Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Next year. That work for you? The whole ‘try new things’ mantra and all.”
“Why wait? You don’t need a body painter. You can just go au natural,” I challenge. “I’ll go grab someone’s bike for you. Feel free to strip down.”
He sweeps out a hand toward the bike parade. “Let’s do it. I’m all for trying new things.”
I walk toward the edge of the barricade, calling his bluff, when he darts out a hand, and tugs me back, right next to him.
“I’m joking,” he says, his hand still covering my arm. His chest, close to mine. We’re inches away, and for a few silent seconds under the midday sun, I swear he’s going to kiss me. He’s staring at my mouth. He can’t seem to look anyplace else. And I don’t want him to.
But then he shakes it off, reorienting perhaps, as he says, “Next year for sure.”
“Definitely,” I say, with a feathery breath. “I’m putting it in my calendar now.”
A group of riders dressed as woodland creatures pedal past us, colorful leaves adorning their bodies. My gaze lingers next on a particularly eccentric rider sporting nothing but a rainbow cape billowing in the wind. But what’s also billowing in the wind? The guy’s balls.
I appreciate the fundraising and all, but how do they do it? A woman with flapping breasts, painted like peaches, pedals by. “How the hell does she sit like that?”
“No idea,” Max says, like it hurts him to watch.
Same here. I wince a little, thinking of my lady parts. I would not want my free-range vagina perched on a bike seat anywhere. Let alone in public. But more so, I wouldn’t want to show…my scars to the world. I reach for my shoulder, briefly touching the one that won’t fade.
Max must notice, since he lifts a brow my way in question. Perhaps concern too. “You okay?”
“Of course.”
He tilts his head, his sharp eyes that see everything on the ice cataloging me now. “Did you…hurt your shoulder at some point?”
The man is a hawk. He misses nothing. It’s literally his job, but still I’m thrown off. “Why do you ask?”
“You touch it sometimes,” he says gently. “Like maybe you injured it. That’s happened to me. I’ve had a couple hits in the past—elbow, knee. And it’s like I’m always checking to see if it’s still injured.”
I don’t want to talk about the accident, the injuries, or the surgeries here in public. Not when I run the risk of emotions surging up my throat, and memories pulling me under. But I don’t like to lie either. “Car accident,” I admit, then try to make light of it with a quick, “It’s fine though. I’m fine.”
His eyes flood with concern and immediate understanding. “The same one?”
I close my eyes for a second. I don’t want to lose myself in time. Don’t want to feel that uncomfortable surge of anxiety as images from that night flash before me. I know how to handle them if they do. But I don’t want to handle them right now, while I’m working. I don’t want to explain everything about me either. The last time I explained that to a guy he shut me out as soon as he could.
“Yes, but I’m okay. Thank you for asking,” I say, trying to be kind, because I know it’s easier for most people to never talk about hard things. I have to give Max credit. At least he doesn’t shy away.
“If you ever want to talk about it…” he adds. The offer is tender, and I’m tempted to take him up on it. But there’s a time and place—and now is not the time nor place.
“Thanks. Maybe,” I say, upbeat, but noncommittal. I nod toward a pack of cyclists, quickly changing the subject. “So since you’re such a regular, what’s your favorite view? Front or back?”
Maybe sensing I need an out, he jumps on the changeup. “The 360-degree view, Everly.”
“Like that one right there,” I say, subtly gesturing to an older man riding by, probably a grandfather’s age. He has a soft belly and saggy skin, and he’s balls naked, smiling and riding.
Max shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. I do so love torturing him, but maybe I should let him off easy. I nod toward a bar up the street. The sign on the window of Sticks and Stones reads: Have a clothed drink after your naked ride!
“Want to get a drink?” I ask.
With that cocky grin I know too well, he shrugs. “If you can’t handle the view anymore…”
I lift my phone and snap a pic of him as a pack of zombie riders in their birthday suits cruise past in the background. “That’s it. You’ve figured me out.”
“I get it. It’s a lot of naked. I understand it’s too much for you.”
Nope. He’s not winning now. I hold my ground, staring at the cyclists, musing. “I can’t keep from thinking though…what the bike seats are like right this very second.”