by Robin Lovett
“Caroline.” Gary’s voice sags.
Terrence does that—one-night stands.
“She’s joking,” he says to me. “It’s a joke.”
“Is it?” Caroline tugs her hair. “It’s been a while, Terr. You’re due.”
Terrence glares at Gary in a silent exchange.
My innards twist and knot. I have to defuse this. I can’t let them think I’m a “one-nighter”. I may be horny as a fifteen-year-old boy around Terrence, but it doesn’t mean I’m having sex again unless I’m truly invested. If Terrence or any of them think otherwise—that’s not okay.
“It’s not like that,” I say. “We aren’t having sex.”
Silence. They all stare at me.
Oh shit. “Yet.”
Caroline and Gary explode in laughter. “Well, that clears that up,” he snorts.
I flush. “I mean—” I have the urge to flee in mortification.
I’m rising to my feet when Terrence puts his hand on my shoulder. “Hey, wait. It’s okay,” he says.
“No, it’s not.”
He says to Gary and Caroline, “Guys, quit laughing.” To me, his voice tries to be calm, but his face is not. “Ignore them.”
“I’m not a one-nighter, Terrence.” I can’t believe I have to say that. I want to disintegrate into the floor.
“I know. Don’t worry.” He straightens, then says more loudly, “I don’t do one-nighters much either.”
“No more than twice a month,” Caroline retorts.
Twice a month means twenty-four a year. In one year. And he’s twenty-three. That means—wow, way more than me. I have to get out of here.
Terrence clutches my arm. “Don’t go. Please.” He turns to his friends with bite to his voice. “Gary, stop it. Caroline, you sound tired. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be resting?”
“You’re the one who should be resting,” Caroline says.
“She’s right, Terr.” Gary grabs something from the fridge and starts the burner on the stove. “Get your feet up.”
I’m caught between them. I want out of here, but Terrence’s expression is so earnest. “Please stay,” he says. “They’re just being jerks.”
I can’t run out on him. Not when he’s looking at me like I’ll break his heart if I do. “Okay.” But I’m still not a one-nighter.
He breathes and turns back to his friends. “So, it’s nap time for everyone.”
Gary shakes his head. “You first, man. I’m not aiming for top five. That’s you.”
“Top three.” Terrence sits down and reaches for my hand.
I let him hold my fingers. “Top three, what?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“Fastest sprinters in the world,” Caroline says to me; to Terrence, she rolls her eyes. “Top three? Not this year. Unless you’re taking something we don’t know about.”
Terrence tenses, his expression freezing glacial.
“Taking something?” I ask. If she’s talking about doping, that’s a nasty thing to say. Terrence doesn’t dope. He’s never tested positive on any of the winner’s tests. He’s clean.
“Hon.” Gary brushes Caroline’s arm. “You don’t have to sit out here if you’d rather go lie down. I’ll bring you food, okay?”
Her eyes close in exhaustion, and she nods. Gary helps her stand and follows her down the hall to the bedrooms.
Terrence’s shoulders fold. “Things are a little tense around here.”
“She’s really pregnant.”
“Yeah. That was a big surprise this fall.” He looks at the ceiling, keeping his voice low. “We’re here a month, and boom, ‘Guess what, Terr? Caroline’s pregnant.’” He shakes his head. “I love Gary. I’m glad he has Caroline. Of course, it was an accident, but, Jesus, their timing sucks. She’s due a week before the Tour de France.”
“Oh shit,” I whisper.
“Exactly,” Terrence whispers back.
Gary returns, looking just as worn out as his girlfriend.
“Is she okay?” Terrence asks.
“Yeah.” Gary stands in front of the stove, stirring something that’s warming in a pot. “She’s just…” He glances at me. “We’ll talk about it later.”
I should leave and let them talk. I motion to Terrence that I should go. His silent “no” is emphasized with a squeeze of my hand. I wince when it pinches my wounds from my crash.
“Sorry.”
The silence between the guys is awkward, so I break it. “Where are you from?”
Gary’s head pops up. “Me?”
“Yeah. You and Caroline.”
He points at Terrence. “Well, this tool and I grew up racing together at the velodrome in PA.” Gary brightens as he tells it. “Met Caroline in Colorado Springs during training for the summer games two years ago.”
He smiles at the pot he’s stirring. “It’s a miracle Terr and I haven’t killed each other.”
“Not yet,” Terrence says.
“Planning another massacre at the Vuelta this year? Hell, no.” Gary’s voice lightens. “Damn near succeeded last time.”
“I was closer when we were eleven and you taco-ed your wheel against that boulder. I thought you were dead for sure.”
“Nah.” Gary waves him off. “Broken arm, broken leg, sure. Kill me? Never.” And with their light banter, the tension vaporizes. In sync with each other, their world turns comfortably. Like they’re brothers.
I’ve always wanted to have a best friend like that.
Gary portions the heated food onto two plates. “I’m going to go eat this with her and take a nap. You should too, Terr.” He carries the food down the hallway.
Terrence says to me in a low voice, “She wants to go home, but Gary can’t because the team and the races are here.”
I cringe. “So it’s either be in France together, or she goes home without him?”
He nods.
“Is she going to have the baby in France?” I lean closer to keep my voice down.
“I don’t know. If she goes home, there’s a chance Gary won’t be there for the birth of the baby. Unless, of course, he backs out of the Tour, which—” Terrence shakes his head like it’s the most hated idea in the world. “I can’t even think about.”
“Have you ever raced without him?”
He traces my palm. “On the track, yeah. But not since we turned pro in Europe. I can’t imagine racing something that important without him.” Air floods out of his mouth. “But I’ll do it if I have to. Winning in Paris is the most important thing this season. With or without Gary, on the twenty-first stage of the Tour, I will win on the Champs-Elysées.”
His pronunciation of the famous boulevard in Paris is perfect. It’s the only time I’ve heard him not butcher a French word. The determination in his voice is a force of will I haven’t seen from him before, except during his sprint for the line yesterday.
“Why is that one race so important?”
“It’s Paris. Every sprinter’s dream.” He stares at me. “If I can win the final stage of the Tour, no one will doubt I’m a world-class sprinter. No one.”
“But aren’t you already world-class? I mean, you won yesterday and you won two stages last year in the Tour.”
“Yeah, but so did a dozen other guys. It doesn’t make me any better than the other sprinters in the peloton. I’m the best. And they need to know it.” He’s emphatic, and his seriousness is out of character from the fun-loving Terrence Baker. He’s “Terror Braker” now.
He backs his chair out with a scrape and takes our empty glasses to the sink. His mood has done a one-eighty. I knew he was serious about cycling, but I had no idea how much pressure he placed on winning.
It reminds me of myself when I obsess over French Ph.D. qualifications—or the way I used to.
I fo
llow him. The faucet is on and he’s scrubbing, scowling at the dishes.
I want to say something encouraging, but before I can, he says, “You should go.”
Chapter Seventeen
My disappointment is palpable.
Of course I should go home. I have papers to grade and lessons to plan. I should be hanging out with French people, not him and his American friends. Yet, after the bike ride, doing what I “should” feels less attractive than ever.
He’s washing dishes, not looking at me, then he shuts off the faucet and dries the glasses, his movements brisk and sharp. He wants me to go. I edge toward the door.
“I don’t want you to go.” He looks at me, his eyes dim. “But you don’t want to get involved in this cycling stuff.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
His face is bleak. “Trust me, Lia. There’s a lot about this sport you don’t know. Go be a teacher. That’s a much better thing.” He chews his lip and avoids my eyes.
“I’ll go. That’s fine.”
“I mean…” He looks at me with a kind of neediness. This man, who yesterday was on top of the world, a trophy in his hand, a model on each arm—he looks at me like he’ll be devastated if I go.
“What do you mean?”
“This is…” He scratches his hair. “Not supposed to be like this.”
“What is?”
“I should be asleep. Resting from the race. Not hanging out with you.”
“Oh.”
“Me and the bike and…girls. It doesn’t mix.” He watches the floor. “I wasn’t thinking straight this morning. I just wanted to go for a ride with you.”
My veins shrink. He regrets it—the ride and spending time with me. “Then I guess you can have your bike back.”
“No. That’s not it.” His eyes come up. “Let me try to get this out. I’m not a relationship guy. I think Caroline covered that.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Mr. Twice-a-month. I got it.”
“My life is the bike. I can’t…I don’t have time for—”
“For me. I know. I’m leaving.”
“Lia, I—” The desperate claw in his tone pulls me back. “I’m not supposed to have time for you. But I want to make time for you.”
I lean against the counter next to him.
“But cycling…” he says. “You don’t want any part in it.”
“I enjoyed the race a lot yesterday. Your job is way more interesting than mine.”
The strain in his expression softens, and he dips his nose to my forehead with a sigh. “You’re better off with some French guy.”
My hand inches up his arm, my insides going molten already. He’s much more than his smiling, cocky façade. There are layers to him, and I want to sink into him until I find out everything there is to know about him.
I finger his shoulder. “I don’t care about French guys right now.”
He breathes against my hair. I move on tiptoe to kiss his neck, his chin.
His answer is a noise in his throat, and he grips my waist, kneading the curve that peeks over my jeans. Why he likes that, I do not know, but I’m glad.
“So soft,” he breathes again, like it’s a ritual phrase he has to say when touching me. The words race down my spine as fast as the heat from his lips drips over my skin. He licks my pulse and it speeds. God, don’t let him ever stop.
He covers me with his chest, backing me into the counter. My fingers on his cheek, I coax his lips to my lips and kiss him. His mouth is as hungry as mine, his tongue plying and invading my mouth. It cuts with an edge of desperation that makes me whimper for more.
My jaw falls open, making room for all he wants to give me. He presses his body into me, and I’m too short for our chests to meet, but something else is rubbing against my belly through his jeans. I shudder.
I want to know what’s so magical about how he’s shaped that it floods me with lust when he’s against me. I drag my palm to his crotch.
“Fuck, Lia.” He squirms from my hand before I can do more than graze him. I want to do it again.
He grasps my butt with both hands and lifts me onto the counter. I squeal and then it’s like last night against the wall. He’s rubbing between my legs where I’m liquid and swollen.
I hook my ankles at his back, and his narrow hips fit perfectly between my thighs. Then I’m clutching him, biting his tongue and rocking my hips against him. It feels blissfully good.
He’s the precise hardness, length, and width that fits me. I don’t want him to stop.
“Whoa.” He chuckles, holding my hips and stilling my movements. “Easy there, girl. You ride hard.”
I drop my legs, embarrassed.
He nips my lip with his teeth. “You keep grinding against me like that and you’re going to end up in my room. And not just for one night.” He’s teasing me, but I’m frustrated.
I’ve never had this raging need for more before. Something about him makes me want some, though I don’t want it all. I’m pissed at myself for not knowing what to do.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” he murmurs, sucking on my lips again. “If you really want to, we can.” His fingers drift up my side, and he palms my breast through my shirt. His hand is like a hot brand.
I breathe, “Yes,” wanting more of his hands massaging me. I arch into him.
“Damn,” he says. “Softest thing ever.” I smile against his mouth. He doesn’t use many adjectives, but he gets his point across.
I’m rubbing against him again, without thinking.
“You’re ready, aren’t you?” he says.
I still. “What?” His thumb slides over my nipple, and it perks under my shirt.
“I can’t pretend I haven’t been dreaming about it for weeks. Seeing you in that coffee shop every day. Bent over your books.”
“You saw me before that day you talked to me?”
“Mmm. You were too busy reading to notice.” He squeezes my breast. “But you’re not now.” He urges me off the counter, toward his room. “Come on.”
I keep my seat. “Terrence…”
“What?” He smiles cute and dreamy.
“I’d rather stay here.”
His eyes brighten with boyish playfulness. “Let me get a condom.” He turns down the hall.
Shit. I can’t communicate. “Terrence, no!”
“No? Oh, that’s okay.” His feet slip on the floor as he rushes back to me. “My bad. I thought you meant you wanted to.”
“No. I mean, I do.” I fidget. “Just not yet.”
He stands in front of me, resting his hands on either side of me, and kisses the top of my head. “I’m cool with that.”
“I’m not a one-nighter.”
“Don’t worry about that. Caroline exaggerates to piss me off.”
“But you have done one-night stands?”
“Last year. A couple times. Winning races kind of went to my head. I’m not into that anymore.” He holds my hand, stroking my wrist. “I’m into a lot more than once.”
My breath catches in my throat. Yes, more than once. Please.
“Lia.” He laces our fingers together. “Have you ever had sex before?”
Oh wow. I’m showing my lack of experience, which is awful, considering I have had sex, if unmemorably. “Why do you keep calling me ‘Lia’? I have a name, you know.” I pull my hand away and cross my arms, hiding my still hardened nipples. I wonder if he’s still hard in his pants.
“You’d rather I say it like a French guy? Aurélie,” he teases, my temper more amusing than annoying to him. “It’s just the short version. Aure-LIA. See?”
I scowl, even though it’s cute. I don’t want to talk about my previous sexual dissatisfaction. I’d rather just make out.
He runs a finger along my hairline and my ear. I sigh and soften. H
is touch gives me jitters.
“You going to answer my question?” he asks gently.
“Yes.” Mr. Twice-A-Month.
“Yes, you’ll answer? Or yes, you’ve had sex?” There’s a note of pity in his eyes that I can’t stand. I push him out of the way and jump off the counter.
“It’s okay if you haven’t,” he says. “I was a virgin once too, you know. I didn’t lose mine until nineteen.”
I stop my retreat, but I can’t look at him. “I’m not a virgin. I’m just not good at this.”
A rumble emanates from his chest. “I’d say you’re very good at it.”
I bite my lip and glance at him. “Really?”
His eyes close, and he nods emphatically. “Yes.”
“I still don’t know how it works.” I don’t know what I’m saying, I feel so inadequate.
“Sex is sex. If you’ve done it once, you know how it works.” His confusion is measured. “Right?”
“I guess. It’s just…” Guys know more about sex from the time they’re teens, from how their parts work. They don’t even have to try as teenagers, because if they don’t, they still orgasm in their sleep. I’ve never been jealous of that before, but now I’m seething mad about it.
“You have—parts.” I wave at his crotch, awkwardly. I don’t know how to say this or what I want to say.
“Yes. I have parts.” He pinches his lips and tries not to laugh at me.
“I mean, you have the mechanics that I don’t. Just from how you’re made, guys do stuff on their own that girls can’t.”
“Do stuff—you mean jerk off?” he translates with a serious face. “You mean guys jerk off but girls can’t.”
“Yes!” I throw up my hands in exasperation.
“Girls can jerk off too.”
My voice rises in volume. “But it’s more complicated.” I gesture at my crotch. “Hello, parts missing?”
Terrence breaks into a smile. “It’s not always complicated.”
A door in the hallway opens and Gary steps out, eyes half-closed. “Can you guys keep it down? Caroline fell asleep.”
Terrence lowers his voice. “Sorry, Gar.”
“Get some sleep, man,” he says, and closes the door.
I cover my face with my hands, mortified. Gary heard that entire conversation. “I’m going home.”
