Faking It (25 page)

“You ride a lot?”

“No.”

“You sit in the saddle as if you give birth in it.”

Fanny laughs again, and my cheeks flush with heat.

“I think you meant to say, ‘You ride as if you were born in the saddle.’”

“Yes, this is what I mean.”

We ride in silence, down sloping hills covered with grapevines, until we come to a forest. The trail narrows as we enter the forest, forcing us to ride two-by-two. Me and Simone. Fanny and Luc.

Simone turns around in his saddle. “Please, if you should look over there,” he says to the group, pointing to caves carved in the side of a rocky hill. “You notice the caves? During World War II, the villagers used them as hideouts.”

While Simone regales us with stories about courageous villagers who resisted the Nazis, I tug on the reins, hoping to fall back and ride beside Luc.

Dammit!

No matter how hard I yank on the reins, my horse refuses to change his pace. The miserable beast seems determined to keep me beside Simone.

I am about to turn in my saddle to smile at Luc when Simone leans over and puts his hand on my hips.

“Do like this,” he says, guiding me up and down. “Squeeze your thighs and move with the rhythm of the horse. You feel it, no? You feel the rhythm? Up, down, up—”

“Yes, I feel it.” I smack his hands away. “Thanks.”

My body language is screaming back off, but it must be screaming it in English because the Italian isn’t getting it. Most guys would have gotten the message after getting their hands smacked. Not Simone. He’s sitting on his horse, grinning at me like a lovesick teenager. It’s a little discombobulating.

I’ve encountered my share of handsy perverts. You can’t avoid them in a city as big as San Francisco. Ride the BART on any given evening, and you’ll probably have your personal body-space invaded by a pervert or two. I’m not proud to admit I’ve had more than a few pervos press their penis against me while riding the train. My friend Grace spent a year in Ireland as a foreign exchange student, and she said the Irish call that particular breed of pervo a
titmickey
.

I don’t think Simone is a titmickey, though. I’m not getting the pervo vibe from him. He seems like a sweet slightly over-eager guy. In fact, if Luc didn’t exist, Simone’s attention would be flattering.

But Luc does exist and if I’m reading
his
body language right, he’s not too happy with the handsy horseman.

We leave the shady forest and enter a grassy clearing. Before departing the corral, Simone explained we would ride to the Castello di Trebbio, a fourteenth century castle built for Cosimo de Medici. The castle is perched on a hill on the other side of the grassy clearing.

“I must check on the others now,” Simone says, wheeling his horse around. “I come back, okay?”

He gallops to the rear of the group before I can even respond. Fanny nudges her horse forward. Luc does not.

“Girrrl,” Fanny whispers, “you must be emitting some pretty potent pheromones. You’ve got the Italian and the Frenchman under your spell.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening here. I never get this much male attention in San Francisco, aside from the pervos on the BART.”

Fanny rolls her eyes at me. “Whatever.”

“I don’t.”

“Vivian, you could have been drowning in male attention the last few years, but you were too busy erecting the Nathan Dam.” Fanny glances over her shoulder at Luc and then back at me. “You convinced yourself Nathan was perfect and that you had to be perfect to keep him. I don’t think there’s a man alive who could have gotten through to you…not even Jean-Luc.”

Simone returns with the same silly smile on his face. “We gallop now, no?”

He reaches over, slaps my horse’s rump, and the faithless beast takes off like he’s Seabiscuit completing the final stretch for the Breeder’s Cup.

I don’t give a broken-down nag what Simone said about me being a natural horsewoman, I am bouncing around in the saddle so much my teeth are rattling together. Rhythm? I’ve got no fucking rhythm. I’m like some discordant jazz piece—all over the place.

I wince each time my tattooed ass cheek makes violent contact with the saddle. Sweet Seabiscuit it hurts. It
really
freaking hurts.

I think someone is yelling at me, but I can’t hear anything over Seabiscuit’s thundering hooves, and I am too afraid to turn around.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Luc riding beside me. Luc has galloped to my rescue! Thank God, because my ass hurts so bad it’s brought tears to my eyes.

“Pull back on the reins,” Luc yells.

I pull back, but my satanic steed keeps going.

“Pull hard, Vivia.”

“I am!”

My possessed pony picks up speed, like he’s punishing me for yanking on the reins.

“Stay calm,” Luc says. “Now grab the left rein, only the left. You’re going to turn him. It will slow him down. When I tell you, pull the reins up toward the sky. Not too fast though.”

“Okay.”

“Hold on to the horn with your free hand.”

I clutch the horn in a death grip.

“Ready?”

I nod.

“Pull up, Vivia.”

I follow Luc’s directions, pulling the left rein toward the sky, and my horse turns in a wide circle. He’s still racing but not as fast.

“Do it again, Vivia,” Luc yells. “With the other rein. Keep alternating until he stops.”

I grab the right rein and yank it toward the sky. “Stop, motherfucker!”

“Keep pulling!” Simone shouts.

My horse turns in the opposite direction. I grab the left rein and repeat the process. Miraculously, my satanic steed slows to a gentle trot.

Simone and Luc reach me at the same time. Simone leans over and grabs my reins.

“You are okay, no?”

“My legs are trembling uncontrollably, and my bum feels like Mike Tyson used it as a speed bag, but other than that, I am great.”

The sarcasm is lost on the Italian, but not the Frenchman.

“Get off the horse, Vivia.” Luc says. “We’ll walk to the castle. It’s not that far.”

Simone frowns. “She is great, no?”

“No!” Luc barks.

Fanny has finally caught up to us and has reined in beside me.

“Jesus Christ, Vivia!” She pushes her hair out of her face with a shaky hand. “You scared the shit out of me. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“I promise.”

I’m totally lying, but Fanny is really upset. The color has drained out of her face and her voice is all wobbly. I’ve never seen my calm, cool, collected best friend this shaken.

“I’m fine, Fanny.” I plaster a grin on my face. “Just another adventure to tweet about. Did you get a picture?”

“Very Funny.”

Fanny doesn’t look amused. She turns to Jean-Luc.

“That was pretty impressive riding, Jean-Luc. Thanks for saving my girl.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling at Luc. “Thank you, Luc. You were amazing.”

The rest of the group arrives and forms a circle around us. Mrs. Rosenthal asks if I would like to borrow her sweater. One of the divorcees offers me a swig from a silver flask. Kayla is staring at me with a look of awe on her face. The kid is beside her, grinning.

“Did you know the average speed of a galloping horse is—”

“Shut up,” Kayla snaps. “Not now, you moron.”

“—thirty miles an hour,” the kid finishes. “At that speed, you could have—”

“Shut up!” Kayla and Mrs. Byron cry in unison.

“I’m fine, really.”

“We’re walking the rest of the way,” Luc repeats, vaulting from the back of his horse.

I would love to slide off this demonic animal and walk with Luc, but my stupid, stubborn pride won’t let me. It would be like admitting defeat…again. I’ve accepted I’m never going to be a competitive cyclist. I’ve accepted that I will be the last to finish every single one of our remaining rides, but I won’t let some stupid horse stamp a big old “L” on my forehead. I am not going to be the loser. Not today.

“I’m riding to the castle.”

Luc and I stare at each other for several breaths. He must see the determination in my eyes, because he swings himself back up onto his horse.

“We finish the ride, no?” Simone says.

“Yes.”

“Thatagirl,” Mr. Rosenthal says, pumping his fist.

I nudge my horse with my heels and head for the castle. Simone is hot on my hooves. We are almost at the castle when he tries to engage me in chit-chat.

“Where do you stay?” he asks.

“Agriturismo La Lucianna.”

Simone beams at me. “You sleep on top of me?”

I hear Fanny’s chuckle somewhere behind me.

“Is that a question?”

“My home, she is just down the hill from La Lucianna.” Simone says. “You sleep on top of me tonight, no?”

Luc maneuvers his horse between us and says something to Simone in rapid Italian. Simone’s gaze flicks to me and back to Luc.

“
Scusi. Scusi
.” He turns his horse around and gallops toward the rear of the group.

“You speak Italian?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say to him?”

Luc smiles at me. “I told him you wouldn’t be sleeping on top of him tonight, or any night, because you sleep on top of me.”

It’s a bold presumptuous thing to say, and it makes my pulse race and my breasts tingle.

“Am I?”

“What?”

“Sleeping on top of you tonight?”

Luc grins. “You like the hard ride, no?”

“Yes,” I say, grinning back at him. “Yes, I do.”

* * * *

Chantal is waiting for us at the castle. She’s wearing another of her chic suits and holding a clipboard.

“Welcome to Castello del Trebbio,” she says. “Take a look around, would you believe this storybook castle was once home to a scheming pack of murderers?”

Chantal leads us through the castle’s many rooms and dungeons, while keeping a running monologue about the historical significance of the structure. I’m sure her lecture is fascinating, but all I hear is
bwahbwah bwah bwaaaah
. It’s like I’m in a Charlie Brown cartoon.

All I can think about is going back to the Agriturismo, getting naked, and falling asleep on Luc’s broad chest.

The tour ends in the gift shop, where we are encouraged to take part in a wine tasting. We taste the wine, nibble on prosciutto, taste the wine, nibble on cheese, and taste more wine.

When I finally climb back on the satanic steed, I’ve got a belly full of liquid courage and a warm, fuzzy buzz on. Luc is riding beside me. If it weren’t for my sore bum, all would be right with my world.

We’re just entering the forest, when Mother Nature decides to kill my buzz with a cold shower. Not a little summer misting, but a torrential downpour.

By the time we ride into the corral, we are soaking wet and splattered with mud. My buzz is gone. I am cold, tired, and my ass hurts. I feel like…

Like I’ve been rode hard and hung up wet.

Cheating with an Italian

Text to Camilla Grant:

Tuscany is beautiful. Eating loads of pasta and drinking gallons of wine. Considering purchasing a villa, having an affair with a man named Marcello, and helping my lesbian BFF raise her bastard baby.

Text from Camilla Grant:

It’s Mum. How can you afford a villa in Tuscany? Who Marcello? Fanny is a lesbian? What is happening?

Text to Camilla Grant:

Just kidding. No villa, Italian lover, or lesbian love child. Haven’t you ever seen Under the Tuscan Sun? Must go now, my wicked, wicked Frenchman awaits.

I take more than a little pleasure in yanking my mum’s cord. I look at it this way: it’s been twenty-five years since my birth, and she still hasn’t cut that umbilical link, so shouldn’t it be my prerogative to give it a good yank every now and then? I know when she read my text about Marcello and the lesbian love child, she pulled out her Standard Operating Procedures Manual for Managing Vivia Crises. I’m sure she made the sign of the cross and said a little prayer, before blowing up my phone with frantic texts, e-mails, and voice messages. Unable to reach me, she moved on to step two: blowing up Fanny’s phone with frantic texts, e-mails, and voice messages. Steps three through thirty-nine involve enlisting the help of neighbors, clergymen, civic leaders, and law enforcement officials. I’m prone to exaggeration, but I am
not
exaggerating my mum’s enmeshment issues. I told her the Italian lover/lesbian love child story because she would have freaked if I told her the truth: that I planned to spend the night making love with a wicked hot Frenchman.

I push thoughts of my mum away and think about Luc.

We made love in his room last night. It was different from the other night on the picnic table. Less frenzied. No crazy-hot monkey sex for my sorry speed-bagged ass. Luc didn’t seem to mind, though. Hard. Slow. I guess he likes it either way, too.

“
Bonjour, jolie
!” Luc whispers in my ear. “Time to get up.”

I want to pretend I’m still asleep so Luc will keep kissing and holding me. I love the way it feels when he wraps his arms around me.

“Vivia.” He kisses me again. “Wake up.”

“No, not yet.” I reluctantly open my eyes. Luc is smiling at me, sexy with messy morning hair. “Can’t we just stay in bed all day?

“
Non, mon amour
.”

I like it when he calls me his love.

Just then my iPhone alarm goes off. By the time I climb over Luc and grab it off the nightstand, Ronnie has finished singing.

I turn off the alarm and roll over. Luc is smiling at me in a strange way.

“What?”

“Nice alarm.”

“Thanks. It’s a song by one of my favorite bands.”

“You listen to rock music?”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. This is the part where I vehemently defend post-hardcore, metal, and rock in general.

“I love rock.” I leave out the part about loving Ronnie Radke. “Why, what kind of music did you think I listened to?”

“Pop.”

“No way.”

“I pegged you as a Katy Perry fan.”

“That’s funny, because I pegged you as a Belieber.”

We laugh. He pulls me onto his chest and wraps his arms around me.

“I wish I could freeze this moment. I want to remember you like this, naked and lying on top of me.”