"We'll give it our best shot," he answered.
She could almost feel him reaching inside himself for another surge of energy and she tried to answer with her own last dregs of strength.
Tried and failed. Every muscle ached as she crouched over the handlebars trying to minimize the amount of surface she exposed to the wind.
For a few long seconds, they continued to close the gap to the leaders, but she they weren’t gaining as quickly. Working together, they had stood a good chance. Alone, carrying both of them, Mark hadn't been able to compete against the professionals. Gradually they fell off the pace. By the time they reached the finish line, two riders from behind them had passed, including two men on a tandem.
A crowd cheered as they finally crossed the finish line: a particular crowd, Amy saw, that included a large number of uniformed airmen and women.
They might have been there just because he was blind, but she didn't think so. Something about Mark seemed to attract people to him like hummingbirds to a morning glory.
She squeezed the brakes gently, then shook her left foot free from the toe clip. Her right foot remained encased in the useless clip and pedal.
"Are we here?" Mark asked.
"We're here."
"We didn't win, did we?" He sounded as if he had lost a limb to go with his missing sight.
"No," she agreed.
Dozens of hands caught at the bike as it coasted to a stop.
Thanking their helpers, she stepped off the bike.
Without warning, the sky spun around. Her right leg buckled under her and she collapsed to the ground.
Mark, hearing her over the cheering crowds, was at her side almost instantly.
"What happened?" he asked. He didn't wait for an answer, but ran his hands down her legs.
"I just lost my balance," she protested. His hands felt way too good on her thighs.
"This feels kind of nasty," Mark told her.
She wouldn't have used the word 'nasty.' Something more like 'sexy' would have sprung to her mind. Then she got her mind off her libido and looked down to her calf where his hands had finally stopped.
Somehow, probably when the crank had broken, she had scraped her calf against what remained of the shaft. Blood mixed with sweat that ran down her leg. In the excitement of the race, she hadn't even noticed. Now, as someone handed Mark a sterile compress and he applied it to her scrape, the pain and the sensation of his fingers on her skin made her whole body tingle with an excruciating, but not unpleasant, feeling of heightened sensitivity.
"We'd better get you to a hospital," Mark told her. "One of the guys will drive."
Half a dozen of the airmen chirped their willingness to help out.
"It isn't that bad," Amy said. "I'll keep it clean and change the bandages." In four years of college basketball and a couple seasons in the pros, she had spent more time in hospitals than she cared to remember. This scrape didn't need stitches. All a doctor could do was redo what Mark had already accomplished.
He stared at her as if his blindness let him see beneath her skin into her true soul. Somewhere during the race, he'd lost his ever-present sunglasses. His caring look moved her even more than the sensual touch of his hands on her leg.
"I fell because my muscles kind of cramped on me and one of my feet was still stuck in the clip," she explained. "Really, I'm all right now." She pulled the braid out from under her shirt before it welded itself permanently to her back and flexed her shoulders. "Yeah. That's better."
Mark's sightless eyes stared at her for another moment. Then he nodded. "Good enough. I guess I'd better get you home now."
A man with a cap that read "Official," trotted up. After verifying that Amy was all right, he cleared his throat. "The race committee has decided that we can't consider your team to be handicapped since only one member would qualify," he told them.
"Yeah, right," Amy answered. "Maybe Mark should have found a blind woman to be his partner. That would have been really pretty."
The official had the grace to look somewhat ashamed. "It wasn't an easy decision, but--"
"Who said anything about a handicapped entry?" Mark interrupted. He surged to his feet and stepped toward the official.
"I'm sure that the committee would consider an appeal," the official replied. He took a step backward from Mark, clearly intimidated by the bigger man.
"I don't want an appeal," Mark said, his voice deadly calm. "I'm not some victim who expects the world to make exceptions to the rules. Amy and I came here to ride a race. If I'd done a better job on the bike, we might have won--not some handicapped event, but the whole race. I'm not interested in being placated by any special award for people who can't cut it in the real world."
"Of course," the official told him. "Ah, well, ah, I guess I'd better get back to the race." He took another step back, then turned and fled back to the stands overlooking the finish line.
"Your blindness does make it more difficult to ride," Amy told him.
"When you were playing basketball, some of the women were bigger than others, weren't they?"
She shrugged, then remembered he couldn't follow her visual cues. "Of course."
"So did they give extra points to the team with the shorter players?"
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "That isn't the same thing."
"It's exactly the same thing. A lot of the people I work with think I only have my job because I'm a disabled veteran and get a special break. And yeah, maybe that is part of the reason I got hired in the first place. I didn't have any control over that and I certainly didn't ask for it. What I do know is my clients need legal representation. You know what? Judges don't give extra points to blind lawyers. They judge the cases you bring them. I don't ask for favors and I'd quit my job if I didn't think I could compete with the best of my sighted colleagues."
Impulsively, Amy reached out and touched his arm. "I'd like to see you in front of a judge some time. I'll bet you are incredibly effective."
For an instant, his smile shone on her like a searchlight. Then it vanished as if someone had yanked the plug. "Yeah, sure."
****
Andrew loaded the tandem in the back of his pickup and he, Mark, and Amy climbed into the cab.
Mark was ready to explode. Everything had been going so well. They had actually had a chance to win the race. If only that pedal had held.
He frowned.
Who was he trying to kid? It wouldn't have mattered if they won fifty races. Amy wasn't about to fall into his arms just because he helped her win a race. His blindness posed an impenetrable barrier to her ever considering him as anything other than a friend. He knew that. After Leslie had left him, he had thought he had dealt with reality, reconciled himself to being a friend rather than a lover. The attraction Amy held for him swamped his good intentions.
"Want me to drop the two of you off at Amy's and then run the bike by your place?" Andrew asked.
"We'll drop Amy off," Mark said. "I think I'd better get back home. I let things slide a little this week and I've got some catching up to do."
Irrationally, part of him wanted Amy to object, to insist that he come up with her. Naturally, she didn't. Why couldn't he simply accept reality?
"I had a good time," Amy told him as they pulled up at her apartment.
"You sure your leg is all right?"
"I'm sure."
He couldn't think of anything else to say as he slid out of the car and held the door for her.
He heard her scoot across the seat, then step to the ground. A hint of her perfume, given a personality by the heat her body had generated during their ride together, caught his nose and he inhaled deeply. If he didn't think she'd run screaming from him, he would have ignored Andrew's presence and pulled her into his arms.
"I guess I'll see you around," Amy told him.
"Sure," he lied.
He waited until he heard her apartment door close behind her, then got back into the truck.
"What's to talk about?"
Andrew slammed the truck into gear and peeled rubber onto the highway. "You being a complete idiot for one thing. You must be dehydrated after your ride. We'd better fix you up."
Mark saw the handwriting on that wall. "Come on. I don't want to go out and get drunk."
"So why'd you get all quiet on her? I think that girl likes you."
"That's the effect I have on women these days. They all like me. Like I'm some kind of dog or something. Except not so cuddly."
"I guess I was right the first time. You do need something to drink. You're already crying in your beer."
Mark frowned. "I make the best of my situation."
"A lot of guys would give themselves a bit of a break. You don't cut yourself any slack at all."
"Damn right. And neither do you."
"I sure would if I was you." Andrew pulled up in front of his house and turned off the engine. "A few of us are going out to the Starlight. You sure you don't want to come?"
Mark knew he was irrational. He just didn't know how to straighten out. The incongruity of being invited to a strip club, something he hadn't particularly enjoyed back when he'd been able to see the dancers, did the job. He actually laughed.
"I'll take a rain check." He opened the tailgate, then turned. "I really appreciate all your help over the past week," he told Andrew. "Thank the guys for coming out and cheering us on. All of you were the high point of my day."
"We fly-boys stick together," Andrew told him. "Now you get your head on straight. I don't think you should give up on Amy so quickly, but if she isn't the one, find the one who is. By the way, did you see the new pilot with the big--ah, never mind. I guess you didn't."
Mark laughed again. Other than the guys at the gym, Andrew and the other airmen who had known him before he had stepped on that damned mine were about the only ones who still treated him as a whole man. And that, more than anything else, was what he needed.
"I'll call you in a couple of days," he told his friend as he unloaded the bike from the back of the truck.
"Right." Andrew drove off, leaving Mark alone.
Mark wheeled the bike into his garage and locked it to a pole. He didn't have the motivation to work on it now, to figure out what had happened with Amy's pedal.
Once inside his house, he poured himself a beer, flipped on the TV, and pulled out the paperwork he'd brought home from the office.
It was the worst kind, of course. Handwritten evidence. No optical character recognition system in the world could penetrate that.
He thought about calling a reader but decided against it. He didn't want to listen to the disgustingly cheery sound of a reader's voice. Instead he dusted off his electronic sensor. The level of concentration required to get any kind of reading speed at all from the electronic pins pressing the shape of letters on his finger should be enough to keep away thoughts of the firm but completely female muscles in Amy's legs.
* * * *
Three days later, Mark had caught up with all of the cases his office had generated, his fingers were numb from what he had read, and he hadn't forgotten anything.
His mind dwelled on Amy's voice, her scent, how good it had felt to stroke her hair as he had pushed it under her shirt. He tried to think of some excuse to call her, but came up with nothing.
When his phone announced Amy Halprin's name, he actually growled at the thing before he realized that an inanimate object couldn't possibly be making fun of him.
"Mark Barnes."
"Mark, it's Amy."
All right, so calling line ID got it right once in a while. "What's going on, Amy?"
"I was wondering if you'd ever thought about a seeing-eye dog?"
"Ah, no." He'd had an irrational hope that she might be calling to tell him that she couldn't resist the urge to spend more time with him. She put the kibosh on that right away.
"The mother of one of my students is involved in a program where they train seeing-eye dogs. She was telling me about it and I thought of you."
"That's great, Amy." Great as in, where is this going? "I haven't had much contact with seeing-eye dogs myself, but several of the guys I was in the hospital with decided to get them. They're supposed to be fantastic for things like traffic lights and can keep you company too. I could put you in contact with them if you're doing research."
"I'm--well I'm not really doing research. I thought you might want to come out and have a look at the dog." Amy paused for a second, then continued in a rush. "Oh, I'm sorry. That didn't come out the way I meant. What I mean is come out and meet the dog."
"I won't bite your head off. You're allowed to use vision-related words around me."
"I just sometimes talk before I listen to what I was going to say."
"What did you mean about meeting the dog?" Unlike the guys who'd taken dogs, he hadn't been raised around animals and felt more than a little uncomfortable about the idea of a large and dangerous predator loose in his house. He could take care of himself, but what if the animal went after one of his readers?
"The woman who was going to get this particular dog was sent to a nursing home so she won't be able to keep it. When I was telling my students about our bike ride, Anne-Marie thought you might be interested."
Mark knew he had to say no. He might want to spend time with Amy, but he had his pride, didn't he? He certainly had better things to do than to waste time listening to a sales pitch for an animal he didn't want and had no use for. An afternoon with Amy was certainly not worth that price. He could say no politely, then get on with his life.
"That sounds like fun," the words came out in a complete contradiction to what he'd meant to say. "When should I pick you up?"
"Why don't you let me drop by your place? It's on the way."
She must have Googled his address. It wasn't exactly a secret. "Fine, Amy. You sure you know how to find it?"
"Well, yes."
"So when would be convenient?"
From the brief silence at the other end of the phone, Mark figured he'd said something wrong.
"Ah, would now be too soon?"
One of his readers swore by some book that laid down all the rules for accepting a date. One of the most basic was to always demand proper notice. Otherwise, you claim to have plans. Mark had never been much good at following rules.
Then again, Mark hadn’t been asked out on many dates.
"Sure."
"Great. I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
****
Amy put down the phone and tried to pick up her nerve.
She didn't know what she'd done wrong during that bike ride. Maybe her competitive nature had put Mark off. For better or worse, though, competitiveness was a part of her personality. Lots of the women she'd played ball with had more talent than she could dream of. In the shooting guard position, most of her opponents had been bigger and faster. She'd had to compensate with determination, a competitive attitude, and an unwillingness to admit failure.
For that matter, Mark seemed to share a similar drive. Maybe he couldn't stand to lose and blamed her for breaking his bike. Only she couldn't imagine he'd be that unfair.
Right now, she wondered if she should just admit failure and call Mark back, then tell him she couldn't make it after all. He certainly hadn't sounded overjoyed to hear her voice on the phone.
Mark's house was in an improving section of Dallas, complete with Victorian woodwork and a small, but beautifully kept garden.
She decided that his burglar alarm warning, with its open eye insignia indicating that the company never slept, was more of Mark's slightly morbid self-referential humor.
A dog really would be perfect for him. She hadn't realized he lived in a neighborhood so close to the gangs and drug problems that every big city seemed to face.
She raised the heavy brass doorknocker
and hesitated.
What was she getting into? She knew that Mark might see her behavior as some sort of pursuit. She liked him, wanted to be his friend, but couldn't lose sight of the barrier that his blindness put between them.
She shrugged her shoulders and let the knocker fall. Better to be a misunderstood friend than a jerk who runs away from her promises.
Even though she knew how sexy Mark was, he still surprised her every time she saw him. There should be a law against that focused male sexuality. Mark's jeans hugged his hard muscles and showed off his flat stomach. He wore a red, foulard-style, long sleeved T-shirt that did nothing to disguise his build.
"Come on in, Amy. Do you have a taxi or did you bring your own car."
"I drove."
"Great. If we don't have to be there in a big hurry, why don't you let me get you a glass of wine and show you around?"
"I'd like that. Could you make it a water, though?"
"Sure. Sit down and I'll be back in a second."
The living room lacked even the slightest hint of a female influence. The large oriental carpet looked hand woven and quite old, yet in excellent shape. An Indian print hung over the massive fireplace, a large dark brown leather couch with matching armchairs provided the seating.
His walls were lined with bookshelves, interspersed with original oil paintings. At least she didn't recognize any of the paintings: that would have been truly intimidating. Since her total experience in art consisted of an art appreciation class she had taken during basketball season in college, she didn't figure to recognize anyone who had painted after the Dutch Renaissance. Basketball season had started in earnest right around then and after that she had missed as many classes as she had been able to attend.
She made a beeline for the books. In her experience, there is no better way to find out about someone than to learn what they read.
Mark appeared to read an assortment of mystery and suspense, with a sprinkling of westerns and science fiction thrown in for good measure. The mysteries included a number of the recent ones with female detectives, the ones Amy enjoyed.
Most of the bottom shelves appeared to be books in Braille. Mark probably was the only man in the world who really did read Playboy Magazine for its articles. She didn't imagine that the fold-out would be offered in a convincing Braille version. At least she hoped not.
Blind Date Page 7
