Free Faster Longer (Take Me...#3) (New Adult Bad Boy Racer Novel) by Colleen Masters Page B

pit.
    The order holds steady into the final lap. Marques holds
first, Rostov second, Landers third. Enzo and Harrison are neck and neck after
them. The five drivers soar along in a tight pack, leaving no room for change.
But by some magic, the formation shifts. Rostov and Landers drift off toward
the outside track, leaving Enzo and Harrison enough room to sneak up. They inch
up toward Marques, squaring off right behind him. The Spanish driver seems to
panic at their close proximity, and weaves just a breath away from the inside
track. In a rush of drift momentum, Enzo and Harrison pull up to either side of
Marques—the three of them form a straight line across the track, each gunning
for first.
    “Holy shit,” I whisper, my words lost in the chaos of the
pit, “They might just pull this off...”
    “Don’t jinx it,” Gus warns, appearing suddenly at my side.
    I hold my breath as the trio bears down on the finish line,
praying to every god who might be listening that one of my boys comes out on
top. Time loses any meaning as they soar along toward the race’s conclusion. It
looks like they’re flying a foot above the track...
    Until all at once, Enzo and Harrison’s momentum sputters.
    The red and green racers screech to a halt as if they’ve run
over quick sand. Marques speeds on ahead over the finish line as my boys come
to total stops. I can practically feel their outrage ripple out over the track.
What the hell just happened to their cars? I’m just about to grill Gus about
what possibly could have happened, but in the split second I turn away,
everything changes out on the track.
    Landers veers out of the way, trying to avoid slamming into
Enzo and Harrison’s stalled cars head on. But his sudden jerking maneuver gets
away from him, and the nose of his car catches Rostov’s head on. The two cars
go spinning away toward the wall, turning end over end until they smash against
the concrete, crumpling into smoking heaps of rubble.
    The crowd erupts into a panic as flames begin to engulf the
twisted wrecks of Rostov and Landers racers. The Ferrelli and McClain emergency
workers rush onto the track after Enzo and Harrison, pulling them out of their
cars and away from the smoldering jumble of auto parts encasing Rostov and
Landers. I watch as my brother and Harrison hesitate, reluctant to leave
without helping their friends and fellow racers. But as the rest of the drivers
speed around the discarded cars, my boys finally give in and let themselves be
led away.
    I dash to the edge of the pit, watching as ambulances rush
toward the wrecked cars of Landers and Rostov. I’ve gotten to know these two
drivers so well over the years. They’ve been Enzo’s closest friends and
competitors, best friends on their own and damn fine drivers. Please, I pray, please let
them be OK ...
    But my silent prayers trail off as black, oily smoke clouds
the track. This wreck is far more serious than the tangle Enzo and Harrison got
into in Moscow. This is the kind of wreck that not everyone walks away from. I
gasp as bright orange flames swell up to engulf the two cars. The sight is like
something out of a nightmare.
    “Siena,” I hear Enzo’s ragged voice whisper.
    I whip around to see my brother standing beside me, his eyes
bewildered and full of sorrow. In an instant, our feud is forgotten. I throw my
arms around his shoulders, a ragged sob ripping out of my throat. He closes his
arms around me, wordless with shock. We hold each other as the world spins
around us, and I feel for the first time in so long like Enzo’s little sister
again. As much as we may fight and disagree, this man is still my brother. I’d
go to the ends of the earth and back for him, gladly.
    “I’m so sorry,” I weep, my shoulders shaking in my brother’s
arms, “Enzo, I’m so—”
    “Me too,” he mutters, hugging me tighter, “Siena, can you
ever forgive—?”
    But a deafening sound rips our attention back toward the
track. Something’s