Ride'r Die: Fake It Till You Make It, #2

Ride’r Die

A Gay Romance

(Fake It Till You Make It Book 2)

By L. Loryn

Copyright 2018 L. Loryn

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Table of Contents

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MORE GOOD READS

Part 1

Vano Loveridge adored the smell of hot asphalt and burning rubber because it signified freedom. He had bought his first bike at sixteen, after saving every penny from working two part time jobs. After school one Friday evening, he took a lunch box full of cash and his pride down to the local used car lot and picked the only bike in his price range: the rusted five-year-old bike in the back. Shades of burnt orange replaced what used to be chrome and blue. The plump salesman rubbed his beard, circling the bike as Vano shifted from one foot to the other, jaws clenched together. After a long once over, the salesman graveled out a price. Vano frowned and suggested a lower one.

The back and forth continued three more times before they agreed on a price, leaving the boy with a hundred and fifty dollars left in his lunch box, enough to buy a burger and motorcycle insurance. Two hours later, he drove his motorcycle home with a previously purchased helmet on his head and worn gloves on his fingers. He kicked out the stand and marched inside to a shrill mother, an approving father, and an adoring little sister.

Eight years later, Vano stepped on a professional motorcycle track for the first time. He took deep breaths of the scents of lush grass and the steaming racetrack, heart pounding in his chest. He made fifth place, but he gained a sponsor, a manager, and a handful of phone numbers. Robert Jones, or Bobby as Vano called him, was new to the scene, too, and they hit it off. Sharing the same dark hair and hazel eyes, they looked like brothers and were often mistaken for twins. Bobby secured all manner of sponsors for him, so he could enjoy racing and meeting fans.

When Vano started racing, he raced all the time, but as sponsors and events filled his schedule, racing became a treat more than a job. Vano stepped onto the racetrack before the race, taking a deep breath of the fresh cut lawn. He had his own ritual of centering himself and mentally preparing for the race: he took a moment to remember those who had lost their lives on the track. With his manager yammering in his ear, he suited up, slipping the tight padded suit over his thighs and on his arms, zipping himself up and shrugging, adjusting himself under the fitted leather. He affixed his helmet to his head, tucking wavy black hair away and shielding hazel eyes from the elements.

Bobby screamed last minute reminders as Vano slipped into racing zone, his own reminders playing through his mind. He parted ways with Bobby after he grabbed his custom-built bike, mounted her, and rolled her to the racetrack, weaving around the other racers. He dropped his visor and leaned forward, twisting his gloved hands, and took off when signaled. They started out as a pack, a mass of white noise and energy. Vano hugged the inside, taking the curves with grace as the collection of riders stretched into a line. Some men pushed in the beginning while others maintained the middle, the rest having the misfortune of bringing up the rear.

Vano lost himself in the adrenaline of riding, staying near the front of the group but pacing himself. He leaned into each curve, trusting his motorcycle to work with him like a long-time partner even though they were relative strangers, having received the custom-built bike only weeks before the race. The intoxicating scent of burnt rubber, his lover’s signature smell, filled his nose, promising him a memorable race.

The first laps were a blink of an eye on a bike, and when Vano came out of his zone on the last couple laps, he found himself ahead of the crowd with three riders on his tail, weaving behind him like sharks. Like synchronized swimmers, they traded places, one rider in white taking a sharp curve and floating in front of Vano. He gained his lead back on the next curve, padded knee almost kissing the hot track. They dropped off as the race continued until he was alone with his bike and nature and it became difficult to tell standing.

Bikers dropped like flies from mechanical problems, miscalculations, and other bouts of bad judgements. Winning was an expert combination of luck and driving. To see the last couple miles was an accomplishment, but Vano continued, hitting the last seven laps. Exhaustion crept into his muscles, the smell of rubber shifting from a pleasant smell to a nauseating one. He stamped anxiety from his mind as he rode. Lap fifty-five. Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. The checkered flag. All the tension melted from his body, his back straightened up, and he looked around. He finished with all his limbs, a feat in itself, and finished with first place.

Vano jerked his motorcycle into a wheel stand and slowed, fist-pumping and pulling off to the side. The aftermath blurred together, victory laps with the other finishers, more motorcycle tricks including kicking up smoke. He took his victory lap with the black and white checkered flag.

When he jumped off his bike, Bobby clapped him on the back, filling his ear with excited yammering all over again. He caught words, reminding him to mention his sponsors when he went for the brief after-race interview, growling his thanks to his fans, his sponsors, his manager, and the whole team who kept him safe and on the track. Back in the pit, his fellow racers surrounded themselves with family members bussed in from all over the country. Vano only had Bobby and his pit crew, and he promised them beers for an awesome ride.

Little things extended his day: the after-race interview, a surprise conversation with a small motor oil company, a quick passing of words with a large soda company. Bobby’s words played in his head, telling him to be nice and personable to everyone despite exhaustion, frustrations, or even having to take a good bowel movement. When he was finally unzipping his suit, Bobby came with a cold beer.

Your sister called to say her water broke. She went to the hospital, but she told me not to worry you before your race. Bobby opened both beers, passing one to Vano.

Yeah? Oh, shit awesome. I’m going to be an uncle. It’s a girl, y’know. Vano clanked his beer against Bobby’s before tipping it to his lips, adam’s apple dancing as he guzzled the amber liquid.

Yeah, I do. You’ve been talking about it for eight months, Bobby chuckled, a grin tugging his lips.

Here, let me call her and then we can take the crew for drinks and dinner or something. Vano finished the last of his beer, exchanging it with a modest cellphone and stepping away to call his sister. She had text messaged him with the room number before the race, but he stored his phone away to avoid the distraction. He had a series of missed calls and text messages, some from women he’d met over the years promising they’d watch his race today. He had a few peculiar messages from unrecognizable numbers, but he called the hospital first. He dialed the direct number to her room and waited. Five rings later, he killed the call and dialed the hospital’s main number.

Saint Anne’s, how may I direct your call? A generic nurse’s voice filtered through the phone.

Uh, hi. Yeah, I’m looking for Queenie Loveridge. She should’ve been admitted earlier today?

Queenie Loveridge. May I place you on a brief hold, sir?

Yeah, that’s fine. Vano paced as the soft classical music played instead of the bustling noises of the hospital. Bobby finished his beer and busied himself with his own phone as they waited. 

Hello, Mister… Loveridge? The female voice on the other end was different.

Yeah? Vano grunted.

There was a complication with the birth. Is there any way you can come down to the hospital or perhaps send another family member?

Uh, what kind of complication?

Dr. Bains would prefer to speak with you directly.

Uh, okay. Well, no other family members. I’ll be there. It’ll be a few hours.

Okay, thank you.

Hey, wait. Did she have the baby already?

Oh, yes. It’s a girl.

Cool, Vano whispered, squeezing the phone as pride swelled in his chest. I’ll be there. He ended the call and jumped into another whirlwind. Bobby booked him an immediate flight home. He packed the book he’d been reading a chapter at a time, when he had a free minute, and his only pair of headphones in a sponsor backpack striped with sleek logos. A taxi cab drove him from the racetrack to the airport, and Bobby promised to deal with everything in his absence.

He whizzed through the check-in and security with his modest carry-on bag, leaving forty-five minutes to prowl the secure zone. He bought a magazine for his sister, managed to find a souvenir one-piece for the baby, and ate a packed burrito at one of the airport restaurants. He boarded his flight, filing into his three-person row and securing the coveted window seat, making doe eyes at the two women who filed into his row after him to keep his spot.

The mother and daughter pair asked Vano a few general questions, where he came from and where he was headed. He mentioned his sister had a baby, and they cooed and congratulated him, spurring another round of questioning. Once they buckled in and left the ground, the women relaxed into their seats, curved pillows around their shoulders and e-readers in hand. Vano closed his eyes, leaning against the interior wall of the airplane. The white noise of flying reminded him of riding his bike, and it lulled him into a light sleep. He listened for the informative dings provided by the stewards: when they could remove their seatbelts, use the bathroom facilities provided, and when they started the complementary drink service.

The mother, Sheryl, and daughter, Sherri, requested wine and water for their drinks. Vano ordered a beer after Sheryl nudged him awake. Sherri and the young stewardess giggled at his gravelly voice. By the time the stewardess arrived with their drinks, he had drifted back to sleep. He drank the beer between short naps, nursing it far longer than the two women had with their wine.

When the airplane touched down, he weaved through the crowd, hailing a taxi cab. He tossed his bag in the backseat, filed in beside it, and requested a trip to Saint Anne’s. The one on the other side of town, the driver asked. Vano nodded a confirmation. Rolling his eyes as he watched the meter tick higher, he surrendered seventy dollars when he reached the hospital. Sixty-something for the fare and a couple dollars as tip, since taxi cab drivers never carried change.

The hospital’s lobby was an ice chest, making his dark hair stand on end, skin puckering with gooseflesh. Two lightly crowded sitting areas flanked the information station. Families conversed on either side, huddled together like high school cliques, some smiling, some frowning, and some with an array of mixed emotions. They paused to observe Vano when he strolled past, small backpack on his shoulder, boots thudding on the hospital tiles. He rested one rough hand on the information counter, bracing himself as the nurses rotated on a carousel in front of him. Each one greeted him in turn and promised to help him in one moment. The fifth nurse to greet him finished her mysterious hospital task first and approached the counter. The skinny little girl in faded blue scrubs bounced up to him with a charming greeting. She took his information and tapped on the clunky computer nestled on the right side of the desk.

Mister Loveridge, let me get Doctor Bains for you, the peppiness continued as she instructed him to wait in the provided waiting area while she contacted the doctor. With a nod, Vano wandered to the least crowded waiting area, pacing the length of the patterned rug designating the end of the hallway and the beginning of waiting area two. He peeked at his cell phone before turning it on silent and burying it in his pocket again.

He waited for less than five minutes for a gray-haired doctor to approach him. The doctor shared Vano’s hazel eyes and tanned skin, resembling a long-lost uncle.

Mister Loveridge? The doctor’s thick accent drawled.

Yeah. I’m Queenie’s brother, Vano explained, then winced. How’s she and the baby?

Well. The doctor studied Vano. The baby was born happy and healthy. It’s a girl. However, there were complications during the birth. Doctor Bains paused, wetting his lips.

Vano nodded, chewing over the doctor’s words until they sank in and weighed him down. His sister had passed during the birthing process. Queenie was dead. The doctor’s lips moved again, forming words Vano’s ears were too clouded to hear. The doctor continued, explaining the complications as Vano looked past his head and to the rest of the people chattering around him. The low rumble of the man’s voice explained Queenie’s wishes, though he missed half of them. He caught one part: she left him testamentary guardian of the baby. Trying to rouse life from Vano, the doctor forced his voice to a higher octave. Vano stared at him, eyebrows quirking together in confusion.

Doctor Bains asked if Vano wished to see Roma, the baby, and he walked him down the stretched hallway to the nursery. The trip included a complementary lecture on how they promote an initial mother-baby connection by allowing most babies to stay in the room with the mothers, but since his sister, Queenie, was taken into surgery right after her birth, little Roma went to the nursery where she received regular care from the nursing staff.

Along with several other babies whose parents had elected to send them to the nursery rather than keep them in the hospital room, Roma slept under soft lights with a pink blanket draped over her tiny body. The doctor traded places with a nurse who began reviewing information on the baby. Roma clocked in at 9.7 pounds and 19.86 inches. The routinely administered eye ointment glued her puffy pink eyelids together and a mop of dark curls covered her lumpy head. Vano approved the vitamin K shot and the hepatitis B shot after the lengthy explanation of the benefits of both. The nurse scribbled notes, nodded, and informed Vano the baby would be released to him within the next 48 hours. She encouraged him to go home, take a nap, and come back refreshed and prepared to take his baby home.

Heavy footfalls carried him back through the hospital and out the sliding front entrance. He slumped into a third taxi cab, giving vague directions to the two bedroom he shared with his sister and staring out the window as the city moved around them. The lush foliage lost its luster and the city buildings blended together.

Vano had held his first baby at fifteen years old when his mother’s sister had her first baby. Queenie and his mother squealed with excitement, tapping the baby’s button nose and pinching its tanned cheeks. Vano’s father escaped to the outside, but Vano’s curiosity led him to the gurgling newborn. The women dumped the baby into his arms, instructing him to support the head in the crook of his arm and wrap his other arm around the baby in the awkward position known as the cradle position. When the women deserted him and the baby for shopping, he shifted from the ever-popular cradle hold to holding the baby belly-down over his forearm or nestling the creature against his chest, supported by the crook of his arm.

Each time he found himself