Chapter 20
Cole
Between work, motorcycles and horses and Kensington’s volunteer time at the equestrian center, we didn’t, as far as I was concerned, have enough time together. It was the first time I’d ever felt that way about anyone.
We were starting our Saturday together at a freestyle motocross contest. Denver and Rodeo were competing, and I was there to watch and learn. I’d already had plans to watch the contest but wasn’t completely sure Kensington would be up for it. But I’d forgotten how damn cool she was. She was even excited about it.
We’d had what could have been called autumn for about three days, but now we were back to the sun beaming down on the parched California earth with no clouds or breeze to soften the blow. Most of the stands were filled with a sea of fitted hats, sunglasses and the usual FMX cluster of fans.
We’d found space on a bench just two beer bellied, bearded guys from the bleacher steps. Max and Bobby were decent enough seat neighbors, friendly and not shy about checking out Kensington. We’d only seen the warm-up, and already, Max, clad appropriately in a pair of loose-fitting, ass-crack revealing sweat pants, had been downing nachos and hot dogs as if today were the last day on Earth that they’d be serving food. Bobby was a little more subdued on the food chowing, but he said fucking hell a lot.
Kensington reached over and grabbed a nacho chip from my plate. She wriggled her ass on the metal bench of the bleachers in an attempt to get comfortable. “Now I see why my mom always carried around that embarrassing butt pad when she came out to watch a horse show.”
I picked up a chip and licked the cheese drip off before it fell back onto plate. “You could sit on my lap, but I’d probably end up dragging you back to the truck for a front seat make-out session.”
“That might be a problem in broad daylight.” She chewed her chip and untwisted the top on her water bottle. “So, it’s the best of two runs on this jump course? Then the judges give a score up to one hundred based on the tricks?”
“Fast learner. But I already knew that.”
“It’s a little like competing in a horse show, where you ride your horse through a course of fences.”
“Except the horse has a mind of its own. And the motorcycle doesn’t.”
She shrugged. “True, but if your horse is well-trained and you’re a good rider”—she pointed to her head—“you become one with the horse.” She smiled. “As long as a squirrel or gust of wind or some other terrifying, unexpected event doesn’t break that bond. Then, yes, they have a mind of their own, and it’s not always a rationally thinking one.”
The announcer’s voice barreled down on us from overhead speakers. Denver was the first rider on the course. The crowd gave a big cheer. He always came out looking cool and relaxed as if he was just about to stroll a city block instead of ride a freestyle course. It was one of the reasons the crowd liked him so much.
“Denver is so smart,” Kensington said. “He was telling me about the app he’s working on to keep track of vitals when a rider is running a course.”
“Yep, that is our Denver from Boston. He rides and competes smart too. It’s like he’s calculating distance between jumps. He’s really precise with speed and lift. He knows when to risk it and when to back off. I’ve only seen him get hurt a few times, and they were just flukes. Now, Rodeo is a whole different kind of rider. He’s a good competitor, and he takes crazy chances, which you sort of need to do in this sport. His hair on fire attitude is a plus and a minus for him. He’s had plenty of trips to the emergency room.”
Kensington took my hand and laced her long fingers between mine. “What kind of rider are you?”
I thought about the question. “I guess I’m right between the two of them, semi-smart and semi-hair on fire.”
Denver started with a Superman seat grab flip and moved on to a lazy boy.
Kensington watched with excited interest. “See, I never jump a horse while taking both my hands and feet off. That’s crazy. Talk about being one with the animal you’re riding, even if it’s a motorcycle.”
Denver rode the course almost like a machine, perfect precision and no sign of hesitation. His final jump was a kiss of death backflip, and it raised a roar in the crowd.
Kensington glanced around and turned to me. “That looked fun and scary. It was good, right? I’m going to assume by the big cheer that Denver did well.”
I loved that she wanted to know about the contest. “He did. Not the best I’ve seen from him, but he’ll get a good score for sure.”
Denver waved to the crowd and rolled back toward the pits, where his team was waiting for the results. My eyes surveyed the crowd, not for any reason but to see who was there. My gaze smacked right into Nate Harkin’s angry scowl. He was six rows up and over a few seats. I glanced over at Kensington, but she was too busy taking in all the sights. She’d been to motocross races but never to a freestyle contest. She was curious about everything and always in a good mood. It was damn refreshing to be with a girl like her. I’d been with too many uptight whiners. Just thinking about some of them made me shake my head.
Kensington caught the movement and smiled at me. “Who are you shaking your head at?”
“Myself. I was just thinking that if I had a dollar for every minute I’d wasted with women who really weren’t my type or any fun, for that matter, then I’d be a rich man.”
She raised her smooth brow at me. “As opposed to what you are now?”
“Right. I’ll rephrase that, if I had a minute back for ever minute I’d wasted with boring, uncurious, complainers, then—then I’d be ten years old right now.”
The stands vibrated with a cheer as Denver’s score of eighty-eight went up on the digital sign.
Kensington pointed at it. “If it’s out of a hundred, then he did well, right?”
“Yeah, most riders would be stoked about that score, but I know Denver and he’s never happy with ‘good enough’. He always has visions of a perfect score floating through that busy brain of his. But a hundred is a rare score for anyone, even Denver.”
After a few more riders, the announcer called out Parker “Rodeo” Stevens. Kensington stretched up to see Rodeo as he rode out of the pits. “He looks kind of amped up, but I guess he’s always like that.”
“Yeah, he’s got an entirely different style than Denver. He’ll definitely throw the bike up there for some gnarly tricks without much fear or concern for consequences. But then his moves aren’t as refined, and the judges like to see things tight.”
“From the few times I’ve talked to him, I could see him out there breaking colts as a kid. He seems to thrive on the possibility of a painful calamity.”
I laughed. “Painful calamity. Shit, I need to start writing this stuff down in a book.” I leaned over and kissed her. “And I’ll title it ‘cute as hell Kensie sayings’.”
“The fact that you’re so entertained by my vocabulary makes me wonder just what kind of cardboard women you’ve been dating all this time.”
“Cardboard women, there’s another one for the book.”
Rodeo’s signature entry song “Sympathy for the Devil” blared through the speakers as he rolled to the start. “That boy does know how to make an entrance,” Kensington spoke over Mick Jagger’s infamous howl at the beginning of the song.
The song always got the crowd vibrating, making the spectators as amped up as the rider. Kensington took my arm and scooted closer. “To tell you the truth, I’m feeling a little jittery about watching him ride. That was what my mom used to call her case of nerves whenever it was my turn on the jump course.”
“Nah, he’ll be fine.”
“Kensie?” a deep voice said from behind. Kensington tensed next to me, and I didn’t need to look back to know it was Harkin.