"Well, hole-ly," he swears. After a brief silence, he asks, "How long?"
"And why is this your business?" I snap.
His face splits into a grin. "Fuck, man, if you can't figure out why I'm curious, I can't help you." When I glare at him, he says, "I'm happy for you, you dumb fuck. It's about time you had an actual relationship."
Except it isn't an actual relationship. Not yet. Maybe not ever. And that's probably why I tell him everything. Not the sexual details—get your mind out of the gutter—but all the rest of it.
When I finish, Darnell rolls his eyes. "Man, that's messed up. What are you going to do?"
"Try not to get her into trouble with her job. I care about her. Hell, maybe I even love her. I can't do that to her. But if you love something, set it free, and all that BS, right?"
"Or," Darnell says, a hint of pain in his voice, "if you love something, hold on to it as tight as you can for as long as you can, because you never know when you'll lose it."
What the fuck can I say to that? Nothing. So I turn my attention back to the road and getting us to Southwick, aka The Wick, in time for registration.
Sixteen
Owen
I start looking for Lucy as I get to the track on Thursday morning. She always shows up to watch the first practice group of the day, because in addition to the feature articles she's writing about my run for the championship, she also covers all the other race groups. There's always a slightly different mix of competitors at each track, since in addition to the regular riders sponsored by teams and the few wildcatters who can afford to follow the entire circuit, a few local riders always try to get into the races. Knowing who’s in the hunt to win each race is part of her job, and since the first practice starts in about ten minutes, she should be here by now.
If she came back…
There aren’t a lot of spectators yet—just a few clumps of people here and there—so it should be easy to find her. The fact that I’ve walked more than a hundred yards along the fence that lines the track without seeing her ties my stomach in knots. What if she resigned from her assignment because she felt guilty about our night together? Or if someone saw us together, tattled on us to her publisher, and she lost her assignment? I’m not sure I could forgive myself if she got fired on account of me.
And then, as I reach the top of the hill at the end of the first straight, I catch sight of her on the down slope. It’s like that moment in The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy opens the door and the movie goes from black and white to Technicolor. I inhale sharply, like I haven’t breathed in days. Maybe I haven’t. Not really.
She stands a few feet back from the fence, her head bent over a clipboard she holds in her left hand while scribbling notes with the pencil in her right. Although there’s still a chill in the air, she’s dressed for the eighty-degree day we’re expecting in a white tank top with lace around the scooped neckline and pale blue jeans that hit her at mid-shin. Her nearly black hair falls in a braid between her shoulder blades, and her skin glows in the morning light. If there was a goddess of motocross reporting, she’d look like Lucy.
I get hard. Not all the way, but enough that it feels like my pants got a size smaller.
Okay, she’s here. She came back.
Now keep your cool, asshole, or you’ll fuck it up.
Strangling the urge to run up to her and kiss her senseless in front of god and everybody, I try to project an impression of cool disinterest while I amble across the twenty or so yards that separate us. As if I’m in no particular hurry to get where I’m going. I can’t have anyone who’s watching us think I’m excited to see her.
She notices me when I’ve crossed a little more than half the distance and gives me a small smile and finger-wave that I’m sure is meant to look just as disinterested as my stroll in her direction.
By the time I reach her side, she’s returned her attention to her clipboard, scanning what I can see is the entry list for the race group that’s getting ready to start practice. She’s made marks beside the names of some of the riders: plus and minus symbols, a few asterisks, and some question marks.
“Morning,” I say, which would be a really weak opening line if I wasn’t pretending not to be thrilled to see her.
She nods in response, making one more mark on the entry list before turning to look at me. “You’re here early.”
I am. Normally, I wouldn’t show up until an hour before my first practice, which isn’t until eleven. I didn’t realize she’d noticed that about me, though. “Been on east coast time the whole week. It’s easier to get up early.” And that’s at least partly true.
“How was New York City?” she asks, tucking the pencil behind her ear.
Before I can decide how to answer, the whining roar of motorcycle engines being kicked into life floats up over the hill. Lucy and I both turn to see dirt fly up from the starting gate, just visible from our position on the low side of the slope, as riders juice their bikes down the hill and onto the track. Within a few seconds, the first racers onto the track top the hill, jockeying for the inside line as they make the near-hairpin turn.
Lucy watches the entire pack stream past, making more little marks on her entry sheet and nodding or shaking her head from time to time when a rider makes either a really great move or a really bad one. Since this is one of the amateur classes, most of the riders are probably locals, although there are a few amateurs who manage to enter all the races on the circuit. The ones who do enter most or all of the events are usually looking to move up to a pro ride, and this particular group is a youth class that includes a lot of kids who are old enough—sixteen—or are about to be old enough to go pro. That makes it one of the more interesting groups to watch because so many of the riders are looking to be "noticed" by someone who can launch their careers.
And I'm standing next to someone who might have that power. How much sooner could I have made it to the pros if someone like Lucy had taken an interest in me when I first started? Then again, wildcatting my way through the ranks the hard way had probably been good for me. Those years of scratching and clawing had not only made me a better rider, but they'd taught me patience and humility. There's nothing like getting your ass kicked to show you just how far you have to come. I wouldn't be anywhere near where I am right now if I'd gone straight from amateur to a full ride with a pro team.
Still, I like the idea that Lucy might give one of these kids their first big break, so instead of answering her question, I keep quiet and watch with her. There are a few riders who are pretty damn good, but one definitely stands out from the crowd. For one thing, he's fearless. Every time he enters the turn, he finds his way to the inside line, somehow inducing other riders to give him just enough space to squirt by and then goose his bike's engine just a little sooner than anyone else. He should've laid the bike down a couple of times by now, but he hasn't. After five laps, I'm thinking I'm glad he's still in the youth amateur class. If he were on the pro circuit, I bet he'd be giving all us old men a run for our money.
Lucy's obviously noticed him, too, because as he makes a pass on two more riders and then pulls away, she underlines a name on her entry sheet with two heavy strokes.
"He's impressive," I say.
"She," Lucy corrects, pointing to the name she's just underlined and angling the clipboard so I can read it.
Tessa Blackwood, 15, Schenectady, NY.
"Whoa." It's not that girls—or maybe I should say women?—can't compete with men. In the youth classes, it's not unusual at all for girls to ride with the boys, especially in local races. Some places don't have enough riders to field separate races for both age group and gender, so everybody runs together. And women can be plenty good enough to beat a lot of the men. It's just that once you get up to the A classes—and this is an A amateur class—it's unusual to come across a woman who can beat more of the guys in the field. And at this point, at least, it looks like Tessa Blackwood has a solid shot at winning the race. "She run at High Point?"
Lucy nods. "Yeah. Finished just off the podium in all three heats, but she actually led the last heat for a few laps. Seemed like she was having engine trouble in the back half of the race. Looks like that's fixed for now." She pauses to let a large group of riders go by, then adds, "Her riding style reminds me a lot of you."
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. I'm an aggressive rider, but I don't think of myself as a big risk-taker. It's rare for me to make a move that I'm not absolutely sure I can complete. "Really?"
"Seriously, you don't see it?"
"No way." I wave my hand and shake my head. "I don't ride on the ragged edge like that. I know exactly what I'm doing and how I'm going to get out the other side."
That makes Lucy let out a soft laugh. "I bet she does, too. Trust me, from this side, you look just about as close to the edge as she does. You definitely have more finesse and control than she does, but you still make moves that look every bit as risky and impossible."
"Huh," I say, not agreeing or disagreeing. I still don't see it, but I also don't watch myself from this side of the fence, at least not while it's happening. I've watched myself on video, of course, and I've never thought any of my moves seemed all that dicey, but then again, I know why I thought what I was doing was going to work. That means I probably can't understand it from anyone's point of view but my own.
We fall back into an easy silence for the last few minutes of the practice, and I relax into the pure pleasure of being in Lucy's company. Oh, sure, there's the hum of sexual awareness right there under my skin, and that shouldn't be relaxing at all. Not when I want to drag her behind the nearest tree—and there are a lot of them—so I can show her with more than words just how much I've missed her, how much I want her, how much I need her. But I've got to play the long game, and I'd be a real shit-heel to put her job in danger. Especially when I think about how much good she can do for the up-and-comers like Tessa Blackwood. I wouldn't just be hurting Lucy; I'd be hurting a lot of other people, too. Which means the pure pleasure of her company will have to be enough for now.
And since Lucy’s made it clear that her job and us having anything other than a platonic relationship is out of the question, what I need to do now is back off. The question is how far. Should I pretend I’m not interested in her at all anymore or should I be honest and tell her that I want to have her back in my bed—and in my life—when the season ends? The first one sounds good on the surface. It might be easier for her to convince herself that she’s being ethical as a reporter if she thinks we’re definitely over and done with. But in the end, I think it’s a bad idea. I might not have a lot of actual relationship experience, but I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent certain that lying is never a good way to start one. Also, to convince her that was true, I’d have to go back to having sex with other women, or at least make it look like I was, because she would never buy the lie otherwise. I’m also about a hundred percent sure that I couldn’t pull that off, for real or even just acting.
So, the truth is what it’ll have to be.
Of course, for all I know, one night was enough for her. It’s not like she gave me any reason to believe she was ever interested in anything more. In fact, when I suggested more, she shut me right down. Just because I know she’s the one doesn’t mean I can assume the feeling is mutual.
So I guess before I make an ass of u and me, I should find out where I actually stand.
“So, did it work?”
She tilts her head, her eyebrows scrunching in confusion. I love her eyebrows. They’re thick and dark and angular, which should look manly but don’t on her, probably because the rest of her features are so round and pretty.
“Did what work?”
I glance around to make sure no one’s standing close enough to overhear our conversation. It’s not likely that anyone who knows who we both are is up here on the hill with us, but no reason to take chances. Fortunately, the only spectators in the vicinity are a cute mixed-race family—white mom, black dad, and two preteen kids—all tricked out in Fox and Oakley T-shirts and caps, and a tall, skinny, white dude with a camera outfitted with a massive telephoto lens hanging around his neck. All of them are too far away to hear anything we might say.
“Did you fuck me out of your system?”
Her eyes widen, and then she lets out a scoffing little snort. “Not even close. You?”
Relief opens up my chest like one of those roller pins on a can of anchovies, and I can breathe again. I didn’t realize how scared I was that her answer might be yes.
“Same,” I admit. “By the way, it was lonely.” When she gives me a questioning look, I explain, “New York. You asked how it was. It was big and busy and full of people and very, very empty. I wished you were there with me the whole time.”
“Oh.” That one little sigh is so packed with feeling, it’s like an emotion bomb. Relief, frustration, worry, pleasure, regret…and some others I can’t put names to. “I’ll call my editor, then.”
Seventeen
Lucy
I may be screwed, but at least I'm going to be well screwed. Never thought I'd be the kind of woman who’d give up her career for a man, but best laid plans…
Ha! Best laid! I kill myself.
Owen's giving me a horrified stare, though. "Oh, hell, no. You are not calling your editor. No fucking way."
"I have to. He needs to know that we're…involved."
"No," Owen says again with an adamant shake of his head. "We'll wait until the season's over. Until then, we’re just friends."
I spock an eyebrow. "I don't think just friends is possible under the circumstances, do you?"
He looks a little wounded. "You don't think I can control myself for six weeks?"
"It's not you I'm worried about."
Okay, granted, I think expecting Goin' Owen to go six weeks without sex is akin to hoping the IRS will fail to notice that you didn't pay your taxes, but he's not the only person with a sex drive here. A cocky grin stretches his mouth at my words, and goddamn, I want to kiss him right then and there and damn whoever's around to see us. Which is exactly the problem.
I rush on, "But that's not even the reason I have to tell my boss. You're willing to wait six weeks to…what? Start dating? Going steady? I don't even know what we're going to be doing yet, but I know it's more than a casual thing, whether we're sleeping together or not. And more than a casual thing means I ought to disclose. Maybe it won't matter. Maybe my editor will think it's fine. But if he doesn't, he has a right to know so he can find someone else to take my place."
Owen crosses his arms over his chest—his very nicely muscled chest, I cannot help but remember while I’m also noticing the sculpted ridges of his biceps peeking out from beneath his white T-shirt—and grimaces. "So, wait. The only way for you not to have to risk your job is for me to tell you that I’m not interested in being with you?"
“Well,” I admit, wrinkling my nose, “yes.” Although there’s an argument to be made that, even then, I should warn my editor that I might not be entirely impartial.
He gives me a level gaze. “Okay, then I’m not interested in being with you. Now you don’t have to call your editor, right?”
“It’s not that easy. You have to mean it.”
“I do mean it.” His expression utterly serious, Owen reaches across the space between us and taps the top of my clipboard. “You’re good at this. I read your articles, and not just the ones that are about me. Maybe it’s not as important as reporting on wars or politics or…I dunno, gang violence or drug cartels or whatever, but you’re doing a lot of good. Your stories are fun to read, and you bring attention to riders like Tessa Blackwood and people on the fringes of the sport, like Darnell.”
“Well, you did that,” I interrupt to point out.
He waves a hand. “You ran with it. You didn’t have to, but you did, and now maybe Darnell gets a shot at a better job than just being a motocross mechanic. Maybe one that lets him stay in San Antonio with his dad in
stead of chasing me around the country. And as much as I don’t want to lose him, he deserves that. And you deserve not to have to risk your job—a job you like and that you’re really good at—because of me.
“So, for the next six weeks, I’m not interested in being with you. After that, if I change my mind and you’re still interested in being with me, then we figure things out. But we’re going to wait the six weeks to figure it out if your editor pulls you off the job, too. So what’s the difference except you losing your job? I mean, unless you really think the fact that we might get together again after the end of the season is going to change the way you do your job, because I just don’t see it. That’s not who you are.”
I open my mouth to say that the difference is…and then I shut it. Because he’s not entirely right, but he’s not exactly wrong, either. It’s not like anything I report could have the slightest effect on whether or not Owen wins the championship. And what agenda could I inject into my coverage of his races, either consciously or unconsciously, anyway? Maybe the fact that I’m really hoping he does win will come through, but I felt that way almost from the start. It’s hard not to root for the guy you’re the closest to, even if the closeness is purely due to professional duty. Nothing’s really changed, except that I now know from personal experience that he’s as good in bed as he is on the track. Something I have no intention of reporting!
It could still become a problem if we get caught in a compromising situation, so we have to keep things professional for the next six weeks. And if we can’t…? Or if I think my feelings are getting in the way of my work? Well then, I’ll definitely have to tell my editor what’s going on because things could get messy if I don’t. But I don’t have to take that risk. Not yet.
A weight I didn’t even know I was carrying lifts off my chest. This might be a huge mistake, but everything in me is screaming that it’s less a mistake than the alternative.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 9