Fore Play

by Julie Cannon

  After paying a reasonable entry fee, Peyton walked around the event grounds. The facility was relatively new, having been built while she was at Nelson. It wasn’t fancy—a few solidly built buildings, rodeo grounds, several horse trails, a long row of unisex toilets, and several sets of viewing stands.

  Trucks, some big, some small, were parked haphazardly in a staging area to her left. Motocross bikes in all colors and sizes leaned against them or sat atop stands that looked like modified jack stands. Peyton quickly saw that the bikes didn’t have the typical kickstand to hold them up. What a pain in the ass that must be, she thought.

  Paying an outrageous amount for a can of Coke, Peyton avoided the staging area and strolled around the grounds. She wasn’t hiding but didn’t particularly want Leigh to see her either. A couple dozen vendors under white shade tents were selling everything from home-grown peanuts to riding gear and stickers proclaiming the name of the event. She stopped at one of them, and a man started talking.

  “This is the newest jersey from Fox Racing. It’s made of moisture-wicking fabric with vented side panels for enhanced airflow. The pants…” The man pulled out a hanger from a round carousel. “The pants are rider- and attack-position constructed. They have heat and abrasion-resistant leather knee panels and stretch panels at the knee, rear, and crotch. These here,” he pulled out a different hanger, “are designed to fit the female body.”

  Peyton had some idea of what he was talking about, but when he continued his sales pitch about the socks, she had to ask.

  “Motocross-specific socks?” she asked skeptically.

  “Absolutely,” the man said, not the least bit ruffled. “They won’t slip down into your boots and give you blisters. And like the jersey, they’re made to wick the moisture away from your feet.”

  He laid the pants on top of the rack and hurried to another one. “We have both the under-jersey and over-jersey body armor. We’re the only vendor here today that carries one specifically for women,” he said proudly.

  He held up what looked like a brace one of her fellow inmates had worn after she broke two vertebrae in her back when she fell down the steps during a fight. Body armor? That was an appropriate name. This one was molded plastic in a deep shade of purple, with three Velcro straps in the front to tighten it and a curve in the plastic at the bust line.

  “Just looking, thanks,” Peyton said, stepping away and staying far enough away from the other booths not to get sucked in. The guy was nice enough but seemed a little desperate.

  The crowd was picking up, and a large man in an even larger cowboy hat jostled her. “Sorry,” she said, even though he should have been the one to say it; she was the one standing still. The man stopped and turned around, his beer sloshing over the rim of his white plastic cup. The wristband identifying him as already carded for alcohol barely fit around his beefy wrist.

  “What did you say?” he asked, anger obviously just below his last beer.

  “I said sorry,” Peyton said, hoping this would go no further. The last thing she needed was a hassle at a motocross race.

  “Damn right you are, bitch,” he said slurring his words and continuing on his way.

  “That looked like trouble,” a voice behind her said.

  Peyton turned, and a very attractive woman in tight jeans and a low-cut, red, silky blouse was watching the man walk away.

  “Could have been, and I’m not looking for it,” Peyton replied.

  The woman shifted her eyes from the man to Peyton, starting with her eyes, down to her worn boots, then back to her eyes again.

  “What are you looking for?” she asked, clearly a come-on.

  “A cool place to sit and watch the races,” Peyton replied. Judging by the obvious interest in the woman’s eyes, a few weeks ago Peyton’s answer would have been different.

  “Here to watch anyone special?”

  Peyton debated how to answer. If she said yes, the woman would probably back off. If she said no, odds were good she could have an enjoyable afternoon. It had been several months since she’d had “an enjoyable afternoon,” or evening for that matter. She settled on something that might be the truth if she didn’t think about it too long. “Maybe.”

  The woman looked at her for another long moment, as if sizing her up. Peyton had been sized up before by predators, women desperate for protection and those that were just plain mean. She didn’t flinch.

  “Well,” the woman said, boldly running her finger down the center of Peyton’s chest. “If ‘maybe’ turns into ‘no,’ my name’s Cassandra, and I’ll be around all day.”

  Leigh’s shock at seeing Peyton in the vendor area was quickly overruled by a blaze of jealousy. Even from this distance, Leigh could see the woman talking to Peyton was interested in her. Who wouldn’t be? With Peyton’s long legs, trim build, and general walking sexuality, any self-respecting lesbian with eyes and a clit would want a chance at her. And, by the churning of the green monster in her gut, Leigh was obviously front and center in that category.

  “Leigh, let’s walk the track,” Rick said coming up behind her. Walking the track was what riders did to familiarize themselves with the course. They looked at the starting line, how tight the turns were, and any blind spots or obstacles that could cause them trouble.

  “We did that already.” Then she thought better of her rude protest. “Sorry, Rick. Let’s do it. The track has most likely gotten sloppy from all the riders this morning. It’s probably pretty torn up by now.”

  They walked to the top of a hill adjacent to the course. The next heat was underway, and they watched the twenty riders maneuver their way up, down, and around the track. At least Rick watched. Leigh looked for Peyton.

  Thirty minutes later, Leigh rode to the start line and took her assigned place in the middle of the twenty riders. She turned off her engine and looked down the first hill. The course at Wild Horse consisted of one mile of tight twists and turns, fourteen hills, three dry creek beds, and a lot of soft sand. The riders started from the top of a large hill, and the first turn was a sharp dogleg to the right at the bottom. Six or seven riders in the previous heat had dumped it on the first turn and never recovered to finish the race in one of the three spots to qualify for the finals.

  To her left and right, riders got into place, each completing their own pre-race checklist. She adjusted her fuel knob and the buckle on her helmet. She stomped her boots on the ground, adjusted her gloves, and reset her goggles. When the guy in the blue shirt told them to start their engines, she was ready. She was mentally focused, having ridden the race in her head several times while sitting here. She kicked her bike into gear, ready for the gate to drop.

  The gate looked like a bike rack, their front tires in between the metal bars. Instead of somewhere to chain up their bikes to prevent theft, the rack prevented any rider from jumping the start and getting an unfair advantage over the others.

  A man in a pair of coveralls and no shirt waved a yellow flag. It was too loud to hear what he was saying. Leigh’s stomach fluttered with anticipation. He dropped the yellow and raised a green one. Leigh’s pulse raced a little faster. Several riders were pressing their front tires against the rack, throttles wide open. When the rack dropped, Leigh released the clutch.

  Peyton had her hands over her ears as the first racers flew by. The noise was overwhelmingly loud, and she wished she’d thought of bringing ear plugs. She’d never been to a race or even watched one on TV, for that matter, and she had no idea what was going to happen. She’d found an empty seat on the eighth row of rickety bleachers, the metal seat hot from the afternoon sun. A skinny man with a John Deere hat and a clear plastic cup of beer in each hand was to her left, a man in camo shorts and flip-flops to her right. Several heats had finished, and she hadn’t seen anyone that looked like Leigh. But then again, in the helmets and bulky gear, everyone looked alike.

  A flash of red shot by, and Peyton didn’t know if it was Leigh or not. Several of the bikes were red like hers,
but only one rider had a blond ponytail blowing out of the back of a purple-and-white helmet. Number thirteen, in the purple-and-white helmet and riding gear, had to be her. Peyton’s excitement grew along with the crowd’s.

  At the first turn, Peyton gasped as several riders crashed, and she was able to breathe again when she saw how Leigh somehow manage to stay on the left of the rapidly forming pile of spinning wheels, arms, and legs. As Leigh approached the first hill, she had her knees flexed to absorb the shock from the bumps in the track. As she flew over the top, her legs acted like springs to cushion the landing. Peyton felt her body rise and fall, mimicking Leigh’s actions.

  As Leigh approached the next turn, Peyton held her breath when she stuck her leg out as if she might need it to balance or touch the ground if she was about to fall. Great way to break a leg, Peyton thought. Leigh picked up speed and repeated the same maneuver over several other hills. On the last one, her tires left the ground, and she literally flew through the air, landing with a jolt Peyton could feel in her bones.

  Dirt kicked up behind her as Leigh rounded the next curve, her back tire fishtailing before she got it back under control. She rode through a puddle of mud before executing another hairpin left and right turn before racing down the back stretch. More riders were in front of her than behind, but Leigh kept up and passed one on a series of left and right turns. She crossed the start/finish line, heading for the treacherous first turn. At least Peyton thought it looked good. Lap after lap Leigh kept after it, slowly passing each rider until more were behind her than in front.

  As a former athlete herself, Peyton knew Leigh had to be in top shape to take that kind of physical pounding. The mental challenge and concentration of constantly having to adjust to the change in the track and knowing where the riders were around you had to be exhausting.

  Peyton cheered as Leigh passed another rider, and the man beside her offered her a pair of earplugs in a sealed bag he’d fished out of his front pocket. She nodded her thanks, the noise far too loud for any conversation.

  Twenty minutes later, the same guy in the overalls waved a white flag as the riders flew by. One more lap to go and Leigh was in sixth place overall. When Leigh crossed the finish line, in seventh place, Peyton cheered along with the rest of the crowd.

  The spectators in the stands started shuffling down the metal steps, the excitement for the day over. Peyton guessed there would be some type of ceremony for the winners, and she joined the crowd as they moved en masse toward the front gate.

  A flash of purple caught Peyton’s eye, and she turned to see Leigh slowly riding past on her way to the staging area. Before she could think about it too much, she followed her. “Excuse me. Excuse me,” Peyton said several times, trying to get out of the flow of the crowd. When she was finally on the perimeter she could move more quickly, and she veered to her left.

  Peyton remembered that Leigh drove a small tan truck, but it was hard to find in the sea of macho lifted trucks, motorcycle trailers, and pop-up shade canopies. At least they had parked in semi-straight rows, and she had to walk down only three before she saw her. Peyton hurried her pace.

  Leigh was silhouetted in front of the sun, and Peyton froze when Leigh pulled off her helmet and ran her hands through her hair several times. She was beautiful in her riding gear, clunky boots, and body armor. Peyton had always had a thing for athletic women, and if she thought Leigh was attractive on the golf course, she was smoking hot on her bike.

  Leigh glanced around, and Peyton’s pulse skidded to a stop when their eyes met. All the chatter, horns, and revving motorcycle engines drifted away, and she heard nothing but the pounding of her heart. Her mouth was dry, her entire focus on Leigh. Peyton couldn’t remember the last time someone had her complete, undivided attention, if ever. Before Nelson she had always been multitasking in everything she did. She was always with her friends or teammates, studying for exams or practicing. She’d had girlfriends on and off during college, but she’d felt nothing like what was coursing through her now. Leigh’s face lit up when she saw her, and Peyton could barely breathe.

  “What are you doing here?” Leigh asked, hanging her helmet over the right side of her handlebar. She stuffed her gloves inside her helmet.

  “Peyton?” Leigh asked again, this time concern on her face.

  “Oh, yeah, right.” Peyton closed the distance between them. “How did you learn to do that? To ride like that?” she added, if there was any doubt what she was referring to. Obviously, Peyton knew Leigh rode, but nothing had prepared her for what she’d just seen on the dirt track.

  “Practice,” Leigh said. “Lots of practice. I even have the scars to prove it.”

  “Is that what happened to your leg?” Damn, Peyton thought. She shouldn’t have brought that up.

  “Yeah. Three years ago. I was taking a corner, and my leg decided to go the other way.”

  “Looks like it hurt,” Peyton commented.

  “Only when I breathed,” Leigh said blandly.

  “How long have you been riding?”

  “I started in high school. My dad said I had my nose in a book too much and needed an outlet to refocus on.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “Why? It’s just riding a motorcycle around a track.”

  Peyton was puzzled at Leigh’s sudden change in demeanor. She’d been happy to see her, and now she was sarcastic and curt. “And the US Open is just a round of golf on a municipal course.”

  “Touché.”

  Leigh lifted her jersey and opened the Velcro straps on her body armor. “I don’t want to keep you.”

  That was a brush-off if Peyton had ever heard one, but she wasn’t put off that easily anymore.

  “Did I do something wrong by being here?” Peyton asked, her anger starting to pulse. “Because you asked me to come, unless you were just being polite and feeding me bullshit.”

  Peyton cringed inside, but it was too late to take her remark back. That would probably cost her Leigh as a client and maybe her job. No. That was too harsh. Her job wasn’t involved with this conversation. This was personal.

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Then why are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “I’m not trying to get rid of you.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me?” Leigh asked, a surprised look on her face.

  “You heard me. I call bullshit.”

  Leigh tugged off her body armor and pulled her jersey back down, hiding the perfect curves of her breasts.

  “Look, I’m sorry if I was short with you. I’m tired, and I’m sure someone’s waiting for you so, thanks for coming, and I’ll see you next week.” Leigh swung her leg over her bike and leaned it against her truck.

  “What? Who? I came by myself. I don’t have anybody waiting for me.” Peyton was totally confused.

  “I saw you talking to a tall, gorgeous woman with red hair. She seemed pretty interested in you.”

  “Who?” Suddenly Peyton realized who Leigh was talking about. The woman who came on to her before the race. The thought that Leigh saw that and was pissed was interesting. “She came on to me,” Peyton said, and it sounded too much like she was defending herself. “I don’t even remember her name.”

  “Well, she sure wanted your number.” Leigh bent over to unbuckle her boot.

  “I didn’t give it to her. I didn’t even tell her my name. She’s not my type.”

  “What is your type?”

  You. “I’m not in the market for a relationship.”

  “I don’t think a relationship was what she was looking for,” Leigh said, sliding off her boot.

  “Are those the special motocross riding socks?” Peyton asked, just to throw the conversation in a different direction.

  “What?” Leigh asked, obviously confused.

  “Your socks. The guy in one of the booths was trying to sell me some socks made specifically for the sport. I wasn’t sure if he was jerking my chain or not.”

 
; “No. These aren’t special motocross socks. They’re just plain old Nikes. However, Rick, one of the guys I ride with, swears by them.”

  Peyton didn’t say anything else until Leigh finished putting on her cross-trainer shoes. She tied the laces and finally looked up.

  “Leigh, I came to see you, not get picked up. When you said you raced I was surprised, and it piqued my interest. I thought I’d come take a look. Nothing more.”

  Leigh had the good grace to blush, a look Peyton found endearing.

  “I’m sorry I overreacted. I had no right. I guess seeing you just caught me off guard. Thank you for coming.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied, some of the tension easing. “It was really something. Do many women ride?”

  “A few. Some of the wives do, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t have more.”

  “It looks like fun.”

  Leigh tilted her head, shading her eyes from the sun. “I can teach you,” she said, their truce still a little tentative. “I can teach you,” she repeated, this time with more enthusiasm. “It’s easy.”

  “With you teaching, I’m sure it would be, but I really don’t have any time.” It was Peyton’s standard noncommittal excuse.

  “You had time to come here today.”

  “I work every weekend.”

  “Take a day off.”

  “We’ll see,” Peyton said vaguely.

  “If I have time to take golf lessons from you, you have a few hours on a Saturday or Sunday to come ride with me.”

  Leigh stood with her hands on her hips, looking at Peyton like she wouldn’t take no for an answer. Her confidence and attitude were more than a little sexy. And that worried Peyton.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Leigh’s focus was in the toilet. Since the race last weekend, she couldn’t get Peyton out of her head. Today was their third lesson, and they planned to play several holes. Peyton had said she wanted to see her game and how she hit the ball in various situations. It was late afternoon, and Leigh had teed off on the tenth hole thirty minutes ago, the golf course practically empty.