Chapter 27
The next morning we leave Parker and his odd little community before the sun is fully up.
This last competition is at Big Bear Mountain Resort, almost three hours east of LA.
The drive takes forever due to classic California traffic and Reid’s insistence we get milkshakes, but I’m not about to complain over the second part.
Our new campsite is cozy, just the two of us secluded among a bunch of ridiculously tall pines. Reid sets up our little makeshift patio with a tarp on the back of his van and two folding chairs beneath it. It’s peaceful.
Tension has been continually rising between Reid and I. I don’t know how to act around him anymore. Everyday it gets a little harder to pretend I only want to be his friend. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s trying to seduce me on purpose.
As soon as we get settled in our temporary home, Reid insists we go for a ride. “Come on, Addie. We can’t just stop training.”
“Ugh, fine,” I groan.
It’s insanely hot here. I’m sweating before we even get to the trail head.
My legs feel stronger than ever. I demolish Reid on the uphills, and I keep up on the downhills. Pride surges within me as I roll to a casual stop.
We’re dripping in sweat. Reid’s position mimics my own, leaning over the handlebars gasping for air. Salty water drips into my mouth. I lick my lips to alleviate my thirst, and Reid tracks the movement before he makes the bold decision to torture me.
Reid strips off his shirt and starts snapping pictures for his Instagram—right there at the trail head. With his helmet and goggles on, he perches on his bike, flexing his arms while angling his phone down to snap picture after picture.
I ignore it, or I try to, by focusing on the sensation of digging my shoes into the sandy dirt, but I can’t resist teasing him. “Why wouldn’t you take these before the ride? You’re disgustingly sweaty.”
His voice is muffled under his helmet. “Addie, you’re so innocent. The sweat is half the appeal.”
I swallow hard, unable to resist letting my eyes drift down his sweat-soaked abs. I see what he’s talking about now.
“Hey Addie, what do you think of this pose?”
This is what I’m talking about—it’s like he’s trying to punish me.
He’s leaning all the way forward and his forearms are stretched perfectly.
I can see the veins in them straining, and I can picture the way his hands look under those gloves.
It’s impossible to reply. Instead, I pick up his sweat-soaked shirt and shake out the sand before throwing it at him.
“This is public indecency.”
He hops off his bike, stumbling for a second before breaking into a sprint until he’s in front of me with his arms behind his back. Flirtatiously, he says, “Arrest me, officer.”
The rest of the way back to the vans, he tells me all about how the motorcycle accounts get more likes than him. He says, “A helmet is a helmet. Why is my bike any less sexy just because it doesn’t have a motor?”
I agree with him—if anything, a mountain bike is far hotter than a motorcycle, but I don’t tell him that. I let him ramble on while we wash off our bikes.
“I mean if anything, mountain biking is sexier. At least we actually have to work for it.”
It’s well past my bedtime, and I’m still laying here staring at the ceiling and thinking about Reid and his naked torso.
In a failure of will, I open up Instagram and scroll to his account.
Right there is a full page of pictures of Reid posing with his bike in various sensual positions.
They’re objectively not inappropriate, but something about his face being hidden makes them feel dirty.
The longer I scroll, the more I start to understand this helmet thirst trap thing. It’s official—I agree mountain biking helmets are sexier than motorcycle helmets. Maybe it’s the man under the helmet that’s doing it for me, the sandy brown hair I know is covered in a perpetual sheen of dirt.
I save the picture from today for last. It truly doesn’t do him justice.
He looks ten times hotter in person. The caption is odd though—it’s a single sunflower.
There were no sunflowers on our ride today, so it doesn’t make any sense.
Sunflowers are my favorite, but I doubt he remembers that.
I miss having vases full of them sitting around providing me with borrowed brightness, but I can’t have them splashing around in the van.
The longer I stare at his picture the further I melt into myself.
The way I want him is all consuming, like I might disappear.
He smiles in my general direction, and my entire body feels like it’s on fucking fire.
I’ll be left pining after him forever, and I hate myself for it.
Why can’t I fucking move on from the boy who will always see me as an annoying little sister.
I throw my phone against the side of the van gently.
Looking at those pictures was a mistake.
Pulling out my kindle, I attempt to distract myself with some dark and moody book boyfriend. The issue is that I don’t even like dark and moody. I’ve reread the same fucking sentence five times already, and it’s not sinking in.
I throw my kindle off the side of my bed, pull the pillow over my face, and scream.
I truly cannot believe I still haven’t gotten rid of this crush.
Maybe a cold shower will help? Not that it ever has before, but it’s worth a shot.
I have to climb outside to take the bikes out—I’m pretty over having to do this every time I need to shower.
Once they’re leaned up against the side of the van, I turn on the shower and breathe in the crisp night air while it warms up. The water pressure is weak, like everything in a camper van—it barely works.
Sometimes I wonder why I keep living this vagabond life. It’s romanticized online, but sometimes it really fucking sucks. There never seems to be enough air in here, and the air I do get is stale—always smelling like whatever I had for dinner the previous day.
I step out from under the stream and fall into the toilet which doubles as my makeup counter when it’s not in use. My toe is fucking throbbing, and I’m tempted to go for a walk in the dark to give my feelings enough space to breathe.
This tiny ass van can’t fit them all.
Nighttime walks were a habit of mine back at Sterling Summits.
Something about the soft glow of patio lights and my melancholic music always soothed me.
It’s safe there—at least relatively. We have around the clock staff and security, but Reid caught me quite a few times.
At first, he would usher me back inside promptly, fearing what my dad might say.
Slowly, he eased up and joined me. We wouldn’t say anything—basking in his presence was enough for me. In high school, we discovered a back stairwell which led to the roof. Some of my favorite nights happened up on that roof.
Lit up by the stars, we’d dangle our feet off the side of the main house until the early hours of the morning. I make a mental note to go up there for sunrise once we get home. If I’m brave, I’ll invite Reid to join.
I don’t have the luxury of a night time stroll out here, though. Reid would murder me if he found out.
He’s protective that way, and I love him for it, even if it annoys the shit out of me.
I could probably knock on his door and ask him to join me, but I’m far too anxious.
What if he has some trail bunny in there with him?
I probably would have heard a car pull up, but maybe not.
It’s unlikely, but possible. Maybe he spent his evening swiping away on Tinder.
I don’t need to see that.
Seeing steamed windows and hearing soft creaks? I already know I’ll never be with him in that way, but it’s a whole other thing to have to witness it. It’s painful enough to listen to him recount all of his hook-ups to his bros at the track.
My toe is still throbbing as I hobble to my dresser. Well, it’s not actually a dresser. It’s more of a bin, but I call it a dresser to feel better about myself and my living arrangements. I find a matching set of underwear and pull it over my sore thighs.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the window of my van. It’s slightly foggy from my shower, and I realize I forgot to close the blinds all the way. I don’t see the issue since there’s no one out here. We always camp off grid, unlike most of the racers who get hotels near the track or camp onsite.
Growing up in Sterling Summits instilled a love of peace and quiet in Reid and I. I don’t really give a shit if a bear catches a peek of my body, but Reid would freak if he found me changing with the shades open. He’s always saying, “You never know, Blondie. People can be creeps.”
That nickname is starting to grow on me—I pretend to get mad so he doesn’t notice my blushing cheeks every time he says it. The satisfaction would go to his head.
I’m still standing here in my lace panties wondering why I ever bought them. They’re pretty fucking uncomfortable, and no one is ever going to see me like this. I look ridiculous. I’m trying to be some kind of sensual girl that’s confident in her body even though I’m anything but.
It feels like a costume—made for someone else but not for me. Putting in effort and seeing it fall so painfully flat is embarrassing.
There’s a knock at the passenger door of the van. A sudden flash of anxiety runs through me. Was Reid right? Is there a chance some fucking creeper out there is watching me?
Now I wish I had more clothes on.
My favorite flannel covers my shoulders since it’s massive and well worn, but it barely grazes the top of my thighs. I grab my mace and pocket knife just in case, and then I’m ready—I’ve always wanted an opportunity to put these to the test.