A Sprint To His Heart (17 page)

The touch of his lips on my skin was like paradise, and I nearly caved, but I crossed my legs. “I have to be at work early tomorrow. I really need to go home soon.”

“Please stay the night.”

“I wish I could, but I can’t.”

Piran continued his quest south and tried to uncross my legs, but he didn’t stand a chance with my thigh muscles.

I smoothed his hair back. “You are greedy, Sir Piran of the Sava valley, son of Maribor.”

“And
you
are mean.”

He licked the back of my knee, and I giggled. “Stop it! No fair.”

Suspending his body over me, he flashed a wicked grin and pinned my arms to the bed. “You are mine.”

I gave him my best stern look, which he completely ignored. Instead, he planted a kiss between my breasts. Then another.

My breath faltered.

“Stay the night,” he whispered, his voice husky.

A flick of his tongue sent an arc of electricity straight through my body, and I arched into him, my body craving the rush even as my mind said no.

Damn, he was killing me. “Piran, please…I have to be at work in six hours.”

Reluctantly, he flopped over on his side. “Fine. I will take you home. But you must promise you will spend the weekend with me.”

A heaviness settled in my chest. He hadn’t remembered. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to. I rolled off the bed and found my clothes on the floor.

“Shannon and I are heading to Indiana on Friday.” I zipped up my shorts. “The Indiana Cycling Classic is this weekend. I told you that twice already.”

He leaned toward me, his eyes flashing like a strobe light, making me blink. A dull pain wormed across my temples, and I pressed my palms to my head. A heartbeat later, realization slammed into me. He was trying to hypnotize me!

“How could you?” I asked, stamping my foot.

His eyes widened. “No, Bailey. You misunderstand.”

I threw my purse over my shoulder and reached for my cell phone. “I’ll call a cab to take me home. I can’t believe you would—”

“Stop!”

Struggling to take a deep breath, I slowly faced him. The strain in my chest spread to my arms and legs, and I could barely walk. I was no match for his coercion.

“I am not coercing you!” He launched from the bed, his face taut. “Not then, not now. You are allowing your own fears to control you.” His mouth a thin line, he grasped my arms. “How could you even think . . .”

The agony in his voice shattered me. I hung my head, my bottom lip trembling. Would I always have that seed of doubt about him because of his Fae abilities?

“I love you, Bailey,” he said, his voice softening. “I would never interfere with your mind. Anyway, I
could
never interfere with your mind.”

My chin jerked up. “What?”

“I cannot hypnotize, Bailey. I do not have that ability.”

“You don’t?”

His eyebrows rose. “Not all Fae have the ability to hypnotize. That is a myth.”

“So what abilities
do
you have?”

He blinked. “I can read your thoughts and paint moving pictures. That is not enough?”

Ouch. Damn, I was a jerk. “I’m so sorry, Piran. That was thoughtless of me to say.”

He shook his head. “You are not a jerk. You hitched to a deduction.”

“Jumped to a conclusion,” I said, allowing a small smile.

But his expression remained guarded. He deftly twisted his hair into a braid, then slid his long legs into his jeans. “I must confess I did not forget your plans for this weekend.”

“Oh?” His stare penetrated my defenses.

“I did not want to be without you.”

I sighed. “If you can’t be without me for a few days, how are you going to handle it when I move to Colorado?”

“Not well, I fear.” Lines creased his forehead, and his eyes blackened into a dark void. “Bailey, if I only have one more week to be with you, can I not have it all?”

A horrific ache swallowed my heart, and I sagged against the wall, closing my eyes. As much as I wanted to be a bike racer, I wanted to be with Piran. Why couldn’t I have both? Was there no other way?

“Let me take you home, sweet Bailey.” His voice was gentle, but resigned.

I nodded numbly and allowed him to take me to his car.

Epic fail.

Chapter 17

Early Friday morning, Shannon pulled into my driveway, and together we crammed my cycling gear and bike into the back seat of her car. First up, the coffee shop.

Nursing a white mocha latte over the next fifty miles on the highway as we made our way south through Chicago, I stared out the window at the heavy traffic.

Piran.

Bike racing.

Piran.

Bike racing.

I loved my Fae prince, but racing on a pro team was my dream. On one hand, Piran gave me confidence and made me feel beautiful, but bike racing gave me strength. He accepted me in a way no one ever had before, and racing fueled my competitive spirit.

Damn it. Why did I have to sacrifice one for the other?

“Hey, Bailey, I think you’ve done enough damage to that coffee cup.”

I looked down at the split paper in my hand and set the damaged cup in the drink holder. “I accepted the offer to join the Lady Spinners team in Colorado.”

“Let me guess. Your boyfriend’s not too happy about that.”

“Yeah,” I replied with a sigh. We hadn’t spoken since the night at his apartment.

“Seems to me you need to decide if racing is interfering with your relationship or your relationship is interfering with your racing.”

Pressing my lips together, I glanced at my friend. Excellent point and one I wasn’t sure I could answer. Was it too much to ask for
both
love and a career? Isn’t that what being a modern woman was all about?

I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes. Being an adult totally sucked. At the moment, all I knew was that I needed to get my act together and figure out how to compartmentalize my feelings.

Because this weekend was all about racing.

Once we’d left the Chicago area, the remaining ninety-minute drive offered not much more to see than flat fields, sun-scorched grass, and the periodic farmhouse.

We arrived in Lafayette, Indiana with plenty of time before the first women’s race of the weekend series. The skies were slightly overcast and the temperature hovered in the low seventies. Perfect weather for racing . . . provided the storm on the horizon held off.

Shannon and I changed into our skinsuits in a nearby community center, and then hit the side streets to warm up. Working out the kinks in our muscles, we kept the conversation to a minimum. After thirty minutes, we headed to the start line.

A time trial. The race of truth. No hiding in a pack or drafting behind teammates. Each rider would start a minute apart and race against the clock on a thirty-kilometer course loaded with climbs. Much more than a blunt test of strength, a time trial required pacing strategy and the mental fortitude to ride alone.

After lining up, the riders waited for the starter to click us off one by one. As number forty-one, I had forty minutes to wait. I pedaled in the small waiting area, trying to keep my muscles loose and warm, and not thinking of anything but the race.

Finally, the starter waved me over, and I rolled up to the line.

I began riding at a moderate speed to conserve energy and strength. Yet by the first hill at the one-quarter mark, I’d passed the three riders ahead of me. Now to get serious. I slunk down low on my handlebars to create an aerodynamic line. Anything to shave off minutes.

On the second hill climb, I passed two more riders. Keeping my pedal rate smooth, I checked my pulse to make sure I was staying in my anaerobic zone.

Near the halfway point, the muscles in my lower back began to twitch in protest and lactic acid burned in my legs. I fought against the natural desire to slow down and concentrated on keeping my cadence fluid and strong. I blocked out everything but the road in front of me. The whir of my tires and the thump of my pedals became a rhythmic mantra, a point of focus.

On the next hill, I didn’t let up and passed another two riders as faint thunder rumbled in the distance. Hold on storm, just give me a few more miles.

During the final quarter, I was on the edge of an anaerobic meltdown. My lungs ached. My calves screamed. Following a rider on a team-sponsored time trial bike with fancy carbon wheels, I didn’t even have the energy reserves to spare a satisfied smile when I passed her.

Push it. Push it. Push it.

Coming into the last stretch, I could’ve sworn evil knives had descended upon me, stabbing my back and thighs. I offered up my as-yet-first-born child just to take away the pain. Shaking, my breath escaping in loud gasps, I didn’t even considering stopping. My numb feet pedaled on a prayer alone.

The finish line in sight, I wept, the salty tears wetting my dry lips. Why did people torture themselves like this?

I hung my head, too tired to keep it lifted. Because they could.

Resorting to counting pedal strokes just to keep going, I passed two more riders weaving on their bikes. They’d bonked. Ridden too hard at the start and had nothing left.

I crossed the finish line to a meager smattering of polite applause. Male racers waited to greet their girlfriends with encouragement. Supportive parents, willing to drive all over the Midwest, cheered on their daughters. Invested coaches beamed with pride.

But I had no one to greet me at the end.

No colorful poster with my name. No hearty slap on the back as I rode past. No shoulder on which to lean my bruised and depleted body. My hunched posture stifled a full-blown sob.

I slowed gradually to avoid cramping, but wanted nothing more than to collapse in a heap on the side of the road and sleep for a millennium. After draining my remaining water bottle—a mere drop in a sea of sand—I greedily plucked the sloshing cup of Gatorade from a volunteer and tossed it back, wincing slightly from the acrid taste of salty-sweet lemonade.

Circling around, I crumpled the empty cup and lobbed it into a garbage can the moment a man jogged toward me, a racer I’d seen on the circuit before, but I didn’t know his name.

“Hey!” he called with a wave, his curly black hair bobbing in the breeze.

I wiped my face on my upper arm and nodded.

Pivoting, he placed a hand on my lower back and trotted alongside my bike. “You okay? You looked pretty wiped coming across the line.”

“I’m good. Thanks.” I smiled, a crack in my lips smarting.

“That was one impressive time you clocked.”

“Yeah?” A ripple of life peeked out from inside my traumatized body.

He grinned. “We should have you prep us before the men’s time trial race.”

“Yeah, right,” I said with a laugh, wiping sweat from my eyes.

“Glad you’re okay.” He flashed me a two-finger salute before jogging off the road toward his teammates.

“Hold on,” I called out. He paused and turned around. I steered my bike closer to him and cleared my throat. “Um, hey, thanks for caring.”

He cocked his head, a look of surprise on his face. “No prob. Name’s Dylan, by the way.”

“Bailey Meyers.”

“Well, Bailey Meyers, betcha we’ll be seeing you on the podium.”

Shaking my head, I laughed, then rode back to the finish line to wait for Shannon. After glancing up at the leader board to check the current top five race times, I yelped. No, it couldn’t be. My name held the number one spot.

In a daze, I stared at the board. How many more riders needed to finish? A sign ticked off the racers still in progress. Fourteen more to go.

I unclipped my helmet and leaned my bike against a signpost. After each rider crossed the finish line, my gaze flew to the leader board. The display would blink, yet my name stayed on top. Ten more to go. My hands carved through my hair, holding it back.

Other cyclists gathered in front of the leader board. “Hey, number forty-one,” someone called out. “You’re in the lead!”

I glanced over my shoulder and smiled. “Thanks. I can’t believe it.”

Then the scowling faces of the formidable Ibsy Team wiped my smile away. “Caroline is still out there,” one of them said. “No way some amateur is gonna snag this time trial.”

“Especially that Amazon.”

Snide laughter washed over me, and I clenched my jaw.

“I guess she’s not your ordinary amateur,” Dylan said. Standing off to the side with several of his teammates, he crossed his arms.

The Ibsy Team girls stormed off in unison. Sheesh, no wonder Mia had joined them. Just her type. Dylan winked at me, and I smiled in appreciation.

“Hey, guys,” I said as I unclipped my cycling shoes and tossed them by my bike. “Would you help me cheer on my teammate when she finishes? We drove down together, and well, it’s just the two of us.”

The men immediately headed to the finish line.

“What’s her number?” Dylan called back.

“Fifty-two. She’s riding a red and black Fuji.” I trotted over to the line and scanned the riders coming in. No sign of Shannon, but the Team Ibsy riders were lining up on the other side of the road, clapping and cheering. An Ibsy rider got out of her saddle and sprinted.

Holy crap. I sure as hell didn’t have the energy reserves to sprint at the end of my time trial. More spectators crowded the roadside, shouting encouragements. The Ibsy rider finished with her arms raised high in the air, not a doubt in her mind about her place in the cycling world.

I clapped for her as I would any rider. Maybe more. The snarks on Team Ibsy wouldn’t stop me from recognizing a great competitor.

After another two riders crossed the finish line, a struggling Shannon wobbled into view.

“Come on, Shannon!” I shouted. “You can do it!”

Dylan and his Keough-Driscoll teammates joined in, whistling and yelling my friend’s name. She lifted her head, eyes wide, and a broad smile burst through the weariness in her face. I ran alongside her in my stocking feet, and she put a little more oomph into her pedaling as she rode across the finish line.

Movement out of the corner of my eye diverted my attention. My bike! I whirled around, about to yell, but Dylan was already moving in on the Team Ibsy riders. The four women took off running.

“I’m fine,” Shannon said to me. “Just need to cool down. Go. Go. I’ll meet you back here.”

I nodded and hurried back to the side of the road. “Dylan, thanks so much.”

“Don’t leave your bike alone.” He gestured to the broken spokes of my rear wheel.

I groaned. “Why would they do this? What is their problem?”

He jerked his thumbed toward the leader board. “Guess it would have something to do with how you aced their lead rider?”

I glanced up, a band tightening across my stomach. But there it was in black and white. My name in first place. And Caroline from Team Ibsy in second.

Dylan patted my back. “Breathe, Bailey, breathe.”

I choked out a laugh.

One of Dylan’s teammates approached, and the two men clasped hands. Dylan leaned his head against his taller teammate’s shoulder. “This is my boyfriend, Sean.”

“Hi,” I said. “I’ve seen you race before. You’re a beast on the course.”

“Thanks,” he replied with a grin. He jerked his chin. “Too bad about your bike, sweetie. Those Ibsy chicks should pay, but good luck with that. Their director is a complete asshat.”

The clipped spokes on my wheel jutted out like broken straws on a scarecrow. “Any chance I can find a bike shop open tonight?”

Dylan whipped out his phone. “I’ll check. Until then, the podium awaits you.”

I climbed the stairs to the podium, my stomach feeling like I drank an entire bottle of hot sauce. Standing on the deck in my skinsuit, damp with sweat, I locked my knees to keep from wobbling and scanned the crowd, resisting the urge to wave like a silly fool.

The third-place rider was announced first, Sasha from the Rusvelo team. Then the second place rider, Caroline from Team Ibsy. When they announced my name, I pumped my fist into the air, and the spectators cheered for me. Oh my God. It felt so good. Vindication!

Per protocol, I turned to shake Sasha’s hand, and she returned a weak grip, smiling politely, then I switched to shake hands with Caroline.

“Shove it, bitch,” she growled under her breath.

Yup. I’d officially
arrived
.

The woman’s race on Saturday, a criterium, wasn’t until the late afternoon, which gave me time to get my rear wheel fixed at a local bike shop.

After lunch, Shannon and I headed to the racecourse.

During the men’s race, we walked the course, cheering on Dylan and his Keough-Driscoll teammates. With no dark Fae race in the Indiana Cycling Classic, the small crowds included mostly family, friends, and other racers, although a few curious townsfolk wandered in and set up lawn chairs near the start-finish line.

The Keough-Driscoll team dominated the men’s race, but due to a breakaway and blocking from another team, only Dylan’s boyfriend Sean placed in the top five.

Next up was the junior men’s race—amateur riders under the age of nineteen—followed by the women’s race, so Shannon and I returned to her car to put our bikes together.

Shannon opened the trunk and pulled out her bike frame. “What’s with them?”

I turned to follow her line of sight. A cluster of cyclists hovered near the street. Several guys whistled, and I heard a loud “sweet!”