ask.

"In a way," Harrison says. "All you've ever done is try your hardest to make this sport better. To support your family. To be your best. No one can take that away from you. Whatever rumors are floating around, you know that you've done everything in your power to be the best PR director, and sister, and daughter that you can be."

"And the best secret lover slash maybe girlfriend, I hope," I laugh softly.

"That goes without saying," he tells me, planting a kiss on my neck.

This smallest caress of his sets off a spark inside of me. Exhaustion aside, I can feel my body begin to respond to his. I press back against him, writhing ever so slightly. He lets out a little laugh as he feels my body come alive at his touch.

"Oh no," he tells me, "I'm not going to be responsible for keeping you up all night. Not tonight, at least. I never thought I'd say this, ever, but tonight we're just going to get some sleep. You got it?"

"You're killing me, Davies," I groan, slumping down against the bed.

"I know, I know," Harrison says, "but once this race is over, we can have all the sleepless nights you want. We never have to sleep again, if that's what you prefer. But tonight..."

I don't even hear the rest of his phrase, as the sweet comfort of slumber rushes in to claim me. The second Harrison's arms close around me, my torrent of fears and worries subsides. No matter how many things are in flux, he always knows how to make me feel better. Thank G.o.d for that man. Even with his own career and safety hanging in the balance, he still makes time to come and comfort me when I need it most.

Chapter Fifteen.

Hits Keep Coming

Somehow, I manage to get up in time for the preliminary the next day. Enzo and Harrison both have great runs, and unfortunately Marques does just as well. The rest of the pack is so far behind in time and points that no one even bothers to mention them anymore. That's all well and good, except that now all the media attention in the world is on the trio of Enzo, Harrison, and Marques. And with me now wrapped up with each one of them, even if only through rumor, I'm right in the heart of the media circus.

I can barely leave my hotel room without being hounded by someone with a microphone. It makes me miss the days of standing in the background of Dad and Enzo's photo ops, to be honest. It would be one thing if reporters wanted to talk to me about strategy or F1 as a sport, but all anyone wants to know is who I am and am not s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g. I'll pa.s.s on those little conversations, thanks.

The night before the qualifier, I have to physically remove myself from the vicinity of my laptop to keep from working myself to death. Harrison's right-I'm not going to move any mountains by the time this race is over. I'm only one woman, after all. Unfortunately, that's never been reason enough for me to rest on my laurels before. I've always harbored the notion that I'm capable of anything I put my mind to, after all. And so, swallowing the fact that I might not singlehandedly bring justice raining down on this sport is a bit rough for me.

Though Enzo's knee deep in strategizing tonight, I make my way to his hotel room regardless. I know that most of the F1 young people will be living it up in some rowdy Dallas bar, but we Lazio's don't have that luxury.

Just as I suspected, Enzo's sitting amidst piles of notes and statistics with a heavily furrowed brow as I slip into his hotel room. He looks up, as if surprised to see another living human being. I smile to myself-we really are so alike. Both driven, untiring, and a little bit out of our minds with ambition. I suppose that's what we get for being raised by a world champion driver. For better or worse, we'll always try and be at our best.

"Hey bro," I smile, going to Enzo.

"What time is it? Am I late?" he asks frantically.

"Relax," I tell him, sinking down onto the sofa beside him, "you've got hours yet before the qualifier."

"Thank G.o.d," he mutters.

"What are you even doing, looking over notes?" I ask him, "At this stage in the game?"

"You can never be too prepared," he says fervidly, shuffling through his research.

"I beg to differ," I tell him gently, taking the papers from his hands. I'm alarmed to see that his fingers are trembling.

"Enzo?" I say, concern flooding my heart, "Are you OK?"

"I just...I can't lose, Siena," he says quietly.

"Enzo," I murmur, placing a hand on his.

"I started this season like a champion," he says, unable to meet my gaze. "Winning races, focused, on top of my s.h.i.t. But I've let everything get so messed up."

"Enzo, things have gotten messed up. You didn't do anything-"

"Sure I did," he scoffs, "I let myself get wrapped up in all this s.h.i.t that doesn't concern me. I let myself get worked about Davies, and you, and Shelby. I lost track of everything. And now I could lose the whole championship."

I sit silently beside my brother, feeling my heart strain as I take him in. Enzo talks such a tough game that I can forget sometimes how sensitive he really is. At the end of the day, he's just a loyal, driven man who wants to make the people he loves proud.

"Dad has to see me win a world championship," Enzo says softly, "I have to take home first place. For him. For all of us."

"You can't put that on yourself," I tell my brother, brushing my thumb against his hand. "Do you have any idea how proud Dad is to have you following in his footsteps? No matter what happens on Sunday-"

"No," Enzo says firmly, "there's only one thing that can happen on Sunday. I have to take first. It means everything to me, Siena."

"I know," I tell him, "I know, Enzo."

The sound of someone clearing his throat interrupts our intimate conversation. I glance up at Enzo's open door only to find Harrison there. I can tell by the look on his face that he's overheard our heartfelt words.