Chapter Eighteen
Ashish
Buzz. The sound is going to haunt me. Last night after a shower and getting settled, I noticed a faint buzzing in my bedroom. I listened hard, trying to pinpoint the sound before a breathy little moan followed it. Bernadette Murphy was on the other side of my bedroom wall, and she was making herself come. I’m not proud of how fast I whipped out my dick and stroked myself, straining to hear anything from her. Her soft moans took me over the edge too fast, and I was left gasping, horny, and in need of another shower.
I rap my knuckles against her door and wait. Part of me wonders if I’m pushing too hard by integrating myself into every part of her life, but if I don’t try, give it my all, how can I make peace with this if it doesn’t work? I hear the click click click of her pedals circling on the other side of the door. I didn’t realize she stored her bike inside. She opens the door without looking at me, pushing the bike forward.
“Morning,” I say in a hushed voice. Her eyes flick to me and something like a grimace and a smile crosses her face.
“Where’s your bike?” Her voice is low and husky like it needs to warm up. I remember that from June. How she sounded when I tried to convince her to blow off the conference and stay with me. I wish she would have. How would things be different if I had had more time?
“I store it downstairs.” I hold a granola bar out to her. “Breakfast?” Her skin turns a little green and I snort. “Hangover that bad?”
“Let’s just say no amount of water is saving me this morning. I don’t think I can eat. I have some energy gummies to get me through—if I think I can stomach them.”
I follow along slightly behind her as she walks to the elevator.
I feel as awkward as I look walking in bike shoes. They don’t have a recessed cleat, so my steps rock and skid a little on the concrete. “You’re sure you’re okay with me coming?” I ask as she punches the elevator button.
“It’s fine, Ash. It seems like the universe has decided that we’re meant to be friends, and I don’t have the energy to fight it this morning. It is what it is.” I deliberately choose not to be offended by how resigned she sounds. I can work with friends.
“Let me know if you need a granola bar. I packed extra.”
“It’s fine. You’re not responsible for feeding me.” She pushes her bike out of the elevator and pauses next to the closed bike storage connected to our building.
“I don’t mind. I like feeding you. I packed some electrolyte powder too for your water bottle,” I say absently, typing in the code to open the gate.
“I can take care of myself.”
Stepping into the metal enclosure, I unlock my bike and carry it outside, taking my time straddling the frame, and trying to figure out how to respond. She does the same and clips into one of her pedals. Reaching over I rest my hand on her handlebars to stop her from clipping into the other and taking off.
“I never said you couldn’t take care of yourself, Bernie. I said I like taking care of you, too.”
Her hands grip the black tape that wraps her drop bars. “Jesus, I can’t do this right now,” she grumbles, clipping in before pedaling slowly down the road.
“I like to take care of all my friends!” I shout after her before hopping on my saddle.
“Too fucking loud, Scott Summers.”
I smile at her back.
***
Bernie’s breathing is ragged behind me. She put on a brave face for the club but picked the slowest pace group. Looking at the raised brows of the members, I would hazard a guess that it isn’t her usual spot. The first two loops, she held on strong at the front of the peloton. I hugged her back wheel, swapping with her every few miles for the front so we could take turns in the pull position.
If the groan of pain behind me is any indication, these final ten miles were too much. Bernie yielded the front of the pack at the beginning of the last loop and set herself firmly behind me to draft. I’m not sure if it’s the hills or the sun, but I feel for her as she huffs, pushing herself and her bike up the hill. Because we’ve done repeating loops, I know once we crest the top, we can drift down the final two miles and be done.
I watch as the last rider from our group disappears over the top and hear Bernie’s low moan behind me.
“You okay, Bernie?” I call over my shoulder, trying to keep my pace slow and steady. I can’t tell how close behind me she is, so dropping back to ride by her side isn’t an option.
“Mind your own business, Mishra,” she pants between breaths.
I wait a beat, listening to the slow crank of her pedals. She has to be out of the saddle, moving one foot slowly in front of the other. Just enough force to keep her moving forward without falling over. It is a steep hill. “Wanna take a breather at the top?”
“I’m,” crank , “fine,” gasp .
When we reach the top, I ride my bike onto the sidewalk out of the bike lane and stop. I unclip my right foot and set it on the sidewalk waiting to see if she’ll ride past me or stop. She unclips and rests her right foot on the curb, looking down the hill.
“Just coasting from here.” I assure her.
“No shit, Sherlock. I planned the course. I’ve lived here for almost two years.”
“Sorry.” I rest my forearms on my handlebars and look at her. Rather than the healthy flush you get from a hard workout, Bernie’s face is pale and clammy. Her lips are pursed, and she takes deep breaths through her nose. I haven’t seen her take any gels.
“I’m sorry,” she pants. And I wave my hand, not offended. “Are you done with your break?” She looks anything but ready, but I don’t mention it.
“You want that granola bar now?”
Her eyebrows shoot up and I watch as whatever color she has drains from her face before she frantically tries to unclip her left foot. I jump off my bike to help, wincing when her bike crashes onto the pavement in her hurry to reach the grass. She starts retching before I can even pull it onto the sidewalk.
Approaching her slowly, I carefully pull her braid over her shoulder and hold it to her back as her body dry heaves. Moaning, her fists clench on top of her thighs as she spits onto the grass.
“Why’d you have to mention granola?” she mumbles.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my thumb between her shoulder blades.
“It’s not your fault.” She wipes the side of her mouth, straightening. “It’s Pru’s. I’m going to freaking kill her. Tequila-pushing hussy.” She trails off when she steps away from me to grab the water bottle on her bike frame.
“Should I warn Pru?” I ask slowly, watching her swig water in her mouth and spit into the grass. I try to keep a straight face in case she looks at me.
“Only if you want to be guilty by association.” She shrugs, raising her face to the sun. She looks a little better; hangovers are tricky that way. I reach for her water bottle and pull out an electrolyte packet from my jersey to add. It’s pushy as hell, but I dump the contents inside anyway.
“I guess that depends, do you tie your victims up?”
“That your kink? I thought it was seeing me at my worst.”
“First,” I shake the water bottle to mix the powder, “I’ve told you before, you let me know when you wanna talk about my kinks, sunshine. Second, I’ve never seen you at your worst.”
Bernie grabs the bottle from my hand and takes a cautious sip. “First, stop bringing shit up from when we met, second, stop calling me, sunshine, and third, let’s count the ways I’ve humiliated myself in front of you.” She holds up a finger, “I get drunk and throw myself at you.”
“I personally found you to be extremely charming in that moment,” I interrupt.
“Then,” she says with emphasis, “I sleep with you without knowing anything about you and find out that you’re basically the last person I should have picked for a one-night stand. I drunkenly yell at you, spilling all my past relationship trauma, then I puke in front of you, on the side of the road—in fucking bike shorts.” Bernie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath like she’s trying to brace herself before taking another small sip. She peeks at me, her flush becoming healthier. “I swear I do not have a drinking problem. The connection between alcohol and those incidents is purely coincidental.” She smacks the top of her water bottle to close it then puts it back into the cage on her bike’s frame.
“Can I mention you look fantastic in bike shorts? I’ve never seen anyone look so hot while puking.”
“No, you can’t mention that,” she sighs, straddling her bike.
“I don’t regret it,” I blurt. Something feels like it’s shifting between us, the space I need to bridge a little smaller.
“What?”
“I don’t regret anything. Meeting you, sleeping with you, being here. None of it. I’m glad to be here.”
“Watching me puke.”
“In bike shorts.” I hold her gaze. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.” And I’m a little surprised at how true the words are. Real-life Bernie is turning out to be so much more than fantasy-Bernie. She’s complicated and grumpy, smart, beautiful, and passionate.
“I don’t know what the hell to say to that.”
I copy her shrug as a lazy smile creeps across my face. I wink at her because I want to get so far under her skin that she can’t imagine me not being there.
“You have time. I’m not going anywhere.”