Chapter 3
Cam
Moved to the desert so I can work on my tan. (Just kidding. You know I’m rockin’ SPF 1000 every day.) – caption from Cam’s social media post – a picture of him standing on the seat of a dirt bike parked in front of a wind turbine , February 17th
It finally came back to me. Sadie is the woman I met outside the restaurant after the first time I won the Portland Moto Invitational . I don’t remember our whole conversation, but I do remember wanting to cheer her up then, too. And that smile. She had the warmest smile I’d ever seen. Still does.
Sadie blinks at me for a moment before bursting out laughing. “You’re serious? Make my ex jealous?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask.
“You say it like it’s easy.” She tucks her socked feet under her body and hides her hands in her hoodie pocket. “Did you miss the part of the story where he didn’t want me?”
Anger on her behalf tightens my throat. “That is not what I heard.”
“Stop it. Yes, you did,” she says, shoulders slumping.
“You broke up with him,” I remind her.
“As a technicality,” she says, curling in on herself further. “He had a whole other girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but he never broke it off with you.” I nudge her toes with my knee. “He liked having you and took you for granted.”
She nods, straightening the smallest amount. “He really did.”
“He’s an arrogant fucker,” I decide, and she doesn’t disagree. “Probably doesn’t think you’ll ever move on.”
“That’s essentially what he said— how was I going to be okay without him? I need him. My life is nothing without him .” Sadie pulls her shoulders back as her words get stronger. “He never admitted he was cheating—told me I was making a huge mistake leaving him. I still don’t understand what he thought was going to happen.” She shakes her head, pulling her hands from her pocket and tying her hair into a ponytail. “And now he’s winning the breakup, and I’m day-drinking about it,” she finishes with a frustrated sigh, followed by the final sip of her margarita.
As I refill her glass, I come back to my point—which is also arrogant, but hopefully in a more appealing way. “You think he’d be jealous if we could make him think you’re dating me?”
“ You ?” Her mouth drops open. “That wouldn’t—we’re not—he would never—we would never—I don’t think—”
I brush it off with a joke. “Trying not to be offended over here, Sadie.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry.” Her sincere eyes search mine as she reaches over and holds my hands. All my senses zero in on her touch. “It’s not that he wouldn’t be jealous of you. There’s nothing wrong with you , but—no, that’s not what I mean—well, no. There is nothing wrong with you. But you’re you . We can’t date.” She releases my hands with the last sentence.
“I’m not asking you to actually date me,” I say, even though I wish I could. “But we could pretend.”
My reputation is no one’s fault but my own. When that video of me went viral forever ago, I leaned into it, embracing the Race Naked persona. It’s all over my branding, on my trailer—I even have a merch line dedicated to it.
That evolved into me publicly doing other reckless things—racing motorcycles where I shouldn’t, getting naked in places I shouldn’t, doing stunts I had no business doing. When I act like an unserious asshole, my engagement goes up, and I make more money to fund my racing.
It also made it easy to find women who were happy to hook up with me—to be able to say they slept with the Race Naked guy. Most of the time, I haven’t had to find them at all. They come to me. But I’ve never been successful at finding a woman who could see past all of it and commit.
In my early twenties, it was amusing when people called me slutty. But as I’ve gotten older and stopped acting the part, the reputation stayed on anyway. No wonder Sadie’s hesitant.
“You’d be helping me out if we could make it look like we’re dating,” I add.
Her brow furrows, and her plump lower lip drops into a little pout. “Helping you? How?”
In this idea’s two-minute lifetime, I haven’t considered how much I’ll have to tell her for this to work. Suddenly, sitting face-to-face on the couch feels too vulnerable. “Want to go for a walk?” I ask.
She looks at the half-drunk pitcher of margaritas on the table and then back at me. “Sure?”
“I can make fresh ones when we get back. Don’t worry,” I say, helping her off the couch.
We pause by the door so she can put her sneakers on and I can grab a sweater. It’s not cold here the way it is a couple of hours away by the ocean, but the February afternoon still carries a chill.
She leads the way, walking on the road instead of the sidewalk. “So, are you going to answer my question, or what?” she asks.
“Which one was that again?” I tease.
“How exactly is us not dating, but looking like we’re dating supposed to benefit you?”
“Without boring you with my entire racing history—I need to improve my image, so I can get on a team and stop having to fund my racing myself.”
She nods along but says, “I’m still confused. I think I’ll be needing that boring race history. I’m sorry.”
“So much apologizing.” I shake my head.
She brings the back of her hands under her chin and bats her lashes innocently. “I can’t help it.”
Turning onto the next street, I explain, “I’ve been racing in USMoto in the 600 class since I was twenty-one—nine years ago. I was supposed to move up to superbikes— which are 1000ccs instead of 600ccs —a few years ago, but I crashed out and broke my femur. It—” I cut my story off when she winces.
“I remember that,” she says, staring at the asphalt under her black and white sneakers.
Shocked, I ask, “You saw that crash?”
“Yeah,” she answers, jaw working. “Jared and his friends were watching the race, and I—” She pauses, releasing a tight breath, “I heard them from the other room, and I knew something happened. I came in—” She shudders. “And I saw it. Saw you , laid out on the track. Your leg was—you didn’t move for a really long time.”
Sadie’s response is visceral, and as much as it’s tempting to be touched that she’s upset about seeing me like that, it has to be connected to something deeper for her.
Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I pull her close, pausing our walk. “I’m sorry,” I say. It doesn’t seem like the right words, but they’re all I’ve got.
“Oh, my word. Do not apologize to me about that,” she says, leaning into the hug for a long time before letting go. “I doubt you did it on purpose to hurt me—a girl in Portland you don’t remember meeting that one time.”
“I remember,” I say. I may have just now placed the interaction, but I knew we’d met.
She eyes me skeptically. “No, you don’t.”
“You were standing in front of a steakhouse in Portland, wearing the tightest little blue dress.” Her eyes widen as I recount the details, leaving out everything I remember about her ex. “Your hair was longer then, without the pink. And you said you hated motorcycles, but you thought I was funny.”
Her cheeks flush as she draws her lip between her teeth. “Okay, you remember,” she says, turning away and starting down the street again. “I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with you racing superbikes and pretending to date me.”
Pretending to date her. The idea just grew legs, but I’m holding onto it like a lifeline. “The crash took me out for the rest of that season and the next,” I explain. “I lost my sponsorships, so when I came back to racing last year, I did 600s again and had to fund it myself. This is my first year in superbikes, and I’m paying for that too.”
“Never thought about how much it costs to race,” Sadie notes. “I guess I imagined they’d just pay you a salary or something.”
“A lot of racers get signed by the motorcycle companies themselves, which would be the closest to what you’re thinking. But I’m not a factory racer.”
“ Ooh, I like the flowers on this cactus ,” she points, whispering, like she doesn’t want me to miss the flowers, but also doesn’t want to interrupt. It’s adorable.
“ I like them too ,” I whisper back before returning to my story. “I pay for my bikes and gear using money I make doing dumb shit online, but I don’t want to do that forever. I actually just got a call with a conditional offer from a private team owned by Incite Energy Drinks for next season. That’s why I was going to go for a ride—clear my head so I could think it over.”
“Oh, I should have—”
Cutting her off before she can apologize, I say, “I have a reputation problem, which is what I’m hoping you can help me with. The first condition from Incite Energy is that I have to clean up my image. The online persona— that I know I’m responsible for —has been a double-edged sword. I am lucky as hell that I’ve found a way to fund my racing, but the stunt videos and other dumb shit make me look reckless—which isn’t appealing for a legitimate team.”
“Let’s go this way,” she says, pointing to the left.
Turning the corner reveals another row of white mid-century houses with perfectly tailored lawns. It’s a beautiful neighborhood, but I’m looking at her more than anything else.
“What’s the other condition?” she asks, light-brown eyes focusing on me.
“I have to finish top three for the season.”
Her head tilts with curiosity. “You’re good at racing, though, aren’t you?”
“I’m amazing.” No one’s ever accused me of humility. “But it will be my first year in superbikes. It won’t be easy.”
“The image stuff—rebuilding your—trying to be—trying not to be a—” She gives up on completing the thought. “That’s the hard part?”
“Hard er part anyway,” I answer. “It’s a bit like flipping a U-turn with a cruise ship. I’ve made myself into a punchline, and I can’t be that anymore. I need racing to be the loudest thing about me.”
“I like that plan for you,” she says, matter-of-factly.
“Does that mean you want to help?” I ask, unable to drop the idea.
She gasps, hooking one arm with mine and pointing across the street with the other. “Look, it’s my friend.”
There’s no one across the street, though—only more mid-century houses with neatly landscaped lawns. “Where, exactly?” I ask.
“He’s the little black cat running across that driveway,” she points again. “Sometimes he visits me in our backyard.”
“Have you figured out where he lives?” I ask.
“No idea,” she says. “He doesn’t have a collar, but he’s always around.” When the cat disappears from view, she picks up her pace again, but leaves her arm looped in mine.
“Did you name him?” I ask, enjoying her closeness.
“He’s not mine . I can’t name him,” she says, staring at the road beneath our feet.
“You absolutely did name him.”
“No, I didn’t,” she says, fully turning her head away.
“I can tell you’re lying,” I laugh, tugging her closer with our joined arms. “What’s his name? I need to address him properly if we ever run into each other in the yard.”
“Fine,” she sighs, but it’s a playful sound. “I call him Boo, ‘cause he spooks so easily.”
“Cat named Boo. I can get behind it.”
She nods but shifts the subject, tugging lightly on my arm. “I still don’t understand how I could help you with your reputation.”
Grateful I wasn’t the one who brought it up this time, I answer, “People believe I’m a fuckboy. I’ve—”
She gasps, “Oh, I wouldn’t say—”
“It’s okay,” I reassure her, guiding her closer to the sidewalk as a car approaches. “I said it, not you.”
“Well, I don’t like it.” Her lips pull into a frown. “It’s obvious that’s not who you are.”
“Was it obvious before we met?” I ask.
She bites her lip, looking away.
“It worked for me in the past, and I leaned into it—built a whole career around it. It’s been a long time since I did anything deserving of the reputation—at least not the slutty part,” I explain, wanting her to understand how different I am from my online persona. “But people still believe it. I’ve never had a girlfriend. If it looked like I was with you, it would show that I’m not reckless. I’m steady and committed. I moved out here to get away from the people I partied with and have a home base close to my best friend. What if it looked like I moved in with my girlfriend, too?”
She stares up at me for a while before a slow smile turns up the edges of her soft lips. “That would be very domestic of you,” she says, eyes sparking with mischief. “Very steady, not fuckboy-ish at all.” The word fuckboy comes out in a rushed whisper, like she hated it in her mouth. “And, not to brag—actually, yes to brag—I am a magnificent girlfriend. I am sure I could be a magnificent pretend girlfriend.”
She’s considering it. She’s actually considering pretending to date me. “I’ve never been a boyfriend of any kind before. Maybe you could teach me how to act like a good one.”
“That could be fun. I’ve never had a good boyfriend before,” she says, followed by an excited gasp. “I should put that on my list. Hold on a sec.” She stops walking, pulling her arm from mine so she can type on her phone screen for a few seconds before indicating we can start walking again.
“Gonna let me in on whatever that was?” I ask, tilting my chin toward her phone.
“Ooh!” she squeals. “Have I not told you about my list yet? Do you want to hear?”
Seeing her joy return is a relief. Her sadness felt unnatural. “More than anything,” I say.
She giggles, as if I’ve made a joke. “I’m on a bit of a reinventing Sadie kick right now,” she begins. “My life got a little stale.” She rocks her head side to side, scrunching her nose. “Okay, a lot stale. So, I made this list of things I’ve never done, and I’m trying to do as many of them as possible.”
“I’m in,” I say, looping her arm back through mine.
“What do you mean?” she asks, using her free hand to tuck pink-tipped hair behind an ear.
“ I’m in ,” I repeat. “I’ll help you. I’ll do it with you. Whatever you need.”
“You can’t know that,” she says through a bright, dimple-cheeked smile.
“I can.”
“You haven’t even seen the list,” she says, rolling her head on my shoulder to give me a skeptical look.
“Don’t need to.” I smirk back at her.
“It is a pretty good list.” She pauses to point out a cactus across the street that’s shaped like a snowman before saying, “I’m adding things to it constantly.”
“Can’t wait to hear them.”
“All kinds of stuff. I’m training for a half marathon with Devon and Bea because I’ve never run a race.” Her speaking and walking paces both increase as she shares. “I’d never had a martini before, so Luke made me one at the bar last week. I want to see a ghost, but I can’t exactly do anything to make that one happen.”
Wondering how I can get her to show me the entire list, I say, “And now you’ve added have a good boyfriend .”
She sighs, “I imagine that’ll stay on the list even longer than see a ghost .”
“Didn’t I just offer?” I ask with a light laugh.
“You offered to pretend to be a good boyfriend,” she says, pointing at flowers in another yard we pass. “Very different thing.”
I pull her out of the way just in time to stop her from rolling an ankle on a section of uneven pavement. Big light-brown eyes blink up at me for a few seconds, and I forget what I’m supposed to be talking about.
“Sorry, I should watch where I’m going,” she apologizes.
“You don’t have to. I’m watching,” I say, guiding us back to walking.
“You don’t actually think we should pretend to date, do you?”
“I do,” I answer, adrenaline pumping through me at the idea that this is within reach. “You deserve to fuck with your ex a little, and I mean it when I say you’d be helping me with my racing career. I need help fixing my reputation.”
Her shoulders rise and fall on a heavy breath, but then her lips pull into a smirk. “You’re his favorite racer. I think your videos are half the reason he started watching racing in the first place.”
If I didn’t already know my image needed work, being her ex’s favorite racer would be proof enough. “Perfect, isn’t it?” I ask.
That draws a dimpled smile out of her. “If he was scrolling his feed, and a picture of me with you came up, his head might explode.” She sighs. “It’s a fun idea, but it would never work.”
Well, shit. “Wait. Why not?”
“Because we have friends who know we’re not dating,” she giggles.
“Until we tell them we are,” I say.
She hesitates, and I’m dying for her next words. “My friends are nosy.” She brings a hand tipped with light pink nails to cover her mouth. “That sounded mean. I’m nosy too. I don’t mean it like a bad thing. It would be a really hard secret to keep.”
“We could let them in on it,” I suggest.
She rolls her lips together, shaking her head. “They wouldn’t support it. They’d give me a hard time for putting so much effort into making Jared jealous.” When she says they, I wonder if she really means Devon. “I’m already embarrassed ,” she lowers her voice on the last word. “I know I shouldn’t care what he thinks—”
“Do you want to do it, though?” I interrupt her to stop her from talking herself out of this.
Instead of answering the question, she says, “I’m supposed to be more evolved than this.”
“But you’re not,” I laugh, nudging her ribs with my arm. “It’s okay. Neither am I.”
She nudges me back. “It does sound like fun.”
“And it’s something you’ve never done,” I remind her.
“You’re not wrong,” she says, pointing out the house with the pink door—her favorite—as we pass it.
“We won’t tell our friends we’re pretending,” I say, liking that idea better anyway. “And then they won’t judge you.”
“They’ll judge me for getting into a relationship so quickly—or not actually—well maybe .” Her pace slows again as she stumbles through the thoughts. “It’s possible I’m not giving them enough credit.”
“Is your friends’ judgment enough of a reason not to do something?” I ask.
“Yes,” she laughs. “These friends are more like family than my actual family most of the time,” she explains.
“Luke is like that for me,” I say, turning us around so we can head back to the house.
“You think it’s a good idea if we lie to all of them?” she asks.
Shrugging, I answer, “I think it’s okay to have things that are only your business if you don’t want to share it with your friends—even if those friends feel like family. It’s alright to have secrets.”
“Huh,” she huffs a quiet laugh. “You want to know something else I’ve never done?”
“Absolutely,” I answer.
“I’ve never had a secret,” she whispers the information to me, like it’s a secret in itself.
“Never?” I ask.
“You’ve pointed out before that I am a terrible liar,” she reminds me.
She is . It’s one of her cutest qualities. “It’s a good thing to be bad at,” I say.
“Maybe, but it makes it awfully hard to be mysterious.” She lifts a flat hand up like a tray for the point she’s about to make. “Or to keep a secret.”
“You want to try it with me?” I ask.
She considers for long enough that I’m focusing on the rhythm of our steps as our feet hit the asphalt when she finally answers, “Sure. Let’s do it.”
Now I’m the one trying to hide my response. She actually agreed. I take a steadying breath and say, “I’ll post something tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Didn’t you just agree to do this?” I tease her.
“Yeah, I did. I—but right now ? Our friends won’t believe we got together in the last fifteen minutes.”
“We’ll ease them into it,” I say, guiding her out of the street. Wrapping my arm across her chest just below her shoulders, I rest my chin on top of her head and lift my phone in front of us to grab a photo. It’s a pose that could be read as friendly or affectionate, but either way, we look damn good together.