“Damn,” she said. She was two seconds slower than her own course record time. What had happened? She thought she had a pretty clean ride, except for the fourth turn, that was a bit sloppy. She took off her helmet and pedaled out of the finish area; another rider would arrive in a few minutes.
“Shannon, you’re bleeding.”
Shannon looked and for the first time noticed blood dripping down her leg. It was flowing pretty freely and her sock had turned from white to red. A drop hit the dirt as she looked at it.
“You’d better get that looked at, honey.”
Shannon found the voice of the endearment and Gail was looking at her with concern written on her face.
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Descent
“Thanks, I will,” she replied, quickly pedaling away from the woman she had taken behind the trailer two nights ago. If she tagged along, it would mean there was something more between them than two people sharing a quickie. She had no intention of letting Gail get that impression.
v
Her destination wasn’t the med tent but the JumboTron where she could watch Caroline’s ride down the mountain. By the time she got there Caroline was crossing the finish line ahead of Shannon, three tenths of a second faster than her. Shannon would be going into the finals tomorrow in second place.
Forty-five minutes and twelve stitches later, Shannon limped to the TKS trailer. Greg Mitchell, Frank’s number one goon and gopher, was standing by the door as if guarding against an invasion. This was a bike race, not the World Cup where sailboat owners kept their keels hidden behind screens so their competitors couldn’t see how their boats were designed. How ridiculous.
Bike racing was as transparent as it got. Everyone knew who rode what bike, the frame composition, the stem length, the crank shaft, gear ratio, front fork rise, and tires. It was open knowledge, but nobody copied each other in an attempt to win. At this level, no two bikes were the same because it was the rider that made them different.
Her bike was a TKS Road Rage with a custom made carbon head tube for precise steering, Shimano disc brakes tuned to her specs, Shimano XTR components, and a one-of-a-kind crankset. Her tires were Kenda Nevegal inflated to 28 psi, and her forks had four-inch travel.“Watch my bike,” she said to the goon. She never left her bike unattended, but Mitchell knew her and his place in her life and would make sure it didn’t ride away.
“What the hell happened?” Frank barked before she stepped her second foot inside. “You’re off by two seconds and Davis is ahead of you.”She forced herself not to hobble to the nearest chair. She practically
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collapsed into it and put her leg up on an adjacent chair. “Nothing, Frank. For Christ sake, it’s only the qualifying ride, not the end of the world. I could ride that mountain with my eyes closed if I had enough time. Tomorrow is when it matters, so get off my back.”
Shannon was uncharacteristically short with her sponsor and by the look on his face, he was not too pleased. She backpedaled. “Look, Frank, I’ll win the race tomorrow. If not, there’s France and Madrid.”
She began pulling off her shirt. She wore an undershirt beneath her chest protector. The pressure suit was injection molded to fit her body and offered the ultimate in upper body protection. With injection molded plastic cups on the shoulder, arms, and forearms, and the high impact breast plate and thumb loops to keep it in place, Shannon always thought she looked like a storm trooper in Star Wars.
“Relax, Frank. TKS is getting plenty of face time and you’ll make buckets of money. Stop worrying and enjoy it.” What she wanted to say was stop acting like a spoiled little boy who had to win every race.
He wasn’t even riding, the fat bastard. Shannon had never even seen him on a bike. Other owners and designers took their creations for a spin once in a while, if not to evaluate the design, then for the sheer enjoyment of biking.
“Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get changed,” Shannon said, effectively dismissing her paycheck.
Finally alone, Shannon sat and surveyed the damage to her leg.
The stitches had closed the cut, and by the throbbing in her calf, the lidocaine was starting to wear off. She looked around the trailer.
The contents were comfortably familiar. She knew more about bikes and components than most of the mechanics. She could probably disassemble and reassemble her bike blindfolded. There were many days she felt more comfortable with her bike than with people.
She was good with small talk. She knew what she had to say to whom, and who to shake hands with. She easily chatted up the sponsors and did all the things society expected her to do, but she rarely related to people on a purely personal level. She went through the motions, said the right things, and did what was required of her, but if anyone in her immediate circle were to disappear or even die, she doubted she would even miss them. The people in her life were superficial and
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Descent
lasted as long as her last win. Pulling on her shorts, she heard the door latch click behind her.
“What a magnificent sight.”
Shannon froze when she heard the voice. Half dressed was not the position she wanted to be in with Nikki Striker. She pulled her shirt on over her bare chest, giving herself a few moments to get herself together.
The wife of her major sponsor had been coming on to her for months. Nikki believed you could never be too rich, too thin, or too forward. Her husband made her the first, starving took care of the second, and she took care of the last all by herself.
It was during the U.S. National Championship series when she had made her first move. Actually, she had probably been coming on to her since her husband signed Shannon, but Shannon was too caught up in her own life to notice. When she finally did, she didn’t know whether to run or take Nikki up on her offer. Nikki became increasingly aggressive until one night she caught Shannon alone in a trailer very similar to the one they were in now.
“Hey, baby,” Nikki had said in a sexy voice. Even though she was on the thin side of Shannon’s tastes, Nikki was five foot five, had a perfect pair of manufactured breasts, long legs, and volumes of billowy black hair.
“Frank left about five minutes ago. You can probably catch him at the media tent.” She bent and tied her shoes and when she straightened, Nikki was directly in front of her.
“I’m not looking for Frank.” The way she came on to Shannon, Nikki was definitely not interested in her husband or his dick. She was the trophy wife with Frank at least twenty-five years her senior.
Shannon knew she was playing with fire but asked anyway. “What are you looking for, Nikki?” Nikki stepped even closer, her eyes bright with what Shannon recognized as lust. Her stomach skirted into her throat. She had to be very careful. If she played this wrong, she could be in big trouble, the least of which was losing her sponsor. No matter her popularity in the series, without a main sponsor it would be difficult but not impossible to continue racing.
Nikki ran a perfectly manicured finger down the center of her
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chest, pausing between her breasts before tracing the TKS letters on her T-shirt. “I’m looking for fun. And I think you’re just the one who can give it to me.”
Shannon wanted to knock the spindly hand away but clenched her fist to her side instead. “Really?”
“Yes, really,” Nikki answered. Her breath smelled like a wintergreen Tic Tac, her perfume Chanel.
“What makes you think that?” Shannon asked, feeling cocky.
Maybe she could just tease her along for the next few races and then she’d be out of her hair.