by Robin Lovett
A great roar goes up from the foyer. Inside, down a flight of marble stairs, Terrence stands in the center. He shouts, “Ransome! Where are you, man?”
Someone pushes forward a reddening Gary, and Terrence runs to hug him.
And not like guy slapping hug, like full embrace, brotherly-love hug. He says something in Gary’s ear, and they break into laughter.
The whole room takes up a chant. “Ran-some! Ran-some!”
Bunching around Gary, the BG team lifts him onto their shoulders and, in a mass of arms and legs, carries him out to the terrace. I sneak to the shadows and watch them shuffle to the edge of a pool.
Gary laughs. “It’s too cold for this shit!” They dump him into the water with a splash.
Their comradery is contagious, and I wish I was part of their group.
Terrence back-slaps the team. He is the head, le patron, as the French say. Though he may be the youngest but for Ralph. With the praise he lavishes on each of them, the way they all accept it and return it, Braker owes his team his win.
The team drifts inside. Except for Terrence, who straggles with a faulty step. I remember him chugging the champagne on the podium, and I feel sick, wondering if that reunion was a drunken display. Maybe that’s how he managed the doping test, by drinking too much.
He sees me, and a lazy grin tilts his cheeks. “There she is.” He stalls, his face scrunching. “I need to sit down.” He staggers toward a chaise longue, then collapses.
He buries his face in a pillow and stills, lying in his jeans and a softshell jacket with the BG logo. His feet stick off the end.
The drunken hero has fallen.
He moans into the cushion, “Sit with me, Relie.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Ha!” He rolls and falls on his back, legs flopping. “Shit.”
“Are you okay?”
He cracks an eye open at me. “Maybe.” He slides back in the chair, dragging his legs like dead weight. “Do you feel sorry for me?”
Maybe. A little. “No.”
“Did you see the race?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“It was okay.” It was blood-stirring and toe-hop exciting.
“Hmm.” He looks at the sky, like on the sidewalk at the tram stop. He must spend a lot of time reclining. “The breakaway was pure accident and a waste. I shouldn’t have sped into the descent at the top of the climb like that. But I was so psyched I made it to the top so fast, you know? I wanted to see if I could smash them.” He sighs. “Wore Gary thin. Why he follows me when I race stupid like that, I’ll never know.”
“Gary helps you a lot.”
“Yes.” He looks straight in my eyes. “Gary’s it. There is no Terror without Ransome.”
I smile. It’s a cute phrase, but he’s so sincere as he says it.
He taps the space next to him on the cushion. “Sit.”
I step closer, then hesitate. I have no desire to sit with a drunk guy. I face the sea. The sky is all but dark now. I should leave. “Where are the models?”
“Not here,” he says simply. “Did you miss me?”
I shake my head. I don’t want to give away that I’ve been thinking of him non-stop. Of his suggestions, his proposition. Him.
Of what his lips will feel like on my fingertips. On my mouth.
“You’re really pretty, Relie.”
That wakes me from my delusion. “You’re really drunk.”
“No. I’m not.”
“I saw you gulping champagne. You must have had two glasses by the time you put that bottle down.”
He sighs. “First off, that was two hours ago. Second, I had maybe two sips. I have to make it look like I drink a lot. For the cameras. Third, if I drank that much after a race I’d be sick. I’d never have made it through the interviews. Fifthly—”
“Fourthly,” I correct him.
He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m fucking exhausted and my legs feel like fucking lead. Okay?”
Of course he’s tired. This is probably the first time he’s sat down since—well, unless you count the bike as sitting—early this morning. “You raced for eight days in a row?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nuts.”
He drops his head back. “‘Race to the Sun’ and all that bullshit.”
“I like it. It’s a nice name.”
“You would, poetry girl.”
“Poetry girl?” The lights flitting from the house stripe his face. It’s so dim out here. And quiet. It’s only us on the terrace. Everyone else is back inside.
“Mm-hm.” He hums and sits forward, closer to me.
I don’t know when, but I’ve stepped closer too.
He brushes the back of his hand on my arm. “Sit with me?” His brown hair is fluffy and clean from a shower. I kind of, sort of, want to touch it.
“You really are tired, aren’t you?” I ask. If he’s not so drunk, maybe he really meant it when he said I’m pretty. None of those models are here. He threw me flowers from the podium. He’s still the same guy who said he could “help me with my problem”, but this is nowhere near the post-that-conversation awkwardness I expected.
I sit. “So, those doping tests.”
He stills.
“You passed?”
“It takes weeks for them to process.” His bitter tone tinges with boredom. “Nothing like winning a race, and the first thing they do is check if you cheated.”
He stretches out behind me, his legs pressing against my lower back. “So the race was just ‘okay’?”
His thigh is touching me. He’s so hot against that one small piece of my back. I close my eyes and try to swallow, but my tongue is a fist in my throat. I nod.
“Did you like watching me win?”
I can still feel it across my skin, the aliveness, the tingling breath-binding suspense, as though I experienced a piece of what it felt like for him.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Yes what?” He sits closer, his chest grazing my arm.
“I liked watching you win.”
He leans his head down. I think his nose, then his lips, touch my shoulder, but I can’t feel it through my coat. He’s this fever temptation at my back, and I want to sink into his heat. Shivers brush my spine.
“Are you cold?” He rubs my back with his hand, his leg, and those I can feel through my coat.
I can’t stop relaxing into him or my resulting sigh.
“You got the stain out,” he says.
“Huh?”
“The wine. Your coat had red blotches at Mardi Gras. They’re gone.”
“Oh. Yeah, I soaked it and scrubbed it.” I finger the gray outline that only I can see, and ramble, grateful to break the silence. “It’s still there a little when there’s light on it, but it’s pretty good. It took me a couple of tries.”
His hand circles my back in warm strokes, and I inhale the calm it soothes into me.
Goosebumps scatter across my skin. He’s so close now; if I turn my head, I’ll be looking at his mouth. My breath rushes in my ears and my lungs expand in my chest. I want to inhale and hold him inside me. I hadn’t remembered how nice it is to sit with a guy.
He’s warm.
He nuzzles my ear. “Sit back with me.”
I stiffen.
He whispers, “I’m too tired to be anything but a gentleman. You’re cold, let me warm you up.”
I’m not cold. I’m nervous, not about him, about my reactions to him. So far I’ve sat here and let him touch me through my coat. I have yet to participate, really. If I give in to him, I might fall all the way. If I lie back with him, I might never want to get up.
“I’ll probably fall asleep in a minute. I’m so tired.” His forehead droops on my shoulder.
; He is tired. He’s harmless.
He nudges me back; I go with him.
Chapter Eleven
My heart runs laps in my chest, and I’m certain the whole world can hear it beating.
I keep my back to him. I’m too nervous to face him. He snakes an arm around my middle and pulls me against his chest.
Relief entwines me, and any thought of getting away from him dissipates. My neck softens with my shoulders on the cushion, and I can only feel him hold me.
My eyes close, and my breathing slows. When he stills for a minute, and his breath comes heavy in my hair, I think he’s fallen asleep.
He opens his hand and presses his palm flat on my belly, his fingers grasping my side through my coat. Air hiccups in my lungs. His hand says he wants me, his fingers say he can’t get enough of me. I like it. I want to be wanted.
“So soft,” he whispers, and his other hand moves my hair from my neck.
His mouth is so close. If I turn my head a little, I could taste him.
I rotate my head and he’s there, closer than I thought. His lips are on my cheek; the hand that was on my belly tilts my chin toward him. I let him.
He kisses me.
His lips aren’t just soft, they’re silken. I once put a rose petal to mine when it had fallen fresh off a flower. His lips feel like that. And I think of the flowers that he threw to me this afternoon. I long for him to throw more at me.
More.
Turning all of me to face him, I beg for it with my fingers on his neck. His tongue answers me and slides between my lips. I moan and taste him back.
I’m moving against him, pushing my chest into his. I’m no longer thinking, I shouldn’t. I’m only thinking, I want.
“Oh, perfect, Relie,” he mutters into my mouth. I like his words but I like his tongue more. He cradles my head in his elbow and his other hand moves hungrily over my back and my waist.
I pull his hair for more, and he groans in his chest and squeezes me tighter. I don’t think, I just tug at the buttons of my coat. It’s too thick of a barrier. His fingers help me with my buttons. When he tries to take his tongue away, I bite down in protest.
He chuckles at me and lets me keep his tongue. His hands are under my coat, with only my thin cotton shirt blocking his kneading fingers from my skin. His palms are so hot.
My God, I want more.
It bolts straight to my thighs, and the instinct to mold my groin against his—it shocks me.
I let go of his tongue, I pull my lips away. My breath gusts in and out.
My legs are rubbing his calves. I stop. I release my hands that have twisted into his hair. I duck my chin, embarrassed at my insanely intense reaction. It’s just a kiss.
I never should have lain down next to him. I knew I would slip into things that I didn’t want to do. Or did want to do but shouldn’t. I know nothing about him except he’s a really good bike rider from Pennsylvania.
He presses his lips to my forehead and cheeks; his fingers trace my belly through my shirt. I still his hand and back away from his lips.
“So much for sleeping,” he mutters. His eyes are dark in shadow, his voice low and breathless.
The longer I lie here next to him, the more confused I feel. This is absurd.
“I should—”
He interrupts me before I can protest. “Will you let me take you home?”
“I—”
“I can borrow somebody’s car and drive you.”
Me, in a car with him. Walking home alone in the dark would be safer.
“Please? It would make me feel better.” He is so smooth. He’s guilt-tripping me. It’s working. Rationally, walking home in the dark isn’t safer.
I push up to sitting and button my coat. “Okay.”
“Did you eat?” he says. “I’m starved.”
Loud laughter echoes from inside, and I remember we’re at a party. I made out with him in public. Anyone could have walked out and seen us.
“I’m not allowed to leave, so we need a strategy.”
“What?” I’m not hearing what he’s saying. I’m replaying his tongue in my mouth and his hands under my coat.
“You need to go in there and beg keys off one of the guys. I’ll sneak around and meet you out front.”
“Won’t they miss you at the party? Aren’t you going to get in trouble? I’m not going in there to ask someone for keys.”
He rolls up on lethargic legs to sit.
“You weren’t faking the tired thing just to get me to make out with you, were you?”
He smacks a kiss on my cheek. “Do you care?”
“Yes!”
He chuckles and struggles to his feet. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not faking.”
He walks off into the dark around the terrace.
“I’m not doing this.”
“Yes, you are,” he clips brightly and disappears.
“Wait.” But he’s gone. “Damn it.” I stand up and wander back inside. I really don’t want to do this. Asking people for help is my least favorite way of doing things.
I spot Ralph and ask him first. He smiles mischievously and says, “Braker’s taking you home? Bastard. He always wins.”
I’m cherry in the face, but I’m determined. “Do you have keys?”
“Nope. Try Gary.”
Gary looks at me like I have four heads, rolls his eyes and points to a blonde girl by the door.
Paul stops me. “Are you going home?”
I stammer. “Oui, er, je suis—um—”
His eyes widen. “He’s taking you home, isn’t he?” He nods and backs away. “Bonne chance, Aurélie.” He thinks I’m going home with Terrence. Well, I am, except he’s taking me to my place. But I’m not letting him inside my apartment. I’m not having sex with him. I’m not.
I’m too embarrassed to correct Paul, and I continue on my mission for keys.
The girl by the door looms over me in her official BG jacket. She must work for the team, and she responds to my French with a German accent. “Braker drives you home?”
“Yes. Do you have keys?” I’m not repeating myself again. I’d rather walk.
She crosses her arms. “He’s not supposed to leave. This party is for him.”
“He told me to ask.”
“He’s going to be in trouble with Sergio tomorrow.” She grabs a single car key from her pocket. “Bonne chance.”
I don’t like everyone wishing me “good luck”. I turn and stride out the door. I never thought I’d be in such a hurry to leave such a beautiful house. Outside, Terrence is sitting on a rock with his legs stretched in front of him, eating pasta out of a pan.
“Really?”
“Carbo-loading,” he says with a mouthful of food. “Want some?” He sticks a fork full of ziti at me.
My first response to refuse is squelched by the dripping cheese. I take the fork from him and bite.
My mouth melts, almost as much as it did around his tongue. “That’s good.”
He smiles and stands up, slowly. “Switch.” He grabs the key from my hand and gives me the pan of pasta.
“Is this, like, straight from the oven?” I sneak another bite.
“Yeah. Sergio’s cook loves cyclists.”
“Sergio?”
“The team owner. It’s his house. His apartment we live in. He’s all the money for everything.”
“That’s serious.” I crouch into the passenger seat of the little two-door sedan that sits too low to the ground. “The lady who gave me the key said you’d be in trouble with him tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” Terrence starts the car. “The guy is serious about cycling,” he says with no excitement at all.
I take another bite of dripping, cheesy ziti and stifle a moan, it’s so good. Or maybe I don’t stifle it, judgin
g by the smirk that Terrence gives me. I ignore him and focus on how slow he drives. “How come you don’t drive faster?”
“Just because I race doesn’t mean I’m not exhausted, and I almost never drive.” The car descends the dark, steep road back to Nice. “And this is no Bugatti.”
“Bugatti?”
“Italian sportscar? Sergio’s let me drive his a couple of times.”
“You must make good money.”
“Better than last year. Most of it comes from sponsors.”
“But you won money for the race today, right?”
“That goes to the team. When we win, we split it.”
I like how he says we win.
“I have to. I make shitloads more than they do. It does no good to have a team that hates me. My lead-out train won’t run without them.” Back to the “my lead-out”. He really is the team leader.
He full stops at a traffic light. “My turn.” He shows me his open mouth.
“You want me to feed you?” I’m not doing that. I fill the fork with pasta and hand it to him. “Here.”
He grabs my hand with the fork and puts it in his mouth, forcing me to feed him. He groans and chews. “Oh, I got to have more of that. Hit me again.”
He’s so playful. I like it. I fill the fork again, and this time voluntarily put it in his open mouth. His lips close around the tines and draw it slowly out of his mouth.
Not wanting to play along too much, I pull the fork out faster and face forward. “Drive, please.”
He moves the car forward, turning toward Vieux Nice. “I drive as long as you feed me. Keep it coming.”
After each bite, he swallows and says, “Again.” With the rapidity he eats, I fear he will burst.
“How can you eat so much?”
“Sweetheart, I burned five thousand calories today. I could eat boxes of pasta and it wouldn’t be enough.”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
“Sorry. Relie.”
“That’s what my dad calls me.”
He jolts. “Okay. Not that either.”
“Aurelia is fine, thanks.”
“People must call you by a nickname.”
“The French call me ‘Aurélie’.” I like how French it sounds, though somehow that doesn’t feel right either.