SemiTough Luck: A Motocrossed Romance

by Jackie Barbosa

  Seu marido. Two little words that reach into my chest and grab hold of my heart.

  Which makes no sense. I mean, come on, I’m not in love with him. Not after knowing him less than a week. Sure, I like him and yeah, the sex is hoo-boy phenomenal, but that doesn’t mean I want to marry him. Hell, after the disaster that was my first “serious” relationship, I don’t have any particular interest in marrying anyone.

  But if I were going to marry someone…

  The ache under my ribs expands until I’m afraid my eyes will start to tear up.

  “Oh,” I somehow manage to squeeze out, “he’s not my husband. He’s—” Damn, what is he? Certainly not my boyfriend, although the Portuguese word, namorado, is a little closer to accurate. Still, it implies something about our relationship that isn’t true. He’s just a male friend I’m traveling with and with whom I happen to be having mind-blowing sex. I’m pretty sure “amigos con beneficios” doesn’t have quite the same meaning in Portuguese that “friends with benefits” does in English, either. And even that has an implication of something ongoing and long-term that doesn’t fit our situation. The only other option that comes to mind is “fuck buddies,” and I’ve got no idea how to say that in Portuguese, even if it weren’t too crude to say to a stranger.

  And I don’t think of Ivan that way, anyway. I’m not in love with him, but he’s not just a disposable sex toy to me, either.

  Sensing my dilemma, the Brazilian woman finishes for me, “Ah, not your husband yet. But,” she adds with a twinkle in her dark eyes, “he will be.”

  Stab. Twist. Shit.

  I shake my head. “Oh, no. We’re not that serious.”

  Her expression reminds me of the one my mother gets when she thinks I’m disagreeing with her just to be stubborn. “Honey,” she says, her voice lowering to an almost conspiratorial volume, “when a man looks at you like that, he’s serious. And when a man who looks like him looks at you that way, you’d be a fool not to marry him unless he’s a bad person. Is he a bad person?”

  I can’t stop myself from glancing at Ivan to see how he’s looking at me, but whatever it is she thinks she’s seeing, I don’t see it. He seems to be watching our conversation with a combination of patient amusement and mild bewilderment, given that I doubt he understands a word of Portuguese. God, I hope he doesn’t. “No,” I tell her. “He’s one of the most decent, trustworthy men I’ve ever known.” The words come out more heartfelt than I intended, and I catch Ivan raising his eyebrows in obvious curiosity.

  A loud whistle sounds from above us, and the woman turns her head and waves at her family, who are now waiting for her at the top of the stairs we can still see from our position. She waves at them and then turns back to Ivan and me. “I have to catch up to them,” she says in English. “It was nice to talk to you, and I hope you have a pleasant night.” As she walks away, she adds over her shoulder, in Portuguese, “And I hope you marry him.”

  Once she’s out of earshot, Ivan asks, “I hate to be nosy, but I am. What was that about?”

  “Not much really,” I lie. “I was just excited to get a chance to practice my Portuguese. She thought we were married, and I said we aren’t, but my Portuguese wasn’t good enough for me to explain what we actually are.”

  “Hm.” He claps his hand over his mouth in contemplation. “What actually are we?”

  I huff a laugh. “Hell if I know.”

  We stare at each other for a long moment and, just for a second, I think I see in Ivan’s eyes what the Brazilian woman was talking about. A tenderness, a yearning, a…devotion. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone, and I must’ve imagined it.

  Leaning forward, he brushes his lips across my mouth and says, “What we are is late for dinner. I’m starving.”

  Twelve

  Ivan

  “What actually are we?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  If there was any doubt in my mind about how Sylvia feels about me, her answer to that question dispelled it. She doesn’t see us as anything more than uglies bumping in the night. Temporarily.

  And yet…nothing about what’s happening between us feels casual, especially the sex. I’ve had casual sex, and for me, it’s kind of like eating fast food—an acceptable way to satisfy the urge, but nothing special. Sure, if I get hungry and fast food is what’s available, I’ll have it, but I won’t go to go out of my way for a cheap burger and fries.

  I would go out of my way to have sex with Sylvia. Way out of my way. Because it’s so much more than satisfying a physical urge. More than getting my rocks off. More than just getting hers off too. Not that I can put into words exactly what the difference is, only that I know the difference. And it isn’t just on my side. I’m as sure of that as I am that I’m breathing.

  I’m just not sure there’s a damn thing I can do about it.

  “Hey, your turn.”

  I glance up to see that Sylvia has come out of the bathroom. She’s wearing a blue T-shirt that has “Avocado Toast” printed on the front and a tiny pair of panties, her hair dark gold and damp from the shower.

  My dick stirs. Hey, I never said the urge wasn’t also physical.

  She saunters to the chair and bends over to extract her something from her duffel bag.

  The temptation is monumental, but I resist it. If we’re going to have time to hit every site we planned to see on our way out of the park, another roll in the hay is out of the question.

  As she shimmies into her jeans, which cover more skin than the shorts she wore yesterday but don’t in any way conceal the anything else about her shapely body, I roll off the bed and head for the bathroom, my half-erect cock bobbing against my thigh. She watches me pass by with an unabashedly appreciative grin and winks. “I promise we’ll do something about that later.”

  Until there is no later.

  I step into the bathroom, shut the door, turn on the shower, and step into the tepid stream.

  Fifteen minutes later, as we’re packing up the rest of our stuff, I notice Sylvia is having a hard time zipping the small bag that contains her belongings. A squarish bulge reveals the cause is the box of condoms.

  “I have plenty of room for that in my suitcase,” I tell her, reaching out my hand in her direction. “You can give me the box.”

  She snatches the duffel away as if I’m radioactive. “No. No way.”

  Her reaction is so sudden and so violent that I take a wary step backward and hold up both hands in surrender. “Whoa, okay. Just trying to help.”

  After a few seconds, the tension leaves her shoulders and she blows out a slow breath. “Sorry. I overreacted.”

  No kidding. “It’s okay.” I’m not sure it is, though. Something is wrong, but I have no idea what.

  Setting the bag back down on the luggage rack, she pushes takes the box out, dumps the packets into the bag and zips it shut. “All right,” she says, her smile broad and forced. “Let’s blow this taco stand.”

  I wait until after we’ve eaten breakfast and have been on the road for a few miles before broaching the question. “Will you tell me what that was all about?”

  “What was what all about?” Sylvia counters, although the tone of her voice tells me she knows exactly what I mean and is really just stalling for time.

  That’s okay. I can give her that much. “Why wouldn’t you let me put the condoms in my suitcase.”

  The road is a bit windy here, so I can’t see her expression, but I can feel her emotions as if they’re physical entities. Anger, regret, nervousness.

  Just as I’m beginning to wonder if she’ll ever answer, she sighs heavily. “I’ve never told this story to anyone. And I’m not sure what you’ll think of me if I tell it to you.”

  Like I’m someone who has any right to judge. But then, she doesn’t really know me, does she?

  Taking care not to veer off the road, I reach over and give her a reassuring squeeze. “Unless you’re about the confess to murdering someone, I can’t imagine anythi
ng you could tell me that would change how I feel about you.” Hell, I’m not even sure that would change how I feel.

  Her laugh is bitter. “Some people would say that’s exactly what I did.”

  And it hits me full in the stomach. A gut punch of comprehension. “You had an abortion.”

  I can see her nod out of the corner of my eye. “And I don’t regret it. Not for one second.”

  The statement hangs in the air for a few seconds before I figure out exactly how to say what I think while also saying the right thing. “Then you don’t have to worry about what I think, because I’m totally on board with that choice being your right. And it’s definitely not murder.”

  Her relief, like her earlier emotions, fills the cabin of the car like a living entity. “Thank you. God, I didn’t realize how much keeping that in all these years has made me feel bad about myself. Like, even though I knew I didn’t do anything wrong, I was ashamed anyway. Ugh.”

  “I get it.” More than she knows. Although in my case, I did do things that were wrong. “But that doesn’t really explain about the condoms.”

  “Oh, right.” She shifts in her seat, getting comfortable. “I didn’t quite tell you the whole story about how I wound up getting swindled out of my first invention, because it started with the boyfriend I had at the time. His name was Justin, and he was twenty-five to my twenty, and attentive and lovey-dovey and said all the right things. When I showed him my design, he was so supportive, and he was the one who found the patent guy I went to. I found out later that Justin got paid two thousand dollars for that referral.”

  I grimace. “What a dick. But what does that have to do with condoms?”

  “Ah, well, you see, once he got that two grand from of selling me out, Justin realized I could be his gravy train. He knew I had other ideas and that he’d be entitled to half of anything I earned from those ideas if we were married. Problem was, I didn’t feel like I was ready to get married. I mean, I was twenty, right? And I still thought Justin was great because I didn’t know yet that he was a lying weasel, but promising to spend the rest of my life with him seemed like a bad idea when I wasn’t even old enough to drink legally.

  “And, okay, maybe I’m the idiot here, but the only thing we were using for protection at the time was condoms. I had this stupid idea that I shouldn’t go on the pill because some of my relatives had had breast cancer and I was afraid taking it would increase the risk that I’d get it. There was definitely some stuff in the media at the time that made it seem like that was possible, although I know now it was only about certain types of birth control pills, not all of them. But I was young and embarrassed to ask my doctor, which is stupid, so, like I said, maybe I’m the idiot here.

  “Anyway…” She drags out the word. “Justin got the bright idea that if I got pregnant, I’d have to marry him.”

  I know the punch line before she says it.

  “Soooo,” she continues, “he poked tiny holes in every one of our condoms. And—surprise surprise—within two months, I was pregnant. Of course, I was surprised, because I didn’t know what he’d been up to and I thought we were being very careful, but I knew as soon as I saw the plus sign on the pee stick that I was getting an abortion. I wasn’t ready to be married, so I sure as hell wasn’t ready to be a mom. I told Justin and…” Pausing, she scrubs her face with her hands. “God, Ivan, the emotional blackmail. I can’t even put it into words. He started with telling me not to worry, he’d marry me and take care of me and the baby and everything would be great, and when that didn’t work, he accused me of wanting to murder his child and ruin his life. Eventually, though, it all came out. Partly because he started letting little hints drop, and partly because those little hints made me start snooping. I found out about the two-thousand-dollar payment, and I figured out what he’d done to the condoms. After I confronted him, he confessed to everything, including how he figured if we were married, I’d be his meal ticket and he’d be able to give up his shitty job as a car salesman.

  “Obviously, I left him and had my abortion and went on with my life, but after that, I decided I wasn’t taking any chances. I went on the pill, and once I started in the truck driving business, I got my doctor to prescribe them so I could skip the placebo week and not have any periods at all. Makes things way easier when I’m on the road.

  “But after that experience, I also decided I wasn’t going to trust any man to protect me as well as I’d protect myself. That means I never have sex unless we use a condom and it’s my condom. Not just because I worry that a guy might deliberately spoof me like Justin did, but because I know that mine aren’t past their expiration date and haven’t been in someone’s wallet for weeks on end.”

  “Wait,” I interrupt, “are you saying keeping a condom in my wallet is bad?”

  “Uh, yeah, the friction when you open and close your wallet ruins them. Makes then brittle and fragile.”

  “Damn. I had no idea.” Guess I’m lucky I don’t have any accidental kids running around. At least, not as far as I know.

  Fuck, that’s a chilling thought.

  “Well, now you know,” she says. “And that’s why I kind of freaked out when you offered to take the condoms. I guess it’s a little insulting to you, though. Like I don’t trust you.”

  I wave my hand in a negating gesture. “No, I get it. After that, I wouldn’t trust me, either.”

  “Still, I overreacted. I really don’t believe you’d do what Justin did.” She reaches across the center console and pats my biceps. “I mean, it’s not like you want to trap me into marriage or anything.”

  My hands tighten reflexively on the wheel.

  She doesn’t know how close I am to wanting exactly that. Or how much like her old ex-boyfriend I really am.

  Thirteen

  Sylvia

  Telling Ivan about Justin made me feel lighter and happier than I have in years. Since before it all happened. Amazing what unburdening yourself of a single secret can do. I never realized how much keeping to myself what Justin did to me was poisoning me from the inside out. Justin took away my confidence in men…or, more accurately, in my ability to trust my judgment about the men in my life.

  Ivan’s one of the good ones. A keeper. Too bad keeping him isn’t an option.

  The last few days with him have been sublime. Some of that is the scenery, of course. I finally got to see both Grand Prismatic Spring and Blue Star Spring, and the photos don’t do either of them justice. But mostly, it’s because I enjoy being with Ivan. He’s smart, kind, funny, and affectionate. I’m my best self when we’re together.

  And there’s the sex. Sweet baby cupids, there’s the sex.

  What more can I ask for…except more?

  But more isn’t going to happen. After tonight, we have to go our separate ways.

  I can’t help remembering what the Brazilian woman said. But it doesn’t matter how he looks at me. Or how I look at him. It doesn’t matter that I’ve managed to fall in love in less than a week. Unless one of us is willing to toss away our future, being together isn’t an option. But I can’t ask that of a man I love. And a man who loved me wouldn’t ask that of me, either.

  Check. Unmate.

  I slide into the passenger seat of the car, passport in hand. “Success! I’m a real person again.”

  As I expected, getting the mail clerk to let me open the envelope when I didn’t have any ID wasn’t easy, but between the Visa card with my name on it, the fact that I knew the name and return address of the sender, and my promise that I’d let them arrest me on the spot for mail tampering if the contents didn’t turn out to be a U.S. passport that clearly belonged to me, she eventually gave in and opened the envelope herself. I half think she did it because she was curious, not because she really believed me.

  Fortunately, despite being almost seven years old, the photo in my passport still looks like me, except my hair was longer then. Once she saw it, she handed it right over to me with an apologetic smile.

&
nbsp; Ivan, who’s been passing the time by paging through one of those free local guides you can get from freestanding newsboxes, closes it and looks up at me and…oh, shit, that is one-hundred percent the look. There’s no mistaking it. Everything is right there in his brilliant blue eyes—admiration, desire, devotion, longing.

  Love.

  Ivan Carlson is really, truly in love with me. Like I’m in love with him.

  The emotional implications of this revelation are still blossoming in my chest like desert wildflowers after a spring rain when Ivan says, hoarsely, “You’ve always been real to me.”

  Shit. I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know what to do about this. There’s just a flood inside me, and we’re sitting in the parking lot of a goddamn post office in Las Vegas, Nevada, and what the fuck now?

  I’m guessing Ivan doesn’t know, either, because he looks away, seeming almost embarrassed by how much just happened in the space of a few seconds, and turns the key in the ignition. “So, where to now?” he asks, his tone flat.

  “Wait,” I say, putting a hand on his arm. “I think we should talk about this.”

  The expression he directs at me is so bleak, my heart actually stutters. “What is there to talk about? Even if we could figure out a way to be together, you deserve someone better than me. I’m not the guy you think I am.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. You think I’m this honest, decent guy, and I’m not, Sylvia.”

  This self-hatred coming from Ivan is so out-of-the-blue that I don’t even know how to respond. I open my mouth and close it several times, like a fish catching a breath of air when what it needs is water, but nothing comes out.

  He seems to get a grip on himself, because he threads his hands through his hair and his next words are calmer, if not any less penitent. “Look, you don’t really know me or what I’m capable of. Maybe I’m better than Justin, but not by much. One thing’s for damn sure—if I thought I could find a way to keep you, no matter how devious or underhanded, I’d do it if I didn’t know you’d wind up hating me.”