The Set Up (20 page)

Fuck!

Pure, undiluted desire rushes through my veins at the sight. She’s wearing a tight little white tank top, plain but somehow extremely sexy. It’s 50–50 if she’s wearing a bra. She has small but perky tits that don’t need one. Fucking sexy as hell. And don’t get me started on the even tighter black biking shorts. With very little imagination I can easily picture her naked.

Not cool.

Not cool of me at all.

I have to draw in another deep breath and force myself to remember why I’m here.

“Come in.”

My gaze darts to hers, but she doesn’t step aside.

“Wait,” she says, looking torn.

I say nothing, expecting her to tell me she’s changed her mind and that she wants me to leave.

“I just want to say I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did. How you choose to live your life isn’t any of my business.”

Shame
isn’t a word I’ve thought about in years, and yet it resurfaces now. This time I say nothing, because there is nothing I can say.

“So if it’s okay with you, let’s just both forget it.”

I can tell she’s not comfortable talking about it, and neither am I, so I give her a nod. But I find myself wondering what we are going to forget—what I told her and her reaction, or the fact that I kissed her. I want to ask her. I don’t, because even if she can forget that kiss—I can’t.

She takes a step back. “I just have to put my sneakers on,” she says in that sweet voice that makes my blood hum.

I should wait in the hall, but I don’t want to start this “meeting,” for lack of a better word, looking like an ass.

And so, I step inside and try really hard to avoid looking anywhere but in her eyes. “There’s no rush.”

“Really, I’m ready, Jasper,” she insists.

My name slips out of her mouth casually, almost like an afterthought. Still, it makes me feel connected to her by more than just the past we share. And it makes me want to hear her say it again, in a completely different setting, maybe with no clothes on.

Yeah, so I am an asshole, but we already know that.

Before she gets too far away from me, I step close and outstretch my hand. “You have some toothpaste . . . here.” My thumb traces the corner of her mouth, which opens at my touch.

Fuck, her lips are softer than I remember.

The tip of her pink tongue hovers just outside them and makes me want to slide my thumb into her mouth’s heat. “Thank you,” she says, jerking back and licking around her mouth one last time. She’s nervous.

I hope it’s not because I practically forced her to come with me today.

“Where are we going, anyway?” she asks and then drops to the floor next to where her sneakers are.

What is it with my fascination with the way she moves? The way her legs bend, how her arms reach all the way to her toes, even the way she fucking ties her laces.

Pale blue eyes glance up at me, waiting for a response.

Quickly, I blink out of it. I was just planning on showing her the dangers of the area she lives in, but now I don’t feel like that’s the right choice. “There are a ton of options. Where do you usually ride?” I ask.

Sneakers on, she stands up, ready to go.

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from groaning.

Talk about a plan backfiring.

I’m so screwed today.

“Nowhere. I haven’t gotten on my bike since I moved to Detroit. On Mackinac Island, though, I rode everywhere. The island was only eight miles in circumference and when I wanted something more challenging, I ventured onto the hiking trails in the park or biked up to the bluffs. So I’m up for anything.”

Up for anything?

Pushing my dirty thoughts aside, I know what she means and it has nothing to do with sex. With that said, the location for today’s ride is a simple choice. “Belle Isle, then.”

She nods, and there’s a slight smile on those lips I tasted last night. “It’s actually on my list.”

“List?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, lowering her gaze. There’s a glimmer of shyness and apprehension there that I find both endearing and scary as hell. “I don’t remember much about living in Detroit,” she says, “but a few of the memories are really vivid. So I made a list of places I want to revisit, and Belle Isle is one of them.”

The lump in my throat is hard to swallow. I know what she’s about to say and I’m not certain I want to hear it, but it’s not like I’m still eight and can cover my ears.

She grabs a small bag, her sunglasses, and keys from the counter. “I’m ready,” is all she says.

Not what I expected, and I’m not sure whether I’m happy or sad that she didn’t want to talk about the time my father brought us both to the Raceway at Belle Isle Park and we sat in the stands on the fifth turn to watch the Championship Auto Racing Teams compete.

CART racing was permitted on Belle Isle years ago when a temporary street race circuit was engineered on the 982-acre park with some thirteen turns. Cars would complete seventy laps at speeds over 180 miles per hour. Sadly, the year we went was one of the last full seasons of competition allowed. With the fall of Detroit also came the fall of the Raceway at Belle Isle Park. However, last year, in an effort to raise money, Alex Harper leased Belle Isle to the state of Michigan, and they reinstated CART racing this past June on a temporary basis. The season was short, the races few, but I believe the income was sufficient to warrant another run at it next year.

Considering I haven’t moved from my position just inside the doorway, I avert my gaze and try to erase the memory. “Let’s go, then,” I tell her as I open the door and hold it for her.

The sweet smell of honeysuckle wafts by me as she passes, and I find myself wanting to get closer to inhale her scent. When she turns and I haven’t cleared the way, our bodies lightly touch, and there’s a zing between us. We stand that way, neither of us moving, both breathing heavily. I want to kiss her. I shouldn’t be thinking this. I’m going to kiss her. But then the sound of a door closing down the hallway knocks some sense into me. “I’ll grab your bike,” I tell her.

“Thank you,” she says quickly, turning to lock her door.

Together we walk down the hall, and I press the button for the elevator.

“I hope it’s working today,” she says.

It opens and we take it. The ride in the elevator and the walk down the street are spent talking about cycling. Speeds. Terrain. Gears. The strangest thing is that even in the midst of all the chaos in my life, being with her makes it all so much easier to handle.

Charlotte watches patiently as I secure her bike behind mine on the bike rack. When I’m done, she starts to walk toward the passenger door and I take hold of her wrist. “Charlotte, we were friends a long time ago, and I don’t know what we are anymore, but I want you to know if you’re not comfortable coming out with me today, I don’t want to make you. We can sit right here on the curb and say what needs to be said.”

Eyes the color of the sky overhead stare back at me. “Jasper, if I didn’t want to go with you today, I wouldn’t be here right now.”

Looks like that shy little girl isn’t going to do everything I tell her to do anymore, and I hate that it turns me on even more. I’m not sure if that’s good or bad. All I know is that I’m fucked. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Both of us in the car, I’m on the road and trying not to think about the fact that today might be the last time I see her. Even if she gets her job back at
The Detroit Scene
, everything about the factory is up in the air right now and there is no way spending that kind of money on advertising makes any sense. Luckily, the contract hadn’t been signed, and Will was able to get out of it. With the police having put the land auction on hold pending Eve’s death investigation, it leaves the guys and me having to scramble to consider putting together a Plan B.

I’m against it.

For now I’m going to focus on the present only. Yesterday is still haunting me and the future is in too much turmoil. Tomorrow, both yesterday and the future will manifest themselves into my life all on their own.

A series of concrete cantilevered arches connects Detroit to Belle Isle. The MacArthur Bridge is just over a half mile long. Even with its five lanes and wide width, it still has an annoying speed limit of fifty miles per hour. Not slow, but definitely not fast, either. It irks me, because something about driving over a bridge makes me want to drive fast and at fifty I’m not even close.

Sign after sign alerts us as to what we can find ahead. Sketched by the same architect who designed New York City’s Central Park, Belle Isle is the biggest municipal park in the country. Various entities call Belle Isle home, including the Dossin Great Lakes Museum, the Detroit Boat Club Crew, the Detroit Yacht Club, a municipal golf course, an aquarium, and a Coast Guard post. The island also includes a half-mile swimming beach, the only one in the city, and a nature center.

The bike route is a six-mile stretch that almost borders the outer edge of the racetrack. Out of habit, I head west and park where I always park. I’ve begun this ride in almost every possible spot, but wind direction and speed always seem more favorable starting here. Sunset Drive will start us out going west but quickly changes direction to the south, and we’ll ride the majority of the route heading east and looking out over the river to Canada.

As soon as I remove her bike, Charlotte quickly puts on her helmet. Just as I’m setting my wheels on the ground, she hops on her bike. I’m just locking up the bike rack when she looks over at me. “Where’s your gear, anyway?”

I shrug. “You know, I thought about wearing it but decided against it.”

Feet on the pedals, she starts riding and takes off.

Oh no, she didn’t just do that!

At ten feet away, she yells over her shoulder, “After I beat you to the first turn, I bet the next time we ride you’ll be more prepared.”

Next time?

“Hey, this isn’t a race,” I call out. Laughing, I hurry up and kick my bike into gear, my competitive mode taking over. I can’t let a girl beat me. My legs start pumping faster and faster. At first she’s moving at only about six minutes per mile and I’m easily gaining on her, but then the closer I get, the more I slow down.

Curiosity kicks in.

She’s bent over her handlebars and with the small cinch sack she brought along on her back, her shirt has lifted, exposing her bare skin. Right in the center of her back, tattooed above her tailbone, is a bouquet of bright blue flowers.

I move a little faster.

Get a little closer.

Squint so I can see it better.

Each flower can’t be any bigger than a half inch, and each has five regular-shaped petals that surround a yellow center. I can’t tell exactly how many make up the bouquet as some overlap, but I can tell that they are all attached to a single stem that disappears into the waistband of her shorts.

Kicking it into gear herself, Charlotte rounds the turn and heads south. Arms in the air, she declares victory.

I just shake my head. “You cheated.”

She laughs. “I did no such thing.”

“Right,” I yell out to her, “keep believing that!”

She’s shaking her head and starts pumping her legs faster. I’m right behind her. She takes the next turn with ease and heads east. I keep my pace. The wind is lighter in this direction and she’s moving faster even though we’re going uphill. My cadence starts to slow and I shift gears. Pumping faster, soon enough I catch up. With the sun shining down on us, we ride the stretch overlooking Canada next to each other.

I look over at her and catch her glancing at me. She quickly puts her eyes back on the road ahead, but the pink staining her cheeks and that smirk tipping her lips are the telltale signs she knows she’s been caught.

We play this game a few more times. Me just wanting to watch the way she moves; her, I’m not certain.

Just as we pass the Coast Guard Station, I make my muscles burn and pump as hard and as fast as I can until I finally take the lead.

“Hey!” she yells.

I toss her a rueful grin but refrain from saying, “Eat my dust.”

Like I said, I’m competitive.

As soon as we turn to head north, I shout over my shoulder, “This way,” and veer to the right. The trail takes us off the main bike route and onto a forest-like area with slightly rougher terrain. Dirt. Rocks. Grass. Nothing terribly difficult to navigate, but there is a steep incline making it not an easy ride.

The marble lighthouse at the top has a newly erected gate surrounding it, preventing anyone from getting too close. Not necessarily a bad thing. It keeps people from bothering to come all the way to this part of the isle. Personally, I love it up here on the bluff. It’s quiet, but the flowing waters from Lake St. Clair into the Detroit River keep it from turning into deafening silence. And the view isn’t that bad either.

The trail starts to become thicker and harder to ride the closer we get to the top. Bushes are overgrown and the brush hasn’t been cleared. Tree branches snag my shirt and acorns snap under my tires. Worried about Charlotte, I look back. She’s following me without concern.

Following me just like that eight-year-old girl did twenty years ago.

Trusting.

Adventurous.

And without question.

Following anywhere I would lead her.