by Amy Sparling
I can’t get her out of my mind.
That sweet smile, those gorgeous lips.
That perfect ass.
Hours later, I’m still thinking about her as I get ready for my race. She’s in my mind when I pull on my boots and latch them closed. When I put my shirt on and my helmet and my goggles. When I crank up my bike and ride over to the starting line. My body is on autopilot as I get ready for the race, but my mind is on her.
Maybe I just need to hook up with her. Just once. Just get her out of my system and then I can go on with my life.
The thought turns me on, and then I realize how stupid it would be. What am I supposed to do? Take her back to my twin bed in my mom’s house?
Hell no.
As much as I want to hook up with this girl, that is about the least sexy way to do it. I miss my apartment. Why, oh why, did I get rid of it?
I line up at the starting line alongside the other twenty guys who are hoping they can beat me in this race and win the money. I lean forward on my bike, revving the engine.
The roar of all the bikes grows in intensity and the vibration of my motor makes my whole body hum. The gate will drop any second and the race will begin.
Still, I’m thinking about her.
Maybe I can hook up with her in the back seat of my truck. It’s still pathetic but not as bad as bringing her to my childhood bedroom.
Maybe I just need one night with this girl to get her out of my mind and then I can spend my summer focusing on motocross instead of girls.
Yeah, maybe that’s all it’ll take.
The gate drops and I pin the throttle, easily getting the lead. I’m picturing what it would feel like to make out with her as I round the first turn, and I guess I get too distracted because soon I hear the rumble of an approaching bike. Whoever is in second place is gaining on me, and quickly.
I tell my dick to calm the hell down and I try to focus solely on the race. The track in front of me, the bike that’s under my control. This summer racing series is my part time job and I’m going to win it.
One lap down, five to go.
Adrenaline pulses through my body and I pin the throttle, making my old bike soar faster than it’s been in years. I keep the lead in the second lap, and then the third. Each lap passes over the finish line jump, which is the biggest jump of the track. It’s also right in front of the bleachers where most people hang out to watch the races. I can hear the cheers as I soar over the finish line jump for the fourth lap.
I am famous in my own hometown.
It’s not much, but it keeps me pumped. Makes me want to work harder, and get back on Team Loco for the fall. I want to make not just my mom proud, but everyone else in this little country town. I want them to always think of me like this—the racer who was good enough to go pro.
When the checkered flag waves, it feels like no time at all has passed. I throw the bike sideways and do a whip over the finish line, making the crowd cheer as a dozen camera flashes go off.
It feels good to win.
Maybe this summer at home is exactly what I needed. I need to feel the power that comes with winning. The satisfaction that I’m good enough, fast enough, worthy enough to keep pursuing my dream.
Tommy is already waiting at my truck when I get there. I slide off the bike and he takes it from me and puts it on the stand. He’s like my hometown pit crew now. I feel bad for not keeping in touch with him more when I was on the road. He’s always been a good guy.
I pull off my helmet and set it on my tailgate.
“Whew,” I say, flinging the sweat off my hair. Even though it’s dark outside, I still get drenched in sweat while racing. It’s from a combination of the gear, the exercise, and the adrenaline.
“Lookin’ good, man.” Tommy grins and hands me a Gatorade from the ice chest in the back of my truck. “Man, I miss the days of seeing you ride. It’s so much better in person than watching you on the TV.”
“Yeah, because in person I’m in first place,” I say with a snort. I crack open the lid of the Gatorade and down it in a few sips.
Half a dozen pre-teen boys rush up to my truck with big ass grins on their faces. I smile and thank them as they dish out compliments. One of them asks me to sign his helmet, and I do, really big right across the back of it. His face lights up when I hand it back.
The next twenty minutes go by like this, my adoring fans all taking turns telling me that I’m a badass. That I inspire them to become pro too someday. I can’t lie, it feels pretty damn awesome.
I keep a smile on my face because even though I’d rather go collect my cash and hit the shower, I made a promise to myself when I was sixteen years old, and now I’m sticking to it.
Tommy and I had gone to the professional Supercross races in Nashville. We waited in line for hours to meet our hero, Jack Aldean, who raced for Kawasaki. We even paid for the VIP tickets to get an autograph. By the time we got there he was clearly tired of signing posters and meeting fans and he just acted like a total dick. Like we were ruining his day by being fans. I told myself right then and there that if I ever got famous myself, I’d always value and appreciate my fans. I’d never make them feel like shit for liking me.
So I smile, and shake hands and sign helmets and get down on my knees to talk to the tiny kids who are excited to meet me but too shy to say anything.
I listen to parents tell me how I’m their kid’s hero, and I stand and pose for picture after picture until I can barely see anymore over the burn of the camera flashes in my vision.
Eventually the crowds thin out and I make my way to the registration building to collect my winnings. My anticipation wanes when I see the woman behind the glass. It’s Mrs. Sam, the owner’s wife. I’d been hoping to see someone else.
“Good race,” Mrs. Sam says. She slides an envelope over to me and I know it’s filled with cash. “Everyone loved seeing you out there. I think we sold twice as many entry tickets just for your adoring fans.”
I smile at her even though I’m only thinking of Bree and how disappointed I am that she’s not here. It is after midnight though, so maybe she’s home sleeping like she said. Although I doubt it. She probably just didn’t want anything to do with me.
“Don’t forget this,” Mrs. Sam says as I start to walk off. She holds up a giant red sparkling trophy. The first place trophies are about three feet tall. She turns it sideways and hands it to me through the window.
When I was a kid, these trophies were better than Christmas morning. I collected each one I got, ranging from eighth place to first place, and I kept them all in my room. Then they overflowed into the hallway and the living room and my mom’s room. I always gave her my first place trophies because I wanted her to have the best ones.
Then, somewhere around high school, I stopped caring about them as much. I had bigger goals and dreams and plastic trophies weren’t it. I was dreaming about sponsorships and professional paychecks.
I thank her and tell her goodnight, and then I turn to walk back to my truck. Most of the spectators and racers have headed home now, but there are still some people around.
I notice a little boy, probably around five years old. He’s standing next to his mom and he’s watching me with that same awestruck look I used to give to the older motocross guys.
“Hey, bud,” I say, walking over to him. I hold out the trophy and his eyes widen. “This is for you.”
“Oh my God,” his mom says, putting a hand to her chest. “Are you sure?”
“Yep,” I say, handing it over. The boy grins so big it makes me smile. “Have a good night.”
Back at my truck, one person is waiting for me. I can tell by the slim body that it’s not Tommy, and the bright shock of blonde hair also means it’s not Bree.
She leans against my truck, watching me approach. She’s probably my age, maybe a little older, and she’s wearing a ton of makeup and barely any clothes.
“Zach Pena,” she says. “I can’t believe we haven’t met yet.�
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“Nice to meet you,” I say. I shove the envelope of cash into my glove box and then walk to the back of my truck and lift up the tailgate. My bike is already loaded up, no doubt thanks to Tommy.
“I’m about to head out,” I say even though my brain is currently asking WTF is wrong with me. I know why she’s here. It’s a surefire hookup.
I never turn these down.
She pokes out her bottom lip and walks over to me, putting her hands on my chest. Her nails are long, pink, and fake. “You should take me with you,” she says, in full on seductress mode. I wonder where girls get that low sultry voice. They all sound the same.
My heart beats a little quicker, and I know how easy it would be to give in. This is the type of girl I could hook up with in the back of my truck. And she’d be happy about it too.
I even get this sick idea that I could close my eyes and pretend she’s Bree, and maybe that’ll help me get over her. But I can’t do that shit. Not now. Not anymore.
My future depends on me keeping my head in the game. And the game is motocross, not easy women.
I take her hands and carefully lower them from my chest. “Sorry,” I say, and part of me actually is sorry. And then I use an excuse that someone else already used on me. “I need to get home and go to sleep.”
Chapter 6
I try not to yawn, but I don’t do a very good job. I wish I had my coffee mug, but I left it in the car because we can’t bring it into people’s homes. Mama says it’s unprofessional. She does everything very professional in her housekeeping business. I’m just glad we only have to wear tan scrubs with Mama’s company logo embroidered on it, instead of some stupid uniform. She’s so serious with her business that I sometimes fear she’ll make me start wearing a maid dress like you see in the movies.
It’s Sunday morning, not even noon yet, and Mama and I just arrived at our third house for the day. There are five houses on the schedule and since they’re weekly clients, it shouldn’t take too long to clean each house.
While Mama works on the kitchen, I take the vacuum around the house and get every carpet cleaned, making sure to leave perfect carpet lines. It’s kind of my signature cleaning move—if there is such a thing. I leave all the houses with perfect carpet. The trick is to walk backward as you vacuum so that you don’t leave any footprints.
I’m finished in the den and it looks magnificent. This client’s antique furniture has been dusted and polished and the drapes have been cleaned and the floor is now pristine.
I stand here for a minute and admire my work, and then some punk kid comes running through the room wearing only swim shorts.
“Bahahaha!” he says, pointing at his footprints on the carpet. “I messed it up!”
I want to smack him on the head with my vacuum, but I smile instead. “Yes, you did.”
“Ha-ha,” he says again, pointing a finger at me. “Now you have to fix it.”
I grit my teeth and unwind the vacuum cord so I can plug it back in and get to work. The kid laughs and runs back out of the room. I hope Mama is done soon so we can get the hell out of here before he purposely messes anything else up.
This is the part of the job I don’t like so much. It’s annoying when kids treat us like shit, but it’s the adults that make it worse. I can’t count how many husbands I’ve seen watch me work from the corner of their eye, giving me this look like I’m less than. Like I’m just the hired help who isn’t even a real person.
And the women aren’t much nicer, either. I swear some of them hire us just so they can boss us around and feel like they have some kind of power in their lives.
But about half of our clients are nice people, and they always make the job feel worth it. I know people look down on maids, but really, my mama has made more money in a year than my dad has several times. And most of her clients pay in cash so she doesn’t have to wait for weekly paychecks. It’s a steady job with the satisfaction of being self-employed. I just wish everyone respected us.
When the house is clean, I join Mama in her car and I reach for my coffee.
“Ew,” she says, curling her nose as she drives. “That stuff is old.”
“But it’s still delicious,” I say, taking a long sip. This stainless steel thermos keeps the coffee hot all day, despite how it was brewed at five a.m. this morning.
“We have a new client today,” Mama says, turning onto a road that deviates from our usual Sunday route.
“Oh yeah?” I try not to groan. New clients usually mean a disgusting house that hasn’t been cleaned in ages.
Mama must read my mind because she says, “Don’t worry, I don’t think this woman lives in a pigsty. She lives alone and she’s in her forties and said she has arthritis that makes it hard to keep her house clean.”
I nod. Living alone means there are no bratty kids to ruin my day. “How did she find out about us?”
Mama shrugs. “Through the grapevine, I guess.”
“Mama, we really need to make a business plan. Get a website, social media—the works.”
She rolls her eyes just like she does every time I mention this kind of thing. Mama has always run her business through word of mouth and small-town charm. She could take it bigger, though.
“We could be legit,” I say, not wanting to give up this easily. “We could grow and get an office in town and hire other housekeepers, and then one day you can work at the office and won’t even have to clean anymore.”
“That sounds like way too much effort,” Mama says, keeping her eyes on the road.
“No, it sounds like a great way to grow your business. Let me help, Mama. I can put my associate's degree to work.”
She flattens her lips and looks over at me. “Is that why you keep talking nonsense about making the business bigger?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “I have a degree in business and I could use it to help you. We could become a huge housekeeping company and even expand into other counties. It could be like, a chain.”
I’m talking quickly, getting all excited about the possibilities of making Mama’s small one-woman operation into a real legit business.
But my mother doesn’t see things the way I do. “No,” she says, shaking her head. “You need to use your degree for something special. You need to get out there and do something great with your life.”
“What could be greater than making a business with you?” I ask. “We’re family. We should stick together.”
Mama parks on the side of the road in front of a small older home. “We will always stick together, Mamacita. But you deserve much bigger things in life. I appreciate your offer, but you need to dream bigger.”
She gives me a soft smile and then gets out of her car, ending the conversation for now.
I don’t know how she can tell me to dream bigger when I’m stuck in this small town. There isn’t anything any bigger to dream about.
With a huff of resignation, I step out of the car and head to the trunk to get all of our cleaning supplies. Mama walks to the front door and a woman lets us inside. She’s pale and a little plump with shoulder length hair that’s brown with highlights.
“Nice to meet you,” the woman says to both of us. “I’ll just be in the backyard gardening. Come get me if you need anything.”
Awesome. I love it when the homeowner isn’t here while we clean. It just makes it awkward to be tidying up someone’s home while they’re sitting there watching you. The homeowner slips out the back door and Mama and I take stock of the house.
There’s a small living room, a smaller kitchen, and a hallway off to the side which probably has the two bedrooms. This place is small and doesn’t look very dirty so hopefully it won’t take long.
Mama leans closer and talks quietly, even though the lady is outside and can’t hear us. “She’s a nice woman and this would be an easy client,” Mama says. “Let’s do a really good job to make sure she asks us to come back next week.”
“I always do a good job,” I say with a
smile. I can tell this means a lot to my mom.
“I’ll take the kitchen,” she says. Kitchens are her specialty. She can clean an oven like no one’s business.
“I’ll do the bedrooms and the hall,” I say, taking my basket of cleaning supplies with me.
There are some Hopewell Motocross trophies scattered around the house, and that’s pretty common here in town. A lot of people ride dirt bikes here. The trophies are a pain in the ass to dust because the little plastic dirt bikes snag on my duster. I’ll save them for last.
In the hallway, there are three doors, and two are closed. I hate opening a closed door in a stranger’s house, so I venture down to the open doorway and hope that Mama will undertake the door opening before I have to.
One time when I was about thirteen years old, I opened the door to a room that was filled with porcelain dolls. They all had pretty hair and fluffy dresses, so it wasn’t like some horror movie scene, but it still scared the shit out of me. You never know what you’re gonna find in someone else’s house.
The open room at the end of the hall belongs to a little boy. My chest tightens a little bit, because Mama had said this woman lives alone. I wonder if she has custody issues with her son and an ex-husband or something. Or maybe if her son…
Well, I don’t want to think about that. The bed looks lived in, and there are clothes on the floor, so I don’t think her son passed away. Maybe it’s like a nephew who only visits her sometime.
Regardless, the room is a mess. I pick up all the dirty clothes and toss them in a hamper basket that’s in the corner of the room. There’s dirt bike posters on the walls and a few trophies scattered around. The dresser is covered in dust and it makes me sneeze as I dust it off and then spray some wood cleaner on top. I have to get the vacuum in here to clean the wooden blinds over the windows because they’re equally dusty.
Once things are dusted and shining, I head over to the small bed. Sometimes we wash bed sheets for clients, but Mama hadn’t said anything about that, so I’ll just make this bed and leave the sheets as they are.
I take the top sheet and fluff it up, and the smell of some kind of cologne floats up in the air. It smells good. Not like a little boy, but more like a man. I wonder how old this kid is. I bet all the girls like him because he smells good.