Holeshot: A Motocrossed Romance

by Jackie Barbosa

  “Nah, we’re good." I hope I'm not lying.

  Darnell meets me at the registration/tech tent ten minutes before the appointed time. He’s never been this late in his life.

  “Sorry about that,” he says when he’s standing next to me with the bike between us. “I had an errand to take care of this morning, and it took longer than I expected.”

  I give him the side-eye. “An errand? In Tennessee?”

  He smiles, and there’s something deeply satisfied in the expression that I don’t think I’ve ever seen on him before. Like he’s deeply, genuinely happy. “Yep. I’ll explain when we go to dinner tonight.”

  Well, at least he wants to go to dinner. We haven’t had a meal together since Southwick.

  When the doors to the hotel lobby elevator open, Darnell isn’t alone inside it. Riding with him is an Asian girl who I bet is a few years younger than me. She’s petite—barely over five feet tall—and between her very short haircut and her all-black outfit, which is leaning toward Goth thanks to the lacy-but-ripped gloves on her hands and the combat boots on her feet, she has an almost elfin look to her. She’s also jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

  Now, I guess she could just be another hotel guest who got on the same elevator with my best friend. I mean, sure, lots of people who don’t know each other wind up in the same elevator.

  But this girl is holding my best friend’s hand. And when they step off the elevator together, they trade a look that is…hot. Scorching hot.

  Like the way I have been trying very hard not to look at Lucy since we made our “friends for the rest of the season” pact. I haven’t succeeded, by the way, but I’m doing my best.

  Holy shit! After lecturing me on keeping my relationship with Lucy a secret from him, Darnell has been spending the last three weeks banging this girl and not saying word one. While I’ve been reduced to screwing my own hand.

  Life is not fair.

  I’m so floored—hell, Darnell hasn’t had a girlfriend in…well, years, which is pathetic now that I think about it and that makes me feel a little better about my current state of voluntary celibacy than I did a few seconds ago, but doesn’t help me get my brain around the fact that he’s been keeping this a secret from me for three fucking weeks—that I’m still sitting on the uncomfortable lobby sofa when the pair of them reach me. Darnell gives me the hairy eyeball, and I stagger to a standing position.

  “Owen,” he says, his voice rumbling with pride, “I’d like you to meet Joy. My wife.”

  Wife?! My best friend hasn’t just been keeping his girlfriend a secret from me; he’s married her before even letting me know she exists.

  And then the penny drops. Joy. As in Joy Chen, wildcat motocross rider. She found a good mechanic all right.

  She found mine.

  "I need to go to the ladies' room," Joy announces.

  Since we've only been in the restaurant long enough to order drinks and read the menu, I'm guessing this exit was planned ahead of time to give me a few minutes alone with Darnell before I explode with questions. He knows me well enough to guess what's going through my head and that I might not be very polite about expressing it.

  My best friend's wife—his wife—grabs her purse, stands up, and heads toward the back of the restaurant. I'm facing the other way, so I can't watch her, but I can tell from the darkening heat in Darnell's eyes that there is some definite sway going on.

  "Okay," he grunts when she's obviously out of earshot. "Hit me."

  I want to, but I settle for saying, "So your errand this morning was getting married?"

  He nods. "Tennessee allows same-day licenses and marriage. We figured we wouldn't have time after today. But that's not really what you want to ask me."

  No, it's not. "You're right. Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why everything?" I growl. "Why wait until now to tell me about her? Don't you trust me anymore? And you marry her without saying a word to me first? I thought we were friends. Brothers under the skin. But you can’t even say, ‘Hey, I met this girl and we’re going to get married.’ What the fuck were you thinking, man?"

  "Well, I was thinking of that conversation we had on the way up to Southwick. And how I told you I thought you should hang on to who you love as long as she'll let you."

  "You love her? How long have you even known her?"

  "I met her about three hours after we got to the track that day. She read Lucy's article about me and wanted help with her bike." His expression softens with a half-smile. "Thanks, by the way. I was kind of embarrassed at the time, but now, I'm glad. I wouldn't've met Joy otherwise."

  So just as I thought—three whole weeks and they are fucking married? Jesus, me and Lucy have known each other for more than twice that long and we aren't even currently fucking, let alone making ’til-death-do-us-part declarations.

  "But…marriage, man? Isn't that a little…hasty?"

  He shrugs. "Yeah, it is, but you know what? I'm not you, Owen. I know it's easy for you to screw every girl you meet—"

  "Not anymore," I object. As my pants, which are always too damn small these days, keep reminding me. "And not every girl." I had some standards, even before I met Lucy. Like no married or otherwise attached women. And only one at a time.

  Darnell’s hands go up in surrender. "Hey, I didn’t mean it that way. I just mean that I’ve never been the kind of guy to hook-up. And you know that.”

  I do. He’s always been serious. About everything. Maybe that’s why we get along so well. I give him a little taste of wild, and he keeps me from going hog wild. But marrying a girl you’ve known for three weeks? That’s way beyond hog wild and straight into bug-nuts.

  “Okay, okay. But damn, man, you don’t have to marry a girl to have sex with her these days. Or spend time with her. There’s an in-between option…like, you know, dating.”

  He puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his palm. “And tell me, knowing what you do about my life right now, when do I have time to ‘date?’”

  Well, shit. He’s got a point, because even I don’t have time to date. Not in the usual sense, anyway. Would I be serious about Lucy if she’d been a girl I picked up in a bar after a race and then had to leave to go to the next track? Nah. It’s because she was around all the time that I got to know her and started to realize I wanted more than sex from her—which is not to say I don’t want sex from her, because holy hell…

  Damn it. Tangent.

  “But she’s on the circuit,” I point out. “What’s the difference between her and you and me and Lucy? You don’t need to marry her to be with her.”

  “She’s a privateer, Owen, and she’s had shit equipment until I started helping her. You remember what being a privateer was like, don’t you?” At my pained expression, he continues, “Then you know she could still have to drop out of the series at any time if she doesn’t earn enough from this week’s race to cover next week’s.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t take that risk. Now that we’re married, I can make sure she can afford to keep competing without it seeming like I’m ‘buying’ her. Besides…” Looking around, he lowers his voice, “I’m her first. And I want to be her last. So I wasn’t going to have some casual hook-up with her.”

  Whoa.

  Darnell pins me with his most solemn look. “I lost my mom, Owen, and I’m going to lose my dad—maybe not this time, but the next one. He’s not immortal. I know it sounds batshit, but Joy’s my soul mate. I knew it the day I met her. And I am sure as hell not setting her free and hoping she comes back, because I know how the world works. People don’t always come back, no matter how much you love them or even how much they love you.”

  Twenty

  Lucy

  The phone rings while I'm packing the last few items in my carry-on. My flight to Tennessee leaves in about three hours, so I'm already running a little behind schedule, and I consider letting it roll to voice mail. I can pick up the message when I'm safely through security. Half the time, the calls are j
ust the telephone equivalent of junk mail, and they don't even leave actual messages.

  But in the end, I'm just too curious to ignore it, so I step away from my bed to my dresser to check the phone's display. My heart stutters and my stomach churns. It's the main switchboard number for MotoRacer magazine. And the only person who would be calling me from there is my editor.

  Okay, this is ridiculous. I just have a guilty conscience, and that's why I'm freaking out. There are a thousand reasons he could be calling me three hours before I'm supposed to fly out on an assignment for the magazine. The problem is, I can only think of one.

  Fingers trembling, I pick up the phone and slide the answer button to the right. "This is Lucy," I say, aiming for a calm, steady voice.

  "Hi, Lucy," my editor, Martin Jernowski, responds. "We have a problem."

  Shit shit shit.

  "Oh?" It's not like I don't know what's coming, but I'm determined to string it out as long as I can.

  "Yes," he answers, and apparently, he wants to stretch it out, too, because instead of telling me what the problem is, he continues, "I just clicked send on an email. It should arrive in a few seconds. Please open it, review the contents, and then call me back." He hangs up without saying good-bye.

  My pulse is pounding in my ears so loud I almost don't hear the ping that notifies me when I get an email. I could pretend I didn't get it and just leave for the airport. It's not like he could stop me once I'm on the plane.

  No, that's a bad idea. I'll be just as fired, except I'll have travel expenses I can't afford to pay for on top of everything else.

  I stagger back to the bed and sit down, willing myself to breathe slowly and steadily. It's only a job. Losing it won't be the end of the world.

  I open Martin's email. There are three jpeg attachments. The first is a picture of Owen in a hotel corridor closing the door to a room behind him. The room number is clearly visible. 406. My room. The date-and-time stamp in the bottom right corner is 7:35 a.m. the morning after we spent the night together in Pennsylvania.

  A cold, prickly sensation raises the hair on the back of my neck. Someone was watching us, following us, even then. But who? And why?

  The second shows the two of us sitting across from each other at the table in the media booth at Red Bud. Our hands are clasped, and while there's nothing salacious about what we're doing, it's also totally obvious that we are a) totally into each other and b) have been totally into each other. Literally.

  The third is a blurry, enlarged photo of a light-haired man and dark-haired woman locked in a torrid kiss. Although it's impossible to make out either of their features, the man is wearing the distinctive orange-and-white racing suit of the Mad Maxx team, and there is only one rider on that team with light-colored hair. Also, I’d recognize the shape of my own body anywhere.

  I suck in a shaky breath. Whoever took the last picture—though it would have been the first, chronologically—had been pretty far away from us, which is why the image is so blown up and out of focus. That doesn’t make seeing it any less creepy, though. I had thought we were completely alone when that kiss happened, but we hadn’t been. Someone had been watching us. Following us.

  No, not us. Owen.

  Yeah, that feels right. Whoever took that last picture was following Owen. I’m just not important or interesting enough for anyone to be following me, but he is.

  But again, who? And why?

  An obsessive fan, maybe? Or one of the women he’s slept with who hoped their hook-up would become something more permanent? I can see that, and such a person would certainly have a reason to want me out of the picture. So to speak. Still, it’s hard to imagine that one of Owen’s—girlfriends? conquests? concubines?—followed him from track to track for weeks without him noticing. But I can’t think of a more plausible alternative.

  My stomach churning, I redial the main number for MotoRacer magazine and punch in Martin’s extension. He picks up before the first ring finishes.

  “Care to explain?” he asks without preamble.

  Not really, but it doesn’t seem like I have a choice. “That night in Pennsylvania just sort of happened. But we agreed after that to keep things professional until after the season ended and then see what happened, if anything. I felt that meant it was a private matter, and that I didn’t need to disclose the incident to you unless things changed before the end of the season.” Man, that all sounds weak.

  There’s a long silence, during which I can actually feel Martin’s displeasure seeping through the phone’s speaker. Finally, he says, “I can understand why you’d want to keep your personal life to yourself, Ms. Salcido.”

  Eek, the dreaded Ms. It’s like when your mother uses your middle name.

  “And honestly, I’m not sure I would have considered it any of my business or anything to worry about if you’d told me at the time. I certainly wouldn’t have pulled you off the story. All of your articles have been excellent and, in my opinion, even-handed. I’d never have guessed you had a relationship with Lenart that went any deeper than professional admiration.”

  The praise warms me, but I know the but is coming.

  “But…” See? “…the fact that you didn’t tell me put me in a very awkward position when it comes to the allegations that accompanied these photos.”

  “Allegations?” I echo, stupefied.

  Martin grunts. “Whoever took these photos—he or she chose to remain anonymous—claims that Lenart is cheating his way to the championship, and that he’s either seduced you to keep you from looking too closely at what he’s up to or that the two of you have been together since before the series started and you’re in on it.”

  Now I’m the one reduced to silence, my mouth opening and closing on unformed words. “That doesn’t make any sense,” I finally manage to croak out. “For starters, how do you even cheat in motocross? It’s not like you can crib the other team’s play sheet or anything.”

  “The accuser says Lenart’s mechanic has come up with an illegal way to improve a bike’s performance that the tech staff can’t find or don’t know to look for. A mechanic who, by coincidence, got very favorable coverage in our magazine in an article you wrote.”

  I inhale slowly, trying to order my thoughts, which are darting around like rabbits. Owen’s dominance of the series is hard to understand, especially given all the variables that come into play in any kind of racing. An unfair mechanical edge would certainly go a long way to accounting for the way he keeps winning by significant margins—and managed to get back to second place after the fall at High Point. And if there’s anyone smart enough to pull something like that off without being caught, it’s Darnell.

  Also, my little voice of insecurity points out, it would explain why a player like Owen would pretend to get serious about you.

  Ugh.

  “Also,” Martin continues while my head is running around that track, “there’s Joy Chen.”

  My brain goes blank, as if someone hit a power switch. “Huh?” I remember Joy Chen, of course. I remember watching her practice. How could I forget? “What’s she got to do with this?”

  “Lewis has apparently been working on her bike since the race at Southwick, and as you know because you’ve reported on it, she’s finished in the top three in every race since then, when she wasn’t anywhere near the podium before.”

  Darnell has been working on Chen’s bike? Huh. I wonder if Paul Gordon knows? I can’t believe he’d approve of that. Then again, if Darnell’s doing it on his own time and dime, I’m not sure Gordon would be able to stop him. And it explains Chen’s vastly improved results in the last few weeks.

  “Her bike was garbage before that, though,” I say out loud. “All Darnell had to do to help her was to make it run right.”

  Martin lets out an audible sigh. “That may be true, but unfortunately, I can’t take your word for that…or anything else to do with Owen Lenart. If you’d contacted me earlier and told me your relationship with him had taken a pers
onal turn, I would at least have been prepared when my boss forwarded the original email to me and demanded to know if I had any idea what was going on. As it is, the fact that you didn’t disclose makes it look like you felt you had something to hide. The only people more suspicious than cops are journalists, and there’s enough smoke here to make everyone believe there might be a fire.”

  I close my eyes. “You’re pulling me off the story.”

  “I don’t want to, Lucy. Believe me when I say that you’re one of my best writers, and it kills me to have to do this to you. I also don’t believe for one second that you’d be involved in a cover-up, but the best way for us to prove that you’re not is to separate you from the situation while the NMA investigates. Whether the allegations are true or not, the fact that you took a neutral position as soon as you became aware of them will go a long way toward demonstrating your professional integrity.”

  He’s being perfectly reasonable and kinder than I have any right to expect. After all, there are some editors who’d fire me for demonstrating such lousy judgment. But the fact that Martin is trying to protect me isn’t what’s making my eyes blurry and my throat thick.

  Owen isn’t cheating. Not only because he wouldn’t, but because he doesn’t have to. I’ve watched him ride, and he’s really that good. His success needs no other explanation. And because he isn’t cheating, he’s certainly not pretending to want me just to keep me from figuring it out. What’s happening between us is real. If we don’t work out, it won’t be because he was lying to me.

  And yet. And yet.

  What if I’m wrong?

  “Lucy?” Martin’s gentle voice interrupts my trip down insecurity lane.

  “I’m here,” I answer. “Just wondering how I’m going to pay for the plane ticket I’m not going to be using.”

  “Don’t worry. The magazine will reimburse you for that. And I’ll find a few assignments for you until this all blows over. By the time Supercross starts, everything should be back to normal.”