Calamity Jayne And The Trouble With Tandems Part 7

"Things? What...things?" I evaded.

"The TribRide fiasco for one. Your pedaling partners.h.i.+p with Drew Van Vleet, for another. Team Trekkies, isn't it?"

Small towns had way big ears.

"It all came up rather suddenly," I told him. "And Joe said you were out of town."

"Funny thing about cell phones. You can carry them with you everywhere, so people can call you anytime, anywhere."

"You were working, and I've been-"

"-busy," Townsend finished. He shook his head. "No. What you've been, Tressa, is avoiding me. Admit it. Ever since we got back from the cruise, you've been more elusive than my grandfather when he knows he's got a b.u.t.t-chewing coming for eating too much bacon or for spying on his neighbors again," Townsend said.

"I've had a lot on my mind."

"Ditto," Townsend came back.

"This ride-"

"Is a smokescreen," Townsend said. "A dangerous smokescreen."

"When you say 'dangerous'-"

"How many times did you wipe out?" Townsend asked.

"I beg your pardon."

"On the tandem. How many times did you fall over? You know. Crash and burn. Bite the dust. Get up close and personal with gravel?"

I frowned. "Who told?"

Rick took hold of my arm and positioned it to reveal my skinned elbow. "This told. Along with your peas and heating pad and painful-to-watch impression of the undead. TribRide? What the h.e.l.l? You've got to be kidding. It was like pulling teeth for me to get you on a bike on a path, for crying out loud. Now, you're planning to ride across the entire state on a tandem. How do you figure that's going to play out?"

Painfully probably.

"What can I do?" I said, with a lift of my shoulders. "It's my job."

"It's reckless and ridiculous."

"You mean I'm reckless and ridiculous." After what happened between the two of us on the cruise, somehow I'd hoped we were beyond the judgments and second-guessing.

That I was past feeling insecure and threatened by the slightest criticism.

Okay. So maybe I wasn't above using my-what's that called again-righteous indignation as a bit of a smokescreen. Maybe there was more angst than anger in my emotional response. Maybe fear rather than ego was in the driver's seat here. Maybe the fact that Townsend and I had put our Hatfield and McCoy history behind us and were moving into uncharted and unfamiliar territory was giving me heart palpitations that screamed, Defibrillator! STAT!

But I'm just guessing here.

"Give it a rest, Tressa. You know that's not what I'm saying," Rick said. "I'm simply pointing out that as a biker, you're a novice. Exhibit A here demonstrates that painfully sad, but true, fact. And that fact puts you at risk on an event like TribRide. Accidents happen every year on the ride. Some serious ones." He squeezed her arm. "I'm partial to that bootie of yours. I don't want to see it bruised, broken, battered, or the hide ripped off and left along some county blacktop."

His graphic observation made me a tad bilious.

"I appreciate your concern," I began, but Townsend cut me off with a don't-even-try-it wave.

"No, you don't. You're insulted and p.i.s.sed off that I would even suggest you aren't up to the task."

d.a.m.n. He read me like a Field and Stream magazine with a feature on stag-hunting Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders.

He picked up my laptop. Clicked the mouse.

"What's this?" He scanned the web page I'd been browsing. "You planning a journalistic jump to the Enquirer or TMZ?"

I grabbed the computer.

"It's research," I snapped. "You know. Just in case."

"In case you have an opportunity to interview Keelie Keller and her hangers-on."

I shrugged. "I'm supposed to cover TribRide. And that includes the riders, as well as the events. So I thought I'd better bone up on the celebs. Not that I think I'll actually get close to any of them."

Townsend chuckled. "Somehow I imagine you'll find a way. Have you thought at all about your strategy?" Townsend asked.

"Strategy?"

"Your TribRide strategy."

"I figured I'd just put my best foot forward," I said with a snort. "Get it? Best foot forward."

Townsend lifted an eyebrow. "I'm not talking about the physical strategy," he said. "I'm referring to your psychological strategy."

I frowned. "Psychological...strategy?" Holy spandex. What was I getting myself into?

"There are definite subgroups that partic.i.p.ate in TribRide," Townsend told me. "You have to figure out where you fit in best and plan accordingly."

"What do you mean, 'subgroups'?" I asked, my throat getting tighter.

Townsend leaned forward. He rested his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his hands together.

"First of all, you have the early birds."

I already didn't like the sound of that.

"Early birds?"

"The gung-ho, aggressive bikers who get up at the b.u.t.t crack of dawn or earlier and take off on the next leg of the ride before the ride has officially started. The early risers are the biker athletes. Early birds push themselves. They're the ones who take the longer, alternative routes when available, are obsessed with their times, and performance, and can't wait to get up and do it all over the next day. It's all about the biking experience."

That sounded about as fun as being poked in the eye with a sharp spoke.

"You can cross me off that subgroup members.h.i.+p roster," I said.

Talk about stating the obvious.

Townsend grinned. "For which that particular subset should be eternally grateful."

I stuck my tongue out at him.

"The next sub-group?"

"The drop-ins. These riders join the ride for a day or so, but aren't officially registered. Since they aren't paying for the experience, they tend to try to cram as much as they can into the short time they are riding. Occasionally, some can be a pain in the a.s.s."

Oh, to be a drop-in.

"Then you have the stragglers, aka, the partiers. They get a late start because they've spent the previous night partying. Due to hangovers and lack of sleep, you'll typically find the greatest instances of roadside ralphing with this group. They drink hard and party hard. And it shows."

Riding a tandem in the middle of July in the summer heat with a hangover? Fuggetabout.i.t.

"Next," I said.

"Then you have the easy riders. This is the largest group by far and consists of people who ride for a lot of different reasons. Some are up for a challenge. Others take their vacation each year to ride and renew acquaintances. Others just want to experience something new and different. These folks are low-key, salt of the earth types. They're men, women, and children. They're families, friends, and coworkers who are low-maintenance and fun loving. They take in the entire experience and in a positive way. They follow the rules and are respectful. They leave on time and arrive on time. They get a kick out of all the attractions, activities, and scenic views along the way. They don't set any speed records, but they probably receive the most pleasure from the experience than their counterparts in other groups."

Ah, slow and steady wins the race. At last I'd found my niche.

"I can be an easy rider," I told him. "Well, maybe an uneasy easy rider."

"More likely the other riders near you will be the uneasy ones," Townsend suggested.

"Does that include you? You are riding this year, aren't you?" I asked, not sure whether I was hoping for a yay or a nay.

"I registered, but due to firearms certification scheduling, I can't do the whole ride this year. If I'm lucky, I'm looking at day three or day four to hook up."

I winced. By day three or day four, I could be road kill.

"Still in pain, huh?" Rick asked, and reached out to take my hand. "Poor T. What am I going to do with you?"

I grew all fl.u.s.tered and burning hot at the mere possibilities.

"Tressa? What are you thinking?" Rick asked.

"What makes you think I'm thinking anything?" I replied, figuring my pea throne had to be pea soup from the sudden heat radiating from my body.

"You're one of the few women I know who still blushes," Rick explained.

"Oh."

"I've told you before how good you look in red, haven't I?" he asked, putting a hand to my cheek.

"You might have mentioned it a time or two," I rasped, my throat suddenly dry as my gammy's legs at winter's end.

Rick's hand slipped around to the back of my head. "There is one thing you look better in than red," he told me.

"Oh?"

"Bed," he said.

"Oh."

He lowered his lips to mine, sending s.h.i.+vers along the same path that moments earlier had been in risk of overheating. His kiss was soft, searching, seductive. I schooled my response to be tentative, lukewarm. Take it or leave it.

And failed big time.

"I suppose you're too...sore," he said against my lips.

"Sore?" I mumbled into his mouth.

"Bike b.u.t.t," he elaborated.

"Oh. That."

"Yeah. That."

Rick's lips moved to nuzzle the side of my neck, putting all thoughts of my bruised and battered b.u.t.tocks clean out of my mind. I felt my earlier vow to proceed with caution where the good ranger was concerned disappear faster than Cadbury eggs and chocolate bunny rabbits from my Easter basket.

b.u.t.t? What b.u.t.t?

He kissed me again. Cupped my face in his hands.

"So?"

"Perhaps if I were to, well, you know, be on top..."

"What did you just say?"

I felt blood pool in my cheeks.

Oh. My. G.o.d.

It was happening!

I was turning into my gammy!

I bit my lip.

"Uh, er, I-"

"No backing out now, young lady," Townsend said and pulled me to my feet. "You've reached the point of no return."

Funny. I thought I'd done that on the last night of the cruise.

"I really don't think-"