Spokes (11 page)

Two hours later, he shut the laptop and fell onto the futon. He dragged the comforter over his shoulders, wondering if he'd ever share the lumpy
mattress with Luca again.

The morning he awoke to was clear, nippy, and not a day he needed to work. Did he dare call Luca? He paused, his finger poised over the icon he'd
ganked off the internet, picturing a triumphant Luca at the finish line in Nice a year earlier. Christopher had seen him look nearly that exultant in bed
only a few days ago, and now, it was as if they'd never been together. He took his finger away after a look at the clock. If Luca would talk to
him at all, it wouldn't be mid-morning when he'd have ten to twenty-five eavesdroppers around.

Pulling on double leggings and a windproof jacket, Christopher would do the one thing that would let him feel connected to Luca--he'd
ride. With a hat under his helmet and toe warmers over his shoes, he'd take to the roads north of town. Maybe he'd see the team.

The whir of his chain kept him company, the wind in his face kept him focused, and the traffic zipping past kept his adrenaline up. A gray SUV passed
closely enough to make him wobble in its draft, but the other vehicles gave him wider berth. Traffic would nearly disappear on the lonely roads away from
the city; only other cyclists would pass him. He'd been doing more passing than getting passed these days.

Someone on a bike was probably trying to get around him. Christopher could hear the
zzz
of wheels on road, but no one called out, "Coming
up on the left." If the guy wanted to draft, he could. For a while. Damned if he was going to pull someone all the way out to
Hygiene--if the guy wanted a free ride he could pay for it by leading a while. Stu did. Stu had always been good about trading. And bad about
minding his own business. Asshole. Way too interested in Christopher's social life. Accepting but snoopy. Jerk. Maybe calling him
"bi-curious" would back him off.

By the time Christopher exercised his anger at Stu and the unknown drafter, who was doing a pretty good job of staying with him, he'd gone miles,
up and down a steep but short hill. Time to get off Highway 36 onto a smaller road, a good opportunity for a drink.

"Ever going to talk to me again?" Stu pulled up beside Christopher.

"Didn't know it was you or I'd have gone faster." He could have; his legs weren't burning from the climb.

"I really pissed you off, didn't I?"

"You may have fucked things up with Luca and me, so yeah."

"I was trying to be friendly, Chris." Stu used the opportunity to drink too.

"I didn't tell you about going to dinner the other night because I didn't know if Luca minded you knowing, and it turned out
he really, really minds. I think a closet is damned claustrophobic but that's where he is until
he
decides, not until someone like you
shouts his business to the world. And he's not talking to me either." The sudden prickle of tears had to be from the foul exhaust of a
passing truck, or the wind. No traffic passed, but Christopher didn't move.

"I'm sorry. I didn't even think about that." Stu sounded really contrite.

"I know you didn't. You kiss your girlfriend in public and no one blinks, but he and I can't even stand close
together."

"Why not?"

Stu
'
s not an idiot, he
'
s just never had to think about shit like this.
"He's not out, Stu. He's scared that getting outed will ruin his racing career, and what if he's right?"

"You're out, and it's no big deal."

"That's because we live in the 'People's Republic of Boulder' where everyone's minds are so
open their brains fall out. Maybe most of the other cyclists don't care, but if his team doesn't support him enough, he
doesn't win, or if someone on another team objects strenuously, it could be trouble. You know what sort of dirty tricks get played in a
peloton." He flashed on the image of an elbow thrown at Luca halfway up the Alp d'Huez, next to a long drop and no guard rail, and his
stomach dropped exactly that far.

"Yeah. That's some heavy shit. I'll keep my pie-hole shut."

"Too late now." Christopher stuck his empty water bottle back into its rack. "You can drag me along for a while."

"Sure, sure, now that it's flat." Stu pulled out, heading eastbound.

Must be nice to never have to worry. Christopher didn't live with Luca's kind of fear, not now, anyway. He spent another couple of
miles regretting having lashed out at Luca. He'd apologize first chance he got. If he got another chance.

The white-faced black cattle in the field to the right didn't even look up at their passage, though Christopher marveled at the width they were
attaining. Another month or two and he'd have calves to watch on this route. The thrum of an engine behind him dragged his attention back to the
road--he and Stu both hugged the shoulder more tightly.

The world went kaleidoscope.

Blue below, brown above, white blurring by. Screeching.

Pain.

The world stopped turning--dozens of sharp teeth bit him. Fangs held him upside down, chewing his legs, his back.

Shouting; words he didn't understand. His name. Turquoise and black men rushing, upside down.

His name!

"Luca?"

"We get you, Christopher--don't move!"

Hands on his legs, lifting, making the teeth let go, making the pain dance on skin suddenly wet. Christopher lay flat on the ground, panting through
clenched teeth, wondering what the hell happened to him and--

"Stu!" He tried to sit up. Luca pushed him back down and pressed his jacket against Christopher's thigh.

"Teammates looking after him, Christopher. Stay here." Another rider joined them, pushing his jersey against Christopher's
calves.

"I have to see!" He struggled to sitting, but strong hands pinned him. Red stained through turquoise fabric. If he bled--then
Stu--what? Was he bleeding? Had he broken a bone? Bones? "I have to--"

"Stay, Christopher, stay. You're hurt, you can't help him." Luca pressed harder on his thigh, jamming a sleeve
against his bloody hip.

"The ambulance should be here in a few minutes, Luca." Another turquoise and black figure approached. "Rolf and the others
caught the car."

Car? Stu? Ambula--? "Wha' happened?" Christopher craned to see. A knot of cyclists moved uneasily on the road ahead
of the team car, and much farther down, half a dozen figures on bikes surrounded a white car. Sirens sounded in the far distance, growing closer.

"Car went around peloton, came back to lane too soon. Hit you into fence. Hit Stu. Shh, Christopher, they do what they can for him."

Oh man, if he wasn't moving, they probably thought he had a neck injury, please God, don't let him have a neck injury...Or a
back injury... Fucking car, must have been a helluva breakaway to catch it. Rolf caught a fucking car? But, that car had--what had it
done? Metal against flesh, steel stronger than bone.... His legs, his back--jelly and matchstick man against speeding iron? He fought
again to rise. "Luca... Gotta see Stu..."

He didn't see what signal passed between Luca and the other rider--different hands took over the pressure on his wounds. Luca shuffled
on his knees to hold Christopher to his chest, head cradled against the team logo that covered his heart. "No, Christopher, you can do nothing
for him, you don't want to see... Please believe me... You don't want to see..." The catch in
Luca's voice arrested him, pausing him in his struggle to get to his feet. "You must be okay, stay here..."

The sirens screamed their arrival, going silent but with lights still flashing; the paramedics clattered around, offloading equipment from two ambulances.
The cyclists yielded their places to the paramedics, who waved bright lights in his eyes. "Stu, how's Stu?" he demanded.

"The other paramedics have him," was the only reply, followed by inane questions about "how many fingers" and could
Christopher wiggle his toes.

"Let go, sir," one told Luca, who didn't yield. "Let go! We have to assess him; he may have broken bones and he
needs stitches." Luca did release him, but hovered over them all.

In the end, they strapped Christopher to the backboard, only lifting him to the gurney after slapping Luca away like a mosquito. "No, you
can't ride with him, sir; back away. Back away
now.
" A cop, huge in blue, pulled Luca aside.

"Later, Luca," Christopher croaked. "Tell them what happened."

He could see Stu's form on the other gurney, a blanket over him, not moving when he was loaded into to the other ambulance.
Please not a back injury, not Stu, not a man who lives on his bike...
The doors slammed shut; the vehicle swung around into the westbound
lane. From inside the ambulance the siren wasn't as loud as he'd imagined. Through the tiny rear windows he could see the other
ambulance turn to follow.

No lights. No sirens.

Chapter 10

The emergency room was a blur: hurry up and wait, X-rays, stitches, a blood draw he didn't understand after some garble about "Any
reason we should double glove for blood contact, sir?" An interview by a cop who couldn't believe that Christopher had nothing to add
to the team's assessment of the collision.

"I was upside down in barb wire. No, I didn't see," he explained wearily for the third time. Shouldn't the tatters
of spandex be a clue? And where they'd been cut away to allow the doctors access to his shredded skin?

No one would tell him a thing about Stu. "Where can we reach his parents? Or his other family?" said more than they intended. He had to
hear the words--he had to see. He couldn't believe until he'd seen for himself, and even then, Stu was a prankster. He could
have set this up.... Yeah, right. But--

"I know, but I'm not telling you until I see him, damn it. I know he's dead," finally bought him a few moments
alone with his friend. What was left of Stu lay immobile under a white sheet, his helmet still askew on his head.

"I'm sorry," Christopher whispered. "I'm so sorry." What a half-assed accord they'd
come to--had they made up or were they still working on it when the car struck them? They'd fixed their
friendship--hadn't they? Still there'd been so much they needed to talk about. Christopher stroked Stu's face. Any
other time he'd punch Stu's arm, but now?
Get up, get up, the joke
'
s gone old...
But Stu
didn't open his eyes and yell
Gotcha!

Seventy-two stitches in his legs and back were going to be a bitch, starting with the ride home. The few bucks in his pocket wouldn't pay a cab
from Longmont to Boulder, and the bus would be a special brand of hell. His mother wept, fretted, and begged to drive him home, but since she was in
California, he'd find another way. "I'm not hurt that bad, Mom," he insisted, not saying a thing about his heart,
and refused firmly when she'd planned to fly out and take care of him.

God knew where his bike was--Christopher didn't. Intensely grateful to the woman from Victims' Assistance who drove him home,
he fumbled open his door and fell through.

The futon was empty, though he'd dared to hope Luca would spring up to embrace him. But no. He stumbled to lie flat upon it, the tears coming
now, for Stu, for all the lost hope, for all the things he'd never learn, never do. A few were for himself, for being torn and tattered. A few
more, for not having Luca there to cry on.

The first knocks barely cut through Christopher's fog. but the next set was much louder and demanded attention. Attention he wasn't
willing to give.

"Christopher! Please, let me in!" The familiar voice and the frantic pounding prodded Christopher to drag himself upright enough to
hobble to the door. He yanked it open to admit the one person he was willing to see right now.

"Christopher, oh, Chris..." Luca vaulted through, white plastic bags dangling from his arms, batting against damaged skin.
Christopher clutched him, ignoring the thuds of the bags in his relief that Luca was there. "I came as soon as I could. I'm so
sorry."

So sorry. Words that Christopher expected to hear many times, words both true and useless. "Oh, God, Luca, I can't
believe..."

"I'm so sorry, " Luca repeated, and his shoulders were shaking too. "Poor Stu. And you. Where are
you..." He pulled back surveying the ripped jersey that Christopher hadn't the strength to change, the missing leggings
replaced by traceries of black stitching over livid gashes, covered by snowy bandages that pretended nothing was wrong. His white socks were stained with
blood at the ankles. "Did I hurt you?"

Some. But it didn't matter. Wounds on his back and hip were nothing--he needed to be touched. "Don't worry about
it." Hurting meant he was alive. Stu wasn't. Stu was beyond pain.
Stu....

"Spoken like a cyclist." Luca returned to clutch him, more slowly but no less fervently. "But you will not ride again
tomorrow or for many days, you aren't some stupid pro who can't stop to heal."

"No." It might be a lifetime before Christopher got back on a bike. The cost was too great. The days to come would be filled with too
much sorrow. He hadn't called Liz yet, or Stu's parents. Luca held him, and that was all that kept him from falling.

"I tried to call." Luca spoke into the side of Christopher's head. "It rang but you didn't answer. I worried."

"I didn't hear anything." With his less damaged arm, he groped into the rear pocket of his jersey.
"Great." The phone's glass face was a spiderweb of cracks, and chips protruded. "I need to
call...." To call people who would never be the same for what happened today. He was the last person to talk to Stu, to hear his voice.
They would have heard the news from the police, but they had to hear firsthand from him. They had to have the opportunity to ask questions, or to hate him
for living when Stu didn't.

"Use mine. But not yet. We clean you up first. Feed you." Luca took the ruined unit from his hand. "Makes it
possible."

Yeah. Possible. It would never be easy. Christopher let Luca lead him to the bathroom and strip him of his wounded clothing. He sat, head bowed, on the
edge of the tub while Luca dabbed and scrubbed, rinsing the washcloth in a swirl of pink. He barely helped Luca dress him in a T-shirt and the same loose
shorts that Luca had worn their first night together.