Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“Uhm, Bri, do you know this guy?”
Graham Easley, the very handsome, very kind, very understanding new man in my life, was not looking at me but instead behind me at whoever hovered there.
Turning in my chair, I looked up at the scowling Scot who had been on my porch earlier in the day, trying to leverage himself into my home. “Oh, for crissakes, Aid, what the hell?”
“I’m needing to speak with ya.”
I shook my head.
“Would you like to sit down?” Graham offered. And of course he would offer. Aidric Barnes was a mountain of hard muscle with the face right out of a romance novel. The man was stunning. Much like Varro, everyone looked at him.
“He doesn’t want to sit down,” I said firmly.
“I would love to sit, thank you,” Aidric said in that overly solicitous way he had when he was being a real ass.
Six people sat at the table, not counting me or Graham or now Aidric. They all leaned forward, riveted by the rugged-looking Scotsman suddenly in our midst.
I waited.
“He needs you to come back.”
I leaned my chin on my palm and stared at him.
“He does,” Aidric insisted.
“Who are we talking about?” Graham wanted to know.
“My foster brother.”
“Oh, the motorcycle racer?”
I nodded.
“Motorcycle racer,” Aidric scoffed. “Is that what you’re callin’ him, then?”
“Try and not be a total wiseass right now.”
“That canna be helped.”
“What does he need?” I questioned Aidric. “’Cause you guys did a whole season last year without me. You actually just finished it, like, last month. Aren’t you off? This is December. You should be home with your wife on the farm in—where is it again?”
“Netherbrae.”
“That’s it,” I said wistfully. “It sounds lovely. You should be there.”
“Don’t tell me where I should be, wee man.”
“And where is your liege? On Lake Como with—what was her name? I got a call when you guys were in—”
“You didn’t call him at all last year.”
“I did, I tried. It’s hard, though, with the change in time zones and… but we emailed.”
“He got hurt.”
The simple statement slammed into me like a fist in the gut.
“Brian?”
“It must not have been very bad,” I quipped, trying not to let anyone see how much the words had affected me. “No one called.”
“It was verra bad.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know. Now tell me why I didn’t.”
“We were forbidden.”
“And why’s that?”
He cleared his throat. “Shall everyone be hearing, then?”
I exhaled sharply. “Why don’t we do this… come see me tomorrow and we’ll go to breakfast and talk.”
He nodded. “Varro doesn’a know I’m here.”
“Okay.”
“He’s plannin’ to run the Isle of Man TT again next year.”
“That’s in May, right?”
“Aye.”
“But he’ll do the MotoGP again.”
He was silent.
“Aid?”
He shrugged.
“Listen,” I said softly. “I know he got hurt really bad in the TT last time, but he’s a better racer now, and—”
“No.”
“No?”
He shook his head, and I finally got it. “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”
His dark reddish-brown brows pinched together, and he shook his head slightly.
“Okay, not sick. Then what?”
But whatever it was, he didn’t want to say.
“Come over tomorrow whenever you get up,” I directed. “I’ll be there.”
He rose and left without a word.
“So tell us all about your boyhood friend,” Graham prodded after Aidric left.
I played videos from YouTube on my phone for him and everyone else at the table instead. They could see him, but the last thing I wanted to do was talk about Varro.
On the walk back to my place, Graham bumped me with his shoulder.
“What?”
“You never mentioned that your pal, the guy you always make sound like a giant pain in the ass, is drop-dead gorgeous.”
I looked at him. “What?”
“And you made the racing sound so benign, so small-time. You neglected to say that he participates in a huge international competition where the bikes cost more than my house.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter, because this guy Vaughn—”
“Varro,” I corrected.
“Varro,” he repeated, “is the kind of cool I can’t compete with.”
“Graham—”
“Those videos, Brian, the wail of the bikes and the—people are standing there watching these guys just for a glimpse of—”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is. And the videos from that Isle of Man race are insane! And he rides in that and he risks his life just to participate in a dangerous sport and—”
“Why do you care?”
“Because your buddy, the one you say you don’t care about, well, he looks like a pirate or something, and he’s beautiful, and he does this amazingly sexy thing for a living, and he’s rich and—”
“Not rich,” I corrected.
“Okay, not rich.” He chuckled.
“It really doesn’t—”
“What he does is really scary, and he’s larger than life. How am I supposed to compete with that?”
“You don’t compete,” I scoffed. “There’s no competing. He’s my friend and not even my best one anymore, because he doesn’t know anything that’s going on with me. He doesn’t know about my business or my plans or my life or….” I trailed off, thinking. “He’s just gone. He’s got his life, I have mine. That’s it.”