Ridley Holland has just lost the love of her life. She has no desire to return to the world of motocross, but she knows Teuvo would want her to continue. So she plays the part: an upcoming professional athlete with inevitable determination to domina...
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Teuvo
Weeks pass and unless we're training together, Ridley ghosts me. She leave me on read, ignores my efforts at starting a conversation outside of work, and even declines my invitation to come hiking with the group. Ever since our conversation by the campfire, I've been immersing myself in activities to mitigate my horniness. Being a celibate doesn't help, either. If I wanted to, I could hit up a bar and hook up with another woman. However, there are two issues. One, I don't like social gatherings. Two, Ridley has incinerated my sexual expectations; no one will ever compare to her.
A week before our first enduro race, I'm up before the first rooster crows. The sun is just peeking over the mountains when I'm sitting in the truck, dirt bike secured in the back and my stomach full of fruit-flavoured granola. As I'm pulling out of my driveway, dust billowing up behind me, I eye the box of Froot Loops in the passenger seat. They're for Ridley.
Not once have I stepped over Ridley's boundaries. She told me what she wanted, and I'm attempting to follow her requests while still pining over her. It's proven to be difficult, but I haven't been smacked and nor has a restraining order been implemented. I'm bringing the Froot Loops because, as I learned from Blakely, Ridley doesn't eat in the morning. Apparently, the pre-riding nerves make her lose her appetite.
I can't accept that. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. She needs the energy—even if she's snacking on fruit-flavoured granola. Should a conversation arise, I'll make my intentions clear. Everything I do is because I just want her in my life. As a friend. An acquaintance. Hell, she could be my enemy and I'd still be happy.
All throughout the drive, I'm lost in thought, rubbing my jaw as Taylor Swift's 'Getaway Car' echoes through the cabin of the truck. Whenever a Taylor Swift song comes on, I imagine these fantasy-like situations with Ridley. I can see us driving down a road into the sunset at an alarming speed, trying to outrun social media and the mongrels who feed it false information. Us taking polaroids in the living room of my lake house or eating breakfast at midnight. And she's the main female character in every guilty pleasure romance novel I consume. The spotlight is on her in all my unruly dreams.
Ridley may of never intended to infiltrate my mind, but fuck me, she's all I can think about.
Shaking my head, I take a left off of the main logging road and drive down the subtle hill to the parking lot. Ridley's truck is already here, void of her dirt bike but covered in a thick layer of dust. From a distance, I can see her sitting at the starting line. Which is strange. Our first enduro race is coming up, and we've been training on the black diamond trails around Blue Grouse Mountain. I thought she would be up on the trails already.
I pull into a parking slot and miss hitting the edge of a cement block. Feeling sheepish, I turn the music down, shift into park, and cut the engine. Through the windshield, I watch Ridley climb onto her bike, helmet on, and head back up to the parking lot. She stops beside her truck and it's clear she's ignoring me. If the dust isn't a dead giveaway, then the tenseness in her shoulders is.
