have in common, Siena, is being beholden to
the family business. Have you ever heard of a driver named Walther Davies?”
“Walther Davies...Of course,” I say, “He was famous, back in
the day. You’re—?”
“His son,” Harrison says.
“How did I not make that connection?” I say, sitting back in
my chair.
“Well, it’s not as though he retired gracefully,” Harrison
says, “His career was rather...short-lived. And so was he, as it turns out.”
“Oh god. That’s right...He passed away, didn’t he?”
“Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“Don’t be,” he shrugs, “He was an asshole. Only reason he
gave any shit at all about me was because I could drive. That man had me in a
boxcar by the time I was five years old. Don’t know what he would have done if
I’d turned out to be a shit racer, or a girl. It was his idea to get McClain to
train me in secret. He wanted me to have this grand reveal when I was good
enough to race in the tournaments. Drank himself to death before he could see
it, though. Is that what they call poetic justice or something?”
“What about your mother?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that she’s used to making sacrifices in the
name of the sport,” Harrison says dryly, “Jackie, my mother, was a bit of a
sacrificial lamb, as far as her marriage to my dad went. She was from one of
those horribly wealthy British families. Or at least, they were wealthy for a
time. By the time Jackie was of marrying age, they were on the edge of
bankruptcy. They needed to marry her off to a rich, famous bloke. Lo and
behold, my father was the first man to wander along that fit the description.
They didn’t much mind that he was a raging asshole with a knack for barely
legal women and bourbon...I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
“And I thought my family was messed up,” I say. “Enzo and I
were raised in the sport too. But save for a bit of heavy favoritism, I can’t
much complain.”
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Harrison tells me, “I
can see how driven you are, Siena. It must be hard to have such...strong family
ties holding you in one place.”
“It is,” I admit, “God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you
about this...”
“I don’t buy that,” he says, “I think you know how well I
understand you, Siena. The moment we met, something just felt familiar about
you. I know what it’s like, growing up in this world. It’s almost like I know
you already. Don’t you feel that, too?”
“I...I do, Harrison,” I tell him, “But I have to be careful
with you. This isn’t exactly a risk-free situation we’ve gotten ourselves
into.”
“No,” Harrison agrees, “But then, I wouldn’t much care for a
life without some risk.”
We lapse into a supercharged silence, and every word I’ve
ever known seems to evaporate into thin air. I’m suddenly reminded of the one
and only talk my mother and I ever had about sex. When I was a young teenager,
she sat me down and gave me some advice about how to know when the time was
right to sleep with someone. She told me that the moment to give yourself over
to someone like that is the moment when there are no more words left between
you. I don’t think I ever understood what she really meant by that until this
very moment in time.
Sitting across from Harrison, alone in this gorgeous hotel
room overlooking the stunning city of Barcelona, what else could I possibly do
but let go and embrace the moment? Already, I feel more honestly myself around
him than with any man I’ve ever met. How can it be that we’ve only known each
other for a couple of days? He’s right. It does feel like I knew him long
before we locked eyes at the club the other evening. There’s something shared
between us that goes far deeper than words.
The sparkling intensity of Harrison’s clear blue eyes is
almost too much to bear. I push myself up from the table and make my way toward
the
the family business. Have you ever heard of a driver named Walther Davies?”
“Walther Davies...Of course,” I say, “He was famous, back in
the day. You’re—?”
“His son,” Harrison says.
“How did I not make that connection?” I say, sitting back in
my chair.
“Well, it’s not as though he retired gracefully,” Harrison
says, “His career was rather...short-lived. And so was he, as it turns out.”
“Oh god. That’s right...He passed away, didn’t he?”
“Six years ago.”
“I’m sorry, Harrison,” I say, reaching for his hand.
“Don’t be,” he shrugs, “He was an asshole. Only reason he
gave any shit at all about me was because I could drive. That man had me in a
boxcar by the time I was five years old. Don’t know what he would have done if
I’d turned out to be a shit racer, or a girl. It was his idea to get McClain to
train me in secret. He wanted me to have this grand reveal when I was good
enough to race in the tournaments. Drank himself to death before he could see
it, though. Is that what they call poetic justice or something?”
“What about your mother?” I ask.
“Let’s just say that she’s used to making sacrifices in the
name of the sport,” Harrison says dryly, “Jackie, my mother, was a bit of a
sacrificial lamb, as far as her marriage to my dad went. She was from one of
those horribly wealthy British families. Or at least, they were wealthy for a
time. By the time Jackie was of marrying age, they were on the edge of
bankruptcy. They needed to marry her off to a rich, famous bloke. Lo and
behold, my father was the first man to wander along that fit the description.
They didn’t much mind that he was a raging asshole with a knack for barely
legal women and bourbon...I guess beggars can’t be choosers.”
“And I thought my family was messed up,” I say. “Enzo and I
were raised in the sport too. But save for a bit of heavy favoritism, I can’t
much complain.”
“You don’t have to justify it to me,” Harrison tells me, “I
can see how driven you are, Siena. It must be hard to have such...strong family
ties holding you in one place.”
“It is,” I admit, “God, I can’t believe I’m talking to you
about this...”
“I don’t buy that,” he says, “I think you know how well I
understand you, Siena. The moment we met, something just felt familiar about
you. I know what it’s like, growing up in this world. It’s almost like I know
you already. Don’t you feel that, too?”
“I...I do, Harrison,” I tell him, “But I have to be careful
with you. This isn’t exactly a risk-free situation we’ve gotten ourselves
into.”
“No,” Harrison agrees, “But then, I wouldn’t much care for a
life without some risk.”
We lapse into a supercharged silence, and every word I’ve
ever known seems to evaporate into thin air. I’m suddenly reminded of the one
and only talk my mother and I ever had about sex. When I was a young teenager,
she sat me down and gave me some advice about how to know when the time was
right to sleep with someone. She told me that the moment to give yourself over
to someone like that is the moment when there are no more words left between
you. I don’t think I ever understood what she really meant by that until this
very moment in time.
Sitting across from Harrison, alone in this gorgeous hotel
room overlooking the stunning city of Barcelona, what else could I possibly do
but let go and embrace the moment? Already, I feel more honestly myself around
him than with any man I’ve ever met. How can it be that we’ve only known each
other for a couple of days? He’s right. It does feel like I knew him long
before we locked eyes at the club the other evening. There’s something shared
between us that goes far deeper than words.
The sparkling intensity of Harrison’s clear blue eyes is
almost too much to bear. I push myself up from the table and make my way toward
the
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