Part 11 (1/2)
”So?” Enzo demands, ”What the h.e.l.l did those a.s.sholes think they were doing, dragging you off like some G.o.dd.a.m.n criminal?”
”I hope there was just some kind of a misunderstanding?” Charlie says.
”Oh, there was,” I tell them, ”But not the kind that's going to be cleared up easily.”
”What do you mean?” Bex prods.
”I mean, the race officials seem to think that I'm behind all the tampering that's been going on. And G.o.d knows what else,” I say in a rush.
”But...that's ridiculous,” Enzo says, his eyes wide, ”What motive could you possibly have-what proof are they going off of?”
”False proof, that's what,” I say, ”Seems like someone leaked some video of me and Marques arguing to the race officials. The sound is all wonky, so it sounds like I'm saying all kinds of horrible things to him.”
”What kind of horrible?” Charlie asks.
”Threatening,” I say reluctantly.
”The video...it's not from the other night when we went out together?” Bex asks.
”That's precisely when it's from,” I say.
”But Marques was all over you that night!” Bex protests, ”He practically had you cornered-”
”He what?!” Enzo and Charlie chorus.
”And get this,” I say, pus.h.i.+ng through their outrage, ”I'm pretty sure the girl behind the bar that night was also just with Marques on the track after the race.”
”Do you think he staged the whole thing?” Bex asks.
”I don't know what the h.e.l.l to believe anymore, other than that this whole sport has veered too far into the realm of soap opera for my liking,” I sigh.
”Well, they obviously couldn't prove that you were actually involved with messing up Marques's car. Because you didn't. Right?” Charlie asks.
”Charlie!” Bex cries, ”How can you even ask a thing like that?”
”Just checking!” he says huffily.
”I most certainly haven't had anything to do with the vandalism that's been going on all year,” I say, ”I also haven't been involved in the blackmailing or hara.s.sment, other than as a target of it.”
”Unfortunately,” Enzo says, ”We know that the truth has nothing to with what people will believe if the press starts gabbing. We have to make sure that you don't become some kind of scapegoat, Siena.”
”Don't I know it,” I tell him, ”Apparently, Ferrelli is already questioning my credibility. They want to make sure that Dad can't make me a shareholder in his place.”
”Over my dead body,” Enzo says.
”Don't say that,” I tell him, ”We still have one race left.”
”But this all leaves one big question rather obviously unanswered,” Bex says, her brow furrowing, ”Has someone really been masterminding all the bulls.h.i.+t that's gone on during this tour? And if so, why?”
”That's the million dollar question,” I agree, ”And clearly, the race officials are more eager to wag their fingers than actually get to the bottom of who's been messing everything up around here.”
”OK, Nancy Drew, what do you propose we do to change that?” Enzo asks.
”You don't do anything. You need to keep your head in the game and do your d.a.m.nedest to win in Dallas,” I tell him.
”Still rooting for me, even with lover boy in the lead?” Enzo asks.
”Of course,” I tell him, ”And I always will be.”
”And what about the rest of us?” Bex asks, ”What should we do?”
”Throw on your thinking caps, kids,” I tell her and Charlie, ”It's time we got to the bottom of this nonsense once and for all.”
Before either of them can reply, there's an insistent, forceful knock on the door. I don't even need to open it to know who's waiting there. I cross the room and ease open the door, letting my eyes settle on Harrison's stony face as it's revealed. His expression is not one of a man who has just won a hard-fought race. He looks like he's about to punch a hole in the wall.
”Guys?” I say to my Ferrelli companions, ”Could you maybe give me and Harrison a minute alone? I think we've got some stuff to talk about, just between the two of us.”
”I'll say,” Harrison growls.
Chapter Thirteen.
Unwinding Grat.i.tude
As the door closes behind my brother and friends, Harrison folds his built arms across his chest and levels his gaze at me. I look up at him, startled by the intensity of his agitation.
”What is it?” I ask.
”Why weren't you there?” he counters.
”It's a long story,” I sigh, ”I just-”
”I needed you there, Siena. These races don't mean anything when you're not there to share them with me.”
”But you won!” I say, smiling hesitantly.
”Great,” Harrison scoffs, ”I won the race, and it seems I'm losing something far more important. Someone far more important.”
”Harrison, you're going to have to help me out here,” I tell him, ”I don't-”
”Have you been on your computer today?” he asks frankly.
”Not yet,” I tell him, ”My morning was sort of-”
I'm cut off as Harrison marches across the room and s.n.a.t.c.hes up my laptop. He flips it open and lets my web browser open on its own. Disgust clutches his features as the page loads, and I rush to see what, exactly, has caused so much ire to spring up within him.