Racing the Sun

by Karina Halle

  I lean back in the chair and swirl the golden liquid around my glass, watching it as it goes. “It’s not been easy but I think I’m doing okay. I feel bad for the kids for having to put up with me.”

  “I think you’re doing wonderful,” he says, voice soft.

  I give him a half smile. “That’s because you’re never around, which means you’re never around to see me screw up.”

  “I’m around,” he says. “More than you think.”

  I exhale and adjust myself in the chair. “Yes, well it will be a lot better once we get the new nanny.” I pause. “You are still looking, right?”

  He nods. “Of course. There just haven’t been any applications.”

  “Really?”

  He takes a long gulp of his drink and I’m amazed he doesn’t choke on it. He seems to absorb the burn. “Yes. No one has applied. I will keep my hopes up.”

  I stew on that for moment and make a note to stop by the bar tomorrow and check in with Shay to see if she’s found anyone. We posted an advertisement there similar to the one I had found at the café in Positano.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I ask after I finish my drink and am feeling more confident.

  “Yes,” he says somewhat warily.

  “What do you do in here all day long?”

  He looks stunned that I asked that point-blank. But since we’re in the office in question and he’s in his underwear and we’re drinking scotch, I figure why not.

  “I’d rather not say,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  His brows furrow in annoyance. “It is personal.”

  Damn. It’s really hard to make something your business when someone tells you it’s “personal.”

  “I won’t judge you,” I say, trying anyway.

  He swallows and looks away. “There is nothing to judge.” A moment passes where I’m sure he’s about to go on, then his eyes slide to me. “You know, you don’t speak very much of your home.”

  Now it’s my turn to be stunned. “Oh. Well, I don’t really get a chance to speak to you often. You know. ’Cause you’re in here all the time.”

  “We are speaking now,” he says. “Tell me about Amber MacLean’s life in San Jose, California.”

  “Oh God,” I say, my eyes widening. “What’s there to even say? It’s like that whole world, that whole life I had, doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “Because you were traveling?”

  “Yeah. And to be honest, there really isn’t much to remember.”

  “You had a job,” he says. “I saw it on your résumé.”

  Right. Résumé. He’s my boss.

  “I worked as a receptionist for a company that made cases for electronics, like iPads and smartphones and all that.”

  He raises his brow. “That doesn’t seem like the place for you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, taking that as a compliment. “And it wasn’t. But I was desperate. I was one of those idiots who majored in English. I thought maybe I could get a job in marketing or communications or something and when I finally got this job they told me I would start off as receptionist and then move on up to something that used my skills. But that never happened. I worked my ass off, was paid like crap, treated like shit, and then they let me go, saying they didn’t have the budget.” I push my glass toward him. “I need more scotch.”

  “Yes, I think you do,” he says with a half smile, and promptly pours some into my glass before topping up his as well.

  I take a sip, coughing a bit but still finishing at least half the glass. His eyes light up, impressed. “Anyway,” I go on, “I found out afterward that they were hiring unpaid interns for my position. That’s the problem now: Everyone goes to college and spends all their money getting their degrees and when they come out it’s almost impossible to find a job in their chosen field, one that makes them feel useful, like their degree was worth it, let alone finding just any damn job. And then most of the fucking places won’t even pay them. They want you to work for free to build up ‘experience.’” I use air quotes around the word. “My friend Angela went to school for psychology. Psychology! And she spent two years working at clinics and hospitals and health care centers, all for free, all to build up experience, and she still couldn’t get a paying job. Now she works in construction. She’s one of those road people who holds up the signs. She likes that she’s outdoors all day and the pay is actually really good, but holy hell, talk about being underused and undervalued.”

  I realize I’ve been talking a mile a minute. The scotch has really lubricated my vocal cords. Also, it’s rare to have someone ask about your life and actually be invested and interested in what you have to say. Derio is both those things. He’s staring at me as if I’m absolutely fascinating and not boring and mundane.

  “Do you feel underused and undervalued now?” he asks quietly.

  “No,” I automatically say. “I feel overused,” I add, jokingly.

  “What about undervalued?”

  I press my lips together in thought. “No. Actually, for the first time in a long time . . . maybe even ever . . . I feel worthy. Like I’m worth something. The kids depend on me, which is annoying and nerve-racking and scary but it makes me feel like I’m doing something important. And teaching them English . . . well, it finally feels like my degree is being put to good use. You know, when I first started traveling, I had a little dream that maybe I would end up in a small village on the Mediterranean teaching English. I guess it kind of came true.”

  He’s watching me carefully, silently.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “How is it that someone like you hasn’t felt worthy until now?”

  I shrug and finish the rest of the scotch. The darkness of the room is starting to feel a bit heavy. “I don’t know.”

  “Do you have any brothers and sisters?”

  “Only child.”

  “And your parents, how are they?”

  I glance at him shrewdly. “If I tell you about my parents, will you tell me about your parents?”

  He nods, conceding. “Yes. But not tonight. It is getting late.”

  “There is no getting, it is late,” I tell him. “And I’m seconds from crawling into my bed and passing out. You don’t have to be up early tomorrow, but I do.”

  “Later today we can talk.” He finishes his glass and sits back in his chair, his fingers resting on his lips. “Would you like to go for a ride? While the twins are at school?”

  “On your bike?”

  He nods. “Yes. I can show you the rest of the island.”

  There go those butterflies again, wings tangled with my nerves. I’ve never been on a motorbike before and just the image of hanging on to Derio is making me feel flushed from head to toe.

  “All right,” I tell him, getting up before I say something drunk and stupid. “I would like that.”

  “Be ready by ten a.m.”

  “I’ll be ready at six thirty, remember?”

  He smiles at that, as if laughing at the fact I have to get up so early now. Jerk.

  “Thanks for the scotch,” I tell him and then I go upstairs, the moonlight guiding my way through the dark. I get into bed and close my eyes. Even though I have to get up in a few hours, I’ve never been so excited to start a new day.

  * * *

  “Um, don’t I need a helmet?” I ask Derio as we stand just outside of the shed where he keeps his bike. It’s a big, dangerous-looking Ducati. Definitely sexy but still a bit scary for a bike noob like me.

  He grins at me, his eyes squinting. “You’ll be safe with me, don’t worry.”

  “We better not go fast.”

  “No, no, I will go very slow.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He steps into the shed and starts to bring the bike out. He’s back to looking like an Italian James Dean with the leather jacket, jeans, boots, white tee. I’m sure he’s about to slip on his shades and pop a cigarette in his mouth at any moment. “I will go slow wi
th you,” he says. “If you want to go fast, I will go fast. I’m very good at taking directions from pretty girls.”

  Is that sexual innuendo? I study him. He’s got a self-satisfied smirk going on, which I’ve been seeing a lot more of lately. It’s hard to tell. But hell . . . he just called me pretty. I’ll pretend my cheeks aren’t turning pink over that.

  “Besides,” he says as he straightens the bike out. He brings a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and sticks it in his mouth, nodding at my head. “A helmet would hide that beautiful lion’s mane.”

  I pat my hands on my head. “I guess I should probably tie this crazy thing back.” I reach into my pockets for a hair tie but he grabs my forearm, his grip soft but firm.

  “No, don’t,” he says. “I love it when you have your hair down.”

  My heart skips a beat. He loves it? “Oh. Well, you know, it has a mind of its own. It will probably obscure your vision and you’ll be riding blind.”

  “I know what I’m getting into,” he says, still holding my arm. His eyes are glimmering teak and mahogany in the morning light.

  I clear my throat. “Okay, I’ll leave it down.”

  My hair has always been one of my defining features. So much so that my mother would often insist I wear it up so people would focus on me more than the hair. She also said it added too much weight to my face. I actually thought an abundance of hair made everything else look slimmer in comparison. Regardless, though, Derio likes it in all its wild, frizzy, curly glory. No, he loves it.

  He smiles at me, looking so satisfied that I can’t help smiling back. Something is going on between us, the air thick with something other than sunshine and the heady promise of a hot day. It both thrills and terrifies me.

  But not as much as the bike.

  “Come on,” he says and pushes it up the short path. I run up and hold open the small gate so he can get through. He brings the bike around onto Via Tragara and gets on, starting it. The engine roars beneath him and the bike shudders to life. Luckily it’s not as deafening as a Harley but it’s still strong and powerful enough to make the air vibrate.

  And he’s sitting on it like a prince on a steed. His entire body relaxes and conforms to it, yet remains completely confident and in control. This is where he belongs. I am hit with the feeling of disappointment that he had to give up racing. It seems like second nature to him.

  “Get on,” he says with a pearly grin, cocking his head.

  I take in a deep breath, preparing myself for all the awkward, and try to get on. I’m short, though, so the awkward comes quicker than I thought it would. I can’t seem to get my leg over the body.

  He tilts the bike over to the side more so I don’t have to lift my leg so high and says, “Just grab on to me and pull yourself up. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

  The look in his eyes is so sincere that I can’t help trusting him. I grab ahold of his arms and shoulders for dear life, like he’s a tree I’m trying to climb. He remains firm and unyielding under my monkey grasp and I somehow manage to swing my leg over and position myself until I’m sitting comfortably, my crotch pressed flush to his ass.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod.

  “You can hold on to me as we ride, okay?”

  I take my hands off his shoulders. My fingers had been digging into his jacket hard enough to leave marks, and I wrap my arms around him, just underneath his chest.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him. His hair is practically in my mouth as I talk. He smells so fucking good it takes a lot of control to not bury my nose in it and take a deep breath.

  “All over.”

  “Please tell me we aren’t heading to Anacapri.”

  He glances at me from the side. “No?”

  “No,” I say adamantly. “I had fears I was going to throw myself out of a taxi; there’s no way I would survive that crazy zigzag road on the back of a bike. I’m barely surviving just sitting here.”

  “But there’s a beautiful garden over there,” he protests.

  “No,” I say firmly. “Or I’m getting off this bike right now.”

  “Okay, okay,” he concedes, raising his hand in defeat. “I will stick to this side of the island. Capisci?”

  “Capisco.”

  And then we’re off. To his credit he drives really slowly, so much so that he’s kneading the handles as if he’s trying to stop himself from going faster. Regardless, I’m hanging on to him for dear life, afraid that if I move even an inch I’ll fall off the bike. I can feel his steady heartbeat under my hands and I bury my face into his neck. His stubble is rough but his skin is soft and warm and intoxicating. I so badly want to taste him with my lips, and when I breathe into him I can feel his heart beat faster.

  “Don’t you want to see where you’re going?” he asks me, his voice throaty.

  “Later,” I mumble into him and now my lips graze his skin. Hot citrus.

  I hear his breath hitch and then he revs the bike a bit faster. We zoom somewhere to the right and start heading up an incline. Eventually I find the nerve to raise my head and look around. We’re still not going that fast, which helps, and we’re passing white villa after white villa as we climb past eucalyptus, lime, and palm trees.

  “Where are we going?” I ask him, relieved that we’re heading in the opposite direction of Anacapri.

  “Roman ruins,” he answers. “Villa Jovis. You’ll like it.”

  It’s not long before we’re pulling to a stop outside what looks to be a crumbling old fortress. Derio pays for our two-euro entrance fee at the ticket office. We walk unhurriedly among the ruins as Derio explains about the history of the place. Apparently it was built by the great Roman emperor Tiberius when he came here to escape all the warring and shit going down in Rome at the time, whenever that was.

  Listening to Derio talk is far more interesting than actually looking at the ruins. While history has always fascinated me, the ruins are basically just a skeleton of the palace it once was. The rest you have to fill in with your imagination. Lucky for me, Derio really seems to have one as he tells me elaborate stories of the emperor’s debauchery. I can see that creativity runs in the family.

  “And this was the room where he would have his orgies,” he says, gesturing to a large stretch of dry earth and crumbled stone that overlooks the sea.

  “Orgies?”

  He grins at me, taking off his jacket. The muscles in his arms flex as he folds it, his skin so bronze against the white of his T-shirt. It really is getting hot out and I’m sorry I wore skinny jeans, even though they made the most sense on the bike.

  “Yes, orgies. You know, many people having sex together.”

  I give him a look. “I know what an orgy is, smart-ass.”

  “From personal experience?”

  I bite my lip and reach out, punching him in the shoulder. “Hey, you watch it.”

  “I’m watching,” he says, and his eyes lock on my body. “Very closely.” His voice drops.

  I am so close to opening my mouth and teasing him along the lines of, Don’t you know you’re being inappropriate in the workplace? to laugh off his comments but I don’t want to call attention to them in case they really are inappropriate. In fact, I just want him to keep saying things.

  But of course I don’t know how to keep the banter going so I turn away and pretend to busy myself with the view.

  “Have I embarrassed you?” he asks, stepping in front of me, close to me, so I have to look at him.

  Oh God. This damn heat is getting to me. How many times in one day can a girl blush?

  “No,” I tell him, lying through my teeth.

  “That’s too bad,” he says. “I like it when you blush. You look like a tomato. With hair.” He reaches out and puffs up a few strands. Then he whistles, hands in his pockets, and walks away.

  This playful side of him is new but I like it. It just proves that there’s more to this man than distance and moodiness. I wonder what other sides I
will uncover in time.

  And then I realize I don’t really have that much time left. A month has passed already. Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is leave. I feel like I’ve only just gotten started here, just gotten past the first barriers with Derio and the children. I can’t imagine having to go in a month, back home to the mundane, where no one thinks I’m worth anything.

  There has to be a way to stay without risking deportation, but I don’t know what it is.

  As if sensing my mood change, Derio stops and looks at me curiously. “What is it?”

  I blink my eyes a few times, trying to snap out of it. “Nothing.”

  He frowns and motions for me to come join him. He’s heading toward a lookout where a few tourists are standing, snapping pictures of the bright blue sea.

  I stand beside him, ever cautious about the railing of the lookout. I stand back and try to peer over without committing myself. The drop doesn’t seem too steep, and I can see that the mountainside is terraced with thick tree canopies. The view is stupendous.

  “Let me take a photo of you,” he says. He holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers, gesturing for my phone. “I haven’t seen you take many aside from selfies with the kids.”

  He’s right. It’s been all selfies, all the time. I even tried to get Alfonso to take a few pics but he didn’t know the first thing about flattering angles. As I hand my phone over to Derio, I wonder if he’ll do the same thing.

  “Smile,” he says and I do. “No, no,” he says, even though he’s still taking pictures. “That is not a real smile. I’ve seen your real smile.”

  “You have not,” I tell him, even though I do feel that real smile creeping across my face now.

  “That is better,” he says, coming forward with such intense focus that he reminds me of the paparazzi. “But not quite there. Think of something funny. Perhaps me, in my underwear, being attacked by a cat.”

  And now I am thinking about him in his underwear. But not being attacked by my cat, although I can think of a few double entendres about pussy to throw back at him.

  “Ah, the tomato face,” he says. “Bellissima.”

  I roll my eyes and try to hide my face behind my hair. “All right, that’s enough, give me my camera.”