I grimace at the question and swirl my pinot noir. “I honestly don’t know, but I don’t see how I can afford to take that risk. If he cans me, I’ll lose half my income. And besides, I’m not dating Owen.”
Ella rests her chin on her palm, blowing at the hair that’s once again fallen across her face. “But you would date him if you weren’t worried about losing this gig, right?”
My heart does a pirouette at the idea. “Well, yeah, but I’m not sure it would be dating, exactly. I think we skipped right over dating and into…” I pause, searching for a word that adequately conveys the state of my relationship with Owen. Or what its state would be if we keep sleeping together. Technically, we’re going to have a relationship—a professional one—no matter what. But dating is just too casual a word to describe what happened between us last night or what we’ll be doing if we continue down that path. The problem is, I can’t think of an alternative.
My friend rescues me from wracking my brains until they dribble out my ears. “Doesn’t matter what you call it,” she says, waving her hand in the move-it-along gesture she’s used since we were kids and she was already three steps ahead of what anyone else was thinking. “I just wanted to hear you say what you’d do if your job wasn’t an issue.”
I sigh. “I’d keep seeing him.” At Ella’s raised eyebrow, I amend, “Okay, okay. I’d keep having sex with him. But I’m not sure that would be a good idea, even if I didn’t have my job to worry about. He’s a player. Just because he’s really into me right now doesn’t mean it’ll stay that way. And—” My throat tightens with emotion. “I’m already half in love with him. Hell, maybe more than half. If we keep this up and then he loses interest...” I shake my head, my vision a little blurry, and take a sip of my wine. The slight burn eases the thickness of my throat as it goes down.
Ella purses her lips. “Wait. You said you thought you liked him. Now, you’re in love with him?”
“I know.” I groan and scrub my face with my hands. “It’s ridiculous, right? We’ve known each other for all of four weeks, and most of that has been on a professional level. But—” Here, another sigh escapes me. “But reporting on someone is pretty intimate, and I’ve learned a lot about him, and most of it doesn’t match what I read and heard about him before we met in person. I mean, he’s full of all the swagger and alpha male confidence I expected, but it doesn’t come out as asshole self-centeredness. I’ve interviewed a lot of motocross riders in my day, and most of them think they personally hung the moon and the stars, too. Owen’s not like that. He’s a genuinely nice guy who really seems to care about other people as much or maybe even more than himself. Like the way he talked up Darnell Lewis, his best friend and mechanic. And in bed…” I shiver, my body reacting to graphic flashes of memory. “In bed, he makes me feel like a goddess.”
“Hoo boy.” My best friend shakes her head. “Are you sure you’re only a little more than halfway in love with the guy?”
That drags a rueful laugh from me. “God, you’re right. I sound like I think he hung the moon and stars. And maybe I sort of do, but I’m also not lying to myself. As great as he is to his best friend and as fantastic as he is in bed—”
“And as easy as he is to look at,” she cuts in.
“That, too,” I agree. “Even with all of that, there are so many things about him I don’t know. And some of the things I do know worry me. Like the fact that he’s known for sleeping around. For all I know, he’s going to spend the next couple of days in New York City getting laid. We didn’t make any promises to each other. Well, actually,” I amend, “I did make a promise to him and that was that I was only going to have sex with him for one night. So why wouldn’t he find other women to sleep with while we’re apart? Based on what I’ve told him, we’re over. He doesn’t owe me a damn thing.”
“Excuse me, ladies.” The waiter stands beside our table, holding our plates, and he’s trying to make it seem like he hasn’t just overheard most of what I just said, which I appreciate.
We spend the next minute or two getting our plates settled in front of us and having our drinks refilled before the waiter leaves. Once he’s gone, I take a few minutes to dig into my crepe—my favorite one, stuffed with mushrooms, spinach, turkey, and brie cheese—because after six hours on a plane and coming straight from the airport to the restaurant, I’m starving.
Once I’ve downed about half of it, I say, “So, the other thing about Owen that worries me is that he’s nothing like Brian.”
Ella raises her eyebrows. “Uh, I’d think that would be a point in his favor. You do remember what Brian did to you, right?”
What Brian, my boyfriend from my junior year of college until two years ago, did to me was to use my identity to apply for a bunch of credit cards and payday loans in both our names and run up a shitload of bills that he—and I—couldn’t pay. Of course I broke up with him as soon as I found out what he’d done, and damn, it was a year-long mess to sort out and get my credit history fixed. Brian ended up in some pretty serious trouble with the law, too, and I felt like shit about it because I was the one who reported his criminal behavior. I’d been with him for more than four years by that time, and I thought we were the real deal. He was the man I expected to marry. Instead, he turned out to be the man I reported for fraud and identity theft.
I roll my eyes. “Of course. But that’s not what I mean. Brian was a lying piece of shit, but he was a well-educated lying piece of shit. We could talk about books we were reading, spend hours together at museums, and critique each other’s work.” Brian had been in grad school, working on his PhD in history when all the money shit went down. He used to edit my articles while I edited his research papers. “That was a big part of what I loved about him—that he shared my interests. But Owen—” I frown, because I’m not sure how to explain this without making it sound like I think he’s stupid, because I absolutely don’t. Quite the opposite. “Owen is smart, but he’s not a sit-down-and-read-a-book kind of guy. In fact, he’s not a sit-down-at-all kind of guy. I’ve never met anyone with so much energy. I can’t imagine having a long conversation with him about classics of literature or philosophy or him putting up with spending hours in a museum looking at art or artifacts. And there’s nothing wrong with him not being that kind of person, but can I really love someone whose interests—aside from motocross—are that different from mine?”
“I see.” Ella always sees. That’s why she’s a) my best friend and b) my go-to person when I have a problem. “You don’t want to get into a relationship with him because he might not be willing to stick around for the long haul, but you also don’t want to get into a relationship with him because you might not be willing to stick around for the long haul. That sound accurate?”
Ouch. When she puts it that way…
Reading the look on my face, she continues, “You’ve known each other for a month. You’ve had sex once.”
“More like seven times,” I correct, my face getting a little warm.
She waves her hand. “One night. And after just one night, you’re already worrying about whether you have a future with him. Seems a little too late to be trying to put the brakes on if you’re going to keep seeing him, even if you don't have sex with him.”
I close my eyes. She’s right. There's no way to stop this train. Except for me to get myself pulled off the story so that I can't see him again. But I want to. Need to. My stomach starts to hurt, and I set down my fork. "You're not making me feel better, Ella."
"Sorry, but you asked for my take. And that's it. If you think you're avoiding a professional ethical dilemma by not having sex with him again, I think you're lying to yourself. But…" Here, she inhales deeply before continuing. "I'm also not sure this is a big journalistic ethics problem. You're reporting on motocross racing, not some topic of great political or moral significance. If you're not entirely objective because you have a personal relationship with him, I'm not sure who it's hurting. And your editor probably wanted you to
develop a rapport with Owen so he'd open up to you and tell you things that would make for good stories. I'd say you've succeeded beyond his wildest dreams."
“Ya think?” I snort laugh as I add, “I’m giving a whole new meaning to ‘embedded reporter.’”
Ella’s answering smile is quick and fierce, just like she is. “So, what’s the worst thing that can happen if you let things ride for a little longer? As long as the personal stuff doesn’t keep you from being fair in what you write, what difference does it make in the scheme of things?”
“Ugh. That’s just it. I don’t know. There’s nothing in the code of journalistic ethics that says straight out that a reporter can’t have a romantic relationship with someone they’re also writing about. But I also feel like it’s walking a pretty fine line. How would I know if it’s affecting my ability to be objective? Especially if things go to shit and I start hating him. Everything I believe about journalism tells me that I need to at least give my editor a heads-up and let him make the call. But if I do that and he pulls me off the story…”
“You might lose your steadiest writing gig and you won’t get to see Owen again to figure out if this thing is real, either,” she finishes, and then lets out a whooshing sigh. “I do not envy you, girl. Not even a little.” Her lips twitch and her eyes sparkle. “All right, maybe a little. I’ve seen pictures.”
“I thought you were going to help me,” I half-tease, half-groan. “You’re only making my dilemma worse by pointing out how screwed I am no matter what I do.”
“I’m a rocket scientist, not a miracle worker,” she deadpans. “Seriously, I can’t tell you what the right thing to do is, but I know what I’d do in your shoes.”
“I’m listening.”
“Go to the race this weekend and see how things play out. If what you said earlier about Owen being a player is true and he’s already moved on, then no harm, no foul and you for sure get to keep your job. But if you’re both still interested in getting serious, call your editor and tell him what’s going on. Then you let the chips fall where they may. But at least you’ll know you’re doing it for the right reasons.”
“For something real,” I agree. “Yeah.” I press my lips together, considering. I don’t feel exactly right about this, but it doesn’t seem entirely wrong, either. It’s the best compromise I’m likely to find. “Okay. I guess you helped after all.”
Ella tucks her hands up under her chin and beams at me. “So, seven times in one night, huh? Day-um. How can you even walk?”
Fifteen
Owen
I roll up to the arrivals curb at LaGuardia at half past noon on Wednesday to find Darnell already waiting for me. He grimaces at the sight of the Tangerine Tanker but drags his roller bag over and tosses it onto the backseat of the crew cab before climbing into the front seat next to me.
After throwing the truck into gear and pulling away, I glance over at him. His face is kind of grim.
"How's your dad?" I ask.
"This last round of chemo hit him pretty hard. Doctors say it's working, though, so he deals with it. But it's not fun to watch." With a sigh, he closes his eyes and leans his head back against the headrest. His brown skin is ashen, and he looks tired. Not just "I took the red-eye" tired; bone-deep, wrung-out tired.
I wind through the traffic exiting the airport, which is a full-time job at this hour on a weekday, especially in this barge, and think about Darnell's situation. His mom, an EMT in the Army, was killed in an IED attack on her vehicle in Afghanistan when he was twelve. Since then, it's been just him and his dad, also retired military. This is Mr. Lewis's second trip around the cancer barn in the last eight years. The first time, Darnell had to quit college to take care of his father, and he never went back. And even though he doesn't say it out loud, I know he's afraid of losing his father now. That's why he always goes home for a few days between races, even though the travel back and forth is exhausting.
We finally get onto the expressway, which is only moderately busy, and I look over at my best friend. His eyes are still shut, but I can tell by the tightness of his jaw and shoulders that he's not asleep.
"You don't have to keep doing this anymore," I say, even though my brain is screaming at me that there's no way I can keep racing without him. There's no one else I'd ever trust to work on my bikes.
He blinks and looks at me side-eye. "Who says I want to stop?"
"It's not that I think you want to quit. It's about what's more important, spending time with your dad or helping me win a motocross championship. And about you not killing yourself trying to do both."
Darnell turns to look at me more directly. "I'm okay, Owen. As much as I need to be with my dad, I need to do something else, too. If I thought he wasn't going to pull through this, it'd be different, but he's doing good. And what's hard is being with him when he's in so much pain because there's not a goddamn thing I can do about it. Maybe I'm a candy-ass for wanting to get away as much as I want to stay, but it is what it is. My dad gets it. He knows I love him, and he knows how much this championship means to me. And it means as much to me as it does to you. Besides which," he growls, "it's my job. You think I'm going back to bouncing bars for a living? That is some kind of shit."
I don't cry with relief, but my vision gets a little blurry. "Okay. But if it gets to be too much or something changes, you gotta tell me, bruh."
"Scout's honor." He gives me the hand-sign. It's worth noting that while I was never a Boy Scout, Darnell was. An Eagle scout, in fact.
We fall into a comfortable silence for a few miles before he asks, "So, how was New York?"
It was…fucked up, but I can't exactly explain that to Darnell without explaining why it was fucked up. And most of why it was fucked up is that everywhere I went, I missed Lucy.
To begin with, I am not great in crowded, noisy places unless I have something—or someone—to concentrate on. I get distracted easily and then I get irritated with myself for getting distracted, which makes me more distracted and…well, you get the idea. And maybe there's a more crowded, noisier place than New York City, but if there is, I haven't been to it. So, going there at all was not the smartest idea I've ever had. Going by myself without a very specific goal was downright stupid. I got distracted and irritated and more distracted. A lot. At one point, I walked around the same block four times trying to find my own hotel. Which was in the next block over. That's my brain on too much input.
That's not to say there weren't things I enjoyed. For example, Central Park blew my mind. I guess I figured, coming from Texas which is just miles and miles of open space dotted here and there with towns, I wouldn't be impressed by a city park. I was wrong. It is just so much bigger than I expected and wilder, too. Yeah, a lot of it is super landscaped and manicured, but there's an area called The Ramble that's more like a forest than anything else. And the whole time I walked through it, I kept thinking how much I wished Lucy was there to see it, too. I'm not sure if she'd like it as much as I did, but I wanted to be able to find out.
Then there was the Guggenheim Museum. Straight up, I would never even have considered going there if it weren't for Lucy. I mean…art museums and museums in general have never exactly been my thing. Just walking around looking at stuff and reading descriptions and shit? Sounds boring as hell. But I bet museums are her thing, so I should give at least one of them a chance.
And holy crap, the Guggenheim is cool. I can't say I get the art part. There's this painting there by Picasso—Woman with Blond Hair or something like that—and I could draw better than that when I was in the fifth grade. Oh, I know there's something special about what Picasso was doing and that he's a master; I just don't understand what or why. But the building? Wow. It's all white and curves and high, empty spaces. Quiet. Clean. Like my mind isn't. Being there helped keep me focused on one thing at a time, which was a relief after a couple of days of distraction after distraction, but I missed Lucy the whole damn time. Maybe she could have explained the Picasso thin
g to me. Or just stood next to me and held my hand and made me the happiest guy in the world. I'm not picky.
But Darnell doesn't know about me and Lucy, and if I'm going to keep my promise to her, I can't exactly tell him.
I shrug and say, "Fine."
He gives me a suspicious look. "Just 'fine?'"
"Yeah. It was cool. Bright lights, big city. What more do you need to know?"
"Well," he drawls after a beat, "who you're banging on the down-low, for starters. Because you are never on the down-low."
I jerk my head right to stare at him in surprise, and then have to jerk the wheel back to keep from drifting into the next lane. The car next to us honks in annoyance before speeding up to pass us.
Apparently, I don't need to explain why I almost crashed, because he continues, "C'mon, you think I don't know you well enough by now to know when you're keeping something under wraps? I'm not saying you kiss and tell, but you definitely kiss and don't keep it a secret. As far as I know, you haven't been with a woman in more than a month, and that just does not happen with you. Which means you're trying to keep it a secret. I'm your best friend. Spill."
"Can't." I shake my head firmly. "I made a promise."
Darnell's eyes widen. "So you are…?" Then suddenly, he grins. "Shit. It's the reporter, isn't it? Lucy, right?"
Well, crap. That was way too easy for him. But then, Darnell's a smart guy. He got a scholarship to Rice University and was acing all his engineering classes when he had to drop out to take care of his dad. And figuring this out isn't exactly astrophysics. It's just simple math. Even I can add up five weeks.
I want to deny it, but this is Darnell. Maybe I could have kept a secret by not telling him, but I can't straight-up lie to him. So, I nod.
Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance Page 8
