by Robin Lovett
“You’re too nice to me.” My upset is gone. In its place, I’m in awe of him. “I’m such a bitch to you. Why do you…”
The corners of his mouth perk. “I kind of like that you’re uptight. It’s fun seeing you squirm and give in, and…” He clears his throat and lowers his voice. “And last night was hot. When you let loose, you’re a frigging firecracker.”
Heat rushes my face.
There are people around. I see them from the corner of my eye and hear them talking, but they’re not really there. It’s only Terrence and me.
He stoops, bending his mouth to my ear. “You still want to get out of here?”
My breathing quick, I nod.
His cheek brushes my temple. “Let me show you the bike I bought you.”
I’m not sure if he said brought or bought. I hope it’s the first one.
The blue-and-yellow bike that he stands from the wall is shiny and new, nicer than any bike I’ve ever owned, and it has a parallel bar on the top, not the sloped kind for a girl. “Is this a boy’s bike?”
“It’s a girl’s bike. Narrower handlebars, shorter top tube. The slanted girls’ top tube is only for riding a bike in a skirt, and you’re not going to ride this bike in a skirt. Throw a leg over.”
“I haven’t ridden a bike since middle school.” I’ve never ridden a road bike with skinny tires and curved handlebars.
“You know what they say about riding a bike. You never forget.” He’s so enthusiastic and he’s put such thought into this, I submerge my protests and “throw a leg over”.
He holds the bike steady for me. “Now, put your feet on the pedals and lift your butt on the seat. I won’t let you fall. I have to check the size.”
I snake onto the seat. “Ah!” My toes barely reach the pedals.
But Terrence holds the bike in place. “I got you. Don’t worry.”
My feet dangling, I have no balance. “It’s too big. I can’t ride it.”
“That’s just the seat, I can adjust that. It’s more the frame I’m worried about.” He turns to the side to look at me. “How do your shoulders feel? I got the smallest women’s bike they had. Your torso is so short.”
“Okay, I guess.” I wiggle and wince. “This seat is awful though.”
“I got something to help with that too. You can get off now.”
Once my feet are back on the ground, he stuffs something slick and black into my hand. “Put these on.”
“What is it?”
“Bike shorts.” He shows me the inside. “There’s a pad in the bottom to cushion your seat. You can put pants overtop, if you want.” His face is open and excited. “There’s a helmet for you, too.”
He brought all of this without even knowing if I would say yes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He pats my butt. “Now hurry. We have to get you out of town before someone sees!”
Chapter Fourteen
He bought me extra-smalls. I don’t see the size tag until I’m upstairs trying on the shorts. They barely fit over my thighs, let alone my hips.
Damn it. I toss them on the bed.
Going down there, giving them back to him, and saying, “Yeah, I’m too fat for these,” is not an option. I could cry. I don’t ride bikes. I don’t wear spandex shorts. Ever.
He’s trying so hard though, and he said the bike he got me was the smallest in the shop. He thinks I’m little. He thinks I wear the smallest size in clothes, too. It’s endearing, and makes me want to wear the shorts so badly, but I can’t shrink myself. Sadly.
If I wear boy-short underwear, make sure there are no panty lines, maybe he’ll think I’m wearing them, even though I’m not.
When I walk back outside, his expectant grin and question, “Did they fit?”, are so eager that I’m glad I decided to lie.
“Yup.” I strap on the helmet he gives me and coast the bike behind him through the winding alleys of Vieux Nice, ones that I’ve never seen before. By the time we exit the old town onto a boulevard, I have no idea which way to go.
He asks, “Far enough from your school?”
“I think so.” Hopefully no one will recognize me here. “Where are we?”
“Almost to the climb. How’s the bike?”
I realize, I’m fine. A little shaky in the legs, a lot achy in the seat, but being on the bike reminds me of being a kid again, in a good way. “I’m great.”
He points to my pedals. “Did you figure out the toe clips?”
“Don’t I need those special shoes?”
“Nah. Just slip your feet in the cages.” He demonstrates with his sneakered feet, not riding his usual clipless race bike. It’s a beater that looks decades old and has no paint left, nothing like mine or the ones I’ve seen him riding before.
“Why is your bike so crappy?” I ask.
“I picked this one up at the market. It’s a fixie. Fun for riding around town. Gets boring riding the same bike all the time.”
“Why’d you bring me such a nice one?”
“The bike I’m riding is steel. Heavy, slow.”
“So my bike is, what, aluminum?”
“Carbon-fiber. Titanium alloy.”
That sounds expensive.
“It’s lightweight,” he says. “Great for riding up hills.”
“Hills?” Oh no, I’m not riding up hills. “Where are we going?”
He wheels his bike closer to me. “A little ways out of town. It’s a nice ride with a great view. You’ll love it.”
“I don’t care about the view. How far is it?”
“It’s only eight kilometers.”
“Kilometers?”
“Like, five miles.”
“Five miles?” That’s not possible. “You know I haven’t exercised since, like, Phys Ed in high school, right?”
He jerks like I’ve said I don’t own any shoes. “You don’t go running or anything?”
I gesture to my pudgy middle, my fat-filled breasts, and my excessive thighs. “Does this body look like it gets a workout to you?”
His brow creases. “You look touchable to me.”
He must be pretending not to notice that, next to him, I’m obese.
“You go for walks, don’t you?” he asks.
“Yeah. To the school and the library.”
“I bet you’ve walked the Promenade. That’s over five kilometers.”
“I guess.” I did walk the whole thing, once, in the fall when it was warm and sunny. I hope it gets warm again soon. “There’s a nice view at the end?”
“It’s worth it. You can see the whole town and the sea.” He tilts his head. “And we can always turn around if you want.”
Reluctant, but wanting to at least try his plan, I follow him down to the bike lanes. He checks on me constantly. The bike he gave me glides feather-light on the asphalt once we’re off the cobbles. My feet spin the pedals like they’re slipping through butter. “You got this bike for free from your sponsors, right?”
He coasts beside me. “Not free exactly, but a good deal.”
I’ve been out with this guy like three times. It’s too soon for gifts. If this is a date, then that means— “You can’t just buy me things.”
He’s riding leisurely with one hand on his thigh. “I’m not going to give you a piece of crap to ride. I won a ton of money yesterday. If I want to buy a girl a present, I will.”
“I thought you gave all the winnings to your teammates.”
“We divvy it up, and mine was over ten thousand euros. I sent most of it home to my mom for a new kitchen, but I keep some for me and I felt like buying you a bike. So—” He stutters. “Deal with it.”
The topic of money makes him so sensitive. “Your mom will get an awful nice kitchen for that.”
He snorts. “It’ll be barely enough once
my dad’s through with it. He pisses money like water.”
“What does he do with it?”
He narrows his eyes at me like I’m so naïve. “He gambles it.”
“That’s not good. What does he do for a living?”
“Works in a machine shop.”
“He’s an engineer?”
“No. He’s a mechanic.”
Wow, Terrence really is a blue-collar kid. “And your mom?”
“Stays home. Goes to church a lot.” He says it quick, dismissing the subject. “Your parents?”
“My dad’s an accountant, and my mom’s a nurse.” We had okay money growing up, but Terrence must have had very little. He’s done well for himself. I wonder how he got into cycling.
He directs my attention back to the traffic. “Stick close, we have to cross the highway before we get to the back roads.”
“Highway?”
We stop at a four-lane road with no bike lanes. The navigation looks intimidating, with cars zooming by in pairs. I have trouble getting my feet out of the pedal cages. The brakes, in front of the handlebars, are hard to squeeze and getting started pedaling again after stopping confuses me. I have to look at the pedals to get my feet in the cages.
Terrence seems surprised. My problems aren’t things he’s thought about in a long time, but he waits patiently. “We’re in no hurry. Take your time.”
“But there are cars all around us. We have to get out of their way.”
“It’s all right. They don’t mind.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and we stop at a second traffic light.
A car next to us taps its horn and rolls down the window. The man inside says brightly, “Terror Braker? Bravo hier!”
Terrence nods with a broad smile. “Mercy.” The “thank you” word is so American-sounding that the Frenchman laughs as he drives away.
I laugh too. “Your pronunciation is horrid.”
Terrence shrugs. “When I try to make it sound right, they laugh just as much, so I’ve given up.”
“I could help you.”
“Lost cause. Come on. One more turn and we’ll be past the traffic.”
The quiet country road is a relief from the noisy cars, but the incline fast becomes painful. Within two blocks, I’m breathing hard. I try to hide it.
Terrence looks at me with concern. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah—I just—this is really—hard.” Each pedal stroke feels like I’m pushing down a ten-ton elephant. “I don’t know how much longer—I can—do this.”
“Oh, no wonder.” He grabs my handlebars.
“What—are you—doing?”
“Just keep pedaling.” He twists the brake lever, and I hear the gears shift, once, twice. The pedaling gets easier.
“Is that—how you shift the gears? With the brakes?”
“Just twist the brake lever. Better?”
“Yeah.” I sigh. I’m still working hard, but my feet move quicker. “How long is this—climb?”
“It’s three kilometers to the view point.”
“Three k—?” I nearly choke and start coughing. “I’ll never make it.”
“Sure you will.” He stands in his pedals and rides ahead of me. He leans back on the bike and pops a wheelie, his front tire rising feet in the air, while still pedaling uphill.
“Oh my God!” I squeal, terrified that he’s going to fall on his back. “Stop it. You’ll kill yourself.”
“Nah.” He lets the wheel back down on the pavement. Then, rather than turn the bike like a normal person, he bunny-hops back to me. “I almost killed myself enough times as a kid with all the trips to the emergency room. I think I’m safe now.”
Coming next to me, he rides backward beside me up the hill.
“How do you do that?” On my bike, if I pedal backward, it does nothing but spin my pedals.
He glows with pride, as excited about impressing me as he was at winning the race yesterday. “I love this bike. It’s a fixed gear.”
He does more tricks, staying just ahead of me, like he’s my entertaining carrot.
“How you doing?” he asks, riding beside me again.
My breathing is audible, though somehow I’m not as miserable. Sort of. “This—better be—some view.”
“Yup. Promise.”
Sweat beads my brow, my legs ache, and I’m not into pain. There’s a reason why I never work out. It would be easier to get off and walk.
Then Terrence pushes me forward, with his hand on my butt.
Chapter Fifteen
I shriek with the lunge forward, and I feel the handprint of his palm on the middle of my ass. “What was that? Keep your hands to yourself.” I’m still breathing heavy, but that surge forward was nice.
“You sure you don’t want help? I can push you to the top.” His eyes twinkle with mischief, and the quirk to his mouth reminds me what it felt like to kiss him yesterday.
My belly clenches, which is not a good thing while bike riding. I swerve into him.
“Whoa.” He grabs my handlebars and steers me straight. “If you wanted to get closer, just say so.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, pedaling next to me.
“Let go,” I say. “Do you want us to crash?”
“Just go straight, Lia. I’ll take care of the rest.” His voice is right next to my ear. It’s throaty, distracting, and I like it way too much.
He moves his arm when I shrug away from him, but catches my handlebars again when I almost fall.
“You sure you don’t want another push?”
“I’d rather—get off—and walk.”
“No, no. Come on. I’m not copping a feel, I swear.”
“Right.” Although, I did see him put his hand on Gary’s ass during the race yesterday to push him forward. “Is that something—you do—a lot during races? Why not—push—my back?”
He lays a hand on my back and pushes a bit. All it does is bend me to the ground. “See?” he says. “Pushing your back just pushes you down.”
He slides his hand down my lower back, and when I don’t protest, he pushes on my butt again. Except this time he keeps it there, pushing me for longer. The pedaling gets easier.
His hand on my ass, I like it, but not just the way it makes it easier. It gives my stomach butterflies that are both a welcome distraction from the riding and an enticing reminder of later, when this is over. I’m spending the day with him.
Having his hand there is more intimate than sexy. He has to ride close to me, to touch me there, with his body turned toward me. He keeps looking at me, gauging how I’m doing. I usually hate accepting help, but this—I don’t know if it’s because we’re doing something I’m bad at, or if it’s because the help is coming from him, but—it’s comforting.
We round a hairpin turn, and the trees along the hillside thin. I catch glimpses of bright blue in the distance.
“Almost—there?” My legs spin more easily and the incline decreases the higher we go.
He takes his hand away, and I miss it. I can still feel his warm handprint. I wonder how it would feel to have his warm hands on my bare skin. I’m dripping sweat, but I shiver with goosebumps.
“We’re almost there.” His breathing isn’t labored. It’s like he’s out shopping or something. He stands in his pedals again, stretching his legs, and turns on the road in playful figure-eights.
I’m staring at the pavement, focusing on my pedal strokes. Almost there, I chant to myself. I can do this. My heart thunders. I don’t think I’ve ever breathed so fast. My lungs burn. My leg muscles sting, but Terrence’s enthusiasm and the promise of the view through the trees fuel me.
He crouches over his handlebars and charges at sprinting speed. He creates a breeze in his wake. The output of energy it takes, while on a climb, is unfathomable, but it’s fun for him.
He stops a short way up the road and calls back, “This is it! We’re here.”
“Oh, thank God.” I swerve to keep moving. My pedals are no longer moving in circles but lurching, down, down, in jerking movements.
“Woo-hoo!” Terrence shouts and claps. “You can do it!” He cheers at me like a spectator at a race. “Go, go, go!”
It makes me laugh, even in my misery. He could so easily be making fun of me right now, but instead he’s cheerleading.
I grit my teeth for the final ten feet, and I nearly fall when I stop, forgetting my feet are in cages.
“I gotcha!” Terrence leaps to catch me, his own bike dropping with a crash.
I lean against him, my breath gasping. His arms enfold me, his hands steadying my bike.
“You did it,” he says. Around my helmet, he brushes his nose on my forehead.
“Yeah.” I balance my shoulder and head on his chest, and I enjoy my damsel-in-distress moment.
“Slide your heel backward,” he says softly. “Then your foot will come out of the pedal. It’s hard to remember at first when your instinct is to just put your foot down.”
I do as he says, and when my feet are down, I balance on my own. “Thanks.”
“I fell so many times when I first started using clipless pedals as a kid. I fractured my wrist just standing still because I couldn’t get my foot out of the pedal in time.”
“That’s—awful.”
He shrugs and smiles. “Injuries are part of it. I got metal plates in my collarbones and I’ve broken ribs twice. Not to mention all the road rashes. Falling on tarmac at forty kilometers per hour in spandex—don’t try it.”
I dismount, my whole body vibrating from exertion.
He points behind me. “Look.”
I turn my head, and the sweeping view steals my still-racing breath. “Wow.”
The copper roofs of Nice spread at our feet, lining the world-famous, bright blue sea. The water glitters for miles to the horizon. The warm, early spring sun warms my face, and I wonder if it could make my skin sparkle like the water. They’re the same rays. The coastline dips in sensuous curves, and the steep hills grow from the water as though rooted in the bottom of the sea.