Riding down the Via Venti Settembre on my maxi-scooter at the top speed traffic allows, I weave between lanes as Lauren's body presses against my back. She's had her arms tightly wrapped around my waist pretty much since I picked her up at the hotel, making me almost regret nearing our destination.
Nigel has lost his damn mind with this fake publicity plan, but at least it means I get to hang out with Lauren. I've been looking forward to showing her one of my favorite landmarks in Rome ever since we agreed to this.
Of course I can see other benefits, too. My contract is up for renewal at the end of this season, so the chance for extra coverage is too good to pass up. Where I'll end up is uncertain. The only thing I know is that I'm not staying with Cadmium. Both Nigel and I know I'm still the best 3Prix rider in the world on paper even if there are just for two more races until this year's champ is crowned. He definitely wants me to re-up, but after winning last year's title, I set my sights on 2Prix, the next higher category in the series. There were a few teams interested in the spring, but they held off signing me because I'd been all over the rankings. I have to prove that I'm not a risk, even if it means briefly feeding the rumor mill to drive up my—and by extension Cadmium's—worth by bringing in more sponsor money from the increased visibility.
If I play this right and also manage to end the season well out on the track, it may even start a bidding war for where I'll end up. After my win in Malaysia, Pietro said that he'd gotten requests again for meetings, but as the end of this season nears, I care less and less about which team or even how much they're offering. All I want is a ride next year, which I'd take even if they paid shit.
Poor Lauren, though. She looked ready to claw Nigel's eyes out by the time he'd brought up the nickname she hated, only getting on board when I silently agreed.
That last part actually feels good.
She trusts me, in spite of everything that has happened. I know she's worried, but I think this will be good for her, too. Having to do this together will also give us a chance to talk. I missed having her around last week. There wasn't much of a chance for us to chat yesterday in the showroom, but today's outing should change that.
After turning left onto the Via dei Fori Imperiali, there's a tap on my shoulder. Then Lauren points to the huge structure straight ahead. I smile under my helmet and nod. She guessed correctly. We're going to the home of gladiator fights: il Colosseo. Of course, the nearly two thousand year old amphitheater has been used for much more including animal hunts, public executions, and even theater performances. Yet its history will always be connected to the brutal to-the-death battles between man and beast. It's also one of the city's most popular tourist sites, making it a perfect place to be seen without being too obvious about it.
Circling around to the building's east side, I turn into a narrow street and pull up on the sidewalk. After stowing the helmets under the seat and placing a lock around the front wheel, I hold out my hand. "Ready?"
"You sure?" She eyes my offer with suspicion, and now I wish I'd just stuck my hands in my pockets.
"Yes? No? It is up to you," I say, already feeling rejected. Putting on a fake show of liking each other may be harder than I thought. Perhaps I shouldn't have agreed to it, after all.
But she not only takes my hand, but also weaves her fingers through mine and squeezes. "Let's do this."
Her touch feels natural, and I hold back a grin as we run across the street at the nearest crosswalk, stopping at the edge of the pedestrian-only space around the Coliseum's perimeter. Nicola gave us a basic playbook: post on social media just enough to capture interest, then let the Internet do its thing.
Time to get to work.
"This looks perfect, no?" I point to three actors in Imperial costumes outside the main entrance. One is dressed as a Centurion soldier, another as a gladiator, while the last is Caesar himself, complete with toga and gilded laurel leaf crown.
Lauren nods. "Do you want to start or should I?"
"Does it matter?" I ask, letting her take charge. If she's going to be a reluctant participant, she may as well have most of the control.
She purses her lips while she thinks, and I have to really concentrate to hear what she's saying over my increasingly indecent thoughts. "You have loads more followers, so you go. I'll share the post and then we'll switch," she says, letting go of my hand to approach the entertainers.
I love how seriously she's starting to take this, especially after her initial objections. I also take a moment to admire how good she looks walking away. Nothing can match Lauren in her leathers (and I realize how strange it is for me to find that so goddamned sexy), but her outfit today comes in at a close second. Okay, third. How can I forget that silky black number at the Barcelona gala?
The skin tight, red jeans, black ankle boots, and cream-colored bomber jacket decorated with Japanese art is flashy enough to suggest she spent a bunch of time and money on it, but casual enough to reasonably deny it. Corinne Schwarz has nothing on her. Lauren could walk the Milano runways, and she'd seem right at home.
She topped the outfit off with a light, logo-free baseball cap, and her brown ponytail—pulled through the opening in the back—freely swings left and right as she moves, drawing my eyes to the bare nape of her neck. I bet her skin smells amazing.
Focus, you fool. With a groan, I pull out my mobile and join her.
I take a bunch of photos of Lauren surrounded by the actors, some with her arms around their shoulders, others with her fake-kissing Caesar's cheek, and a few of her defeating the gladiator with his own sword. I jump in for the final ones, getting a couple of good selfies of all five of us squeezed into frame. Before moving away, I slip each guy a ten Euro banknote.
Lauren looks over my shoulder as I open Instagram. While I occasionally browse the site, my last post was three months ago, so it's a good I'm still logged in. I'm not sure I could have remembered my password on the spot if I weren't. I choose one of the group pictures where Lauren is looking at me instead of the camera, a sly smile playing on her lips. Nigel and Nicola can't complain. It'll definitely get a reaction from my—holy shit, two hundred forty-two thousand—followers.
#ilColosseo #Roma #SundayFunday #teammates #BianchiNo1 #Dimas83 I tag the photo before uploading, and it cross-posts to my Twitter and Facebook pages automatically. Nicola had set up that option a while back to encourage me to share more details of my private life. What do you know? It finally came in handy.
"Do Snapchat, too," Lauren suggests, so I open that app next.
After adding a jewel crown with the filters to Lauren's head as she slays the gladiator, I finish with a caption: badass beauty. If that doesn't get attention, nothing will.
"Aww, I'm flattered." Lauren giggles as the image posts. "Good job."
"Thank you." I don't admit that the description is how I really feel and is not just about teasing our fans or the media. Locking my mobile, I stick it back in the pocket of my dark jeans. "We go inside now?" I ask.
"After you." She bows and gestures toward the entrance at the base of the outer wall's three-story, stacked arcades. This girl knows how to have fun when she lets herself go, and I'm quite enjoying being around for it.
Nicola had booked us self-guided e-tickets, so we don't have to wait long to get in. We can go anywhere except for the underground chambers, but the hidden spaces below the arena floor are reserved for guided tours and aren't exactly ideal for making public displays, anyway.
We move with the flow of the crowd. Lauren's hand finds mine again when we squeeze through a bottleneck up narrow stairs to the first tier of seats, and I take it gladly. Stopping at the edge of a railing on the long end of the oblong structure to take in the panoramic view, I notice we're being watched.
The young couple further down the railing can easily be racing fans; the guy is even carrying an open-face helmet. Nudging his girl while looking at us, he probably recognizes me or Lauren, perhaps even both of us.
"I think it is already working," I whisper, leaning closer. "I am going to put my arm around you. Pretend I say something funny and laugh, okay?" Letting go of her hand, I slide my arm around her waist. Her body fits perfectly against mine, and I gasp at how good that feels.
"Why don't you think of something funny so it doesn't have to be fake?" she asks with a devious pout.
My mind goes blank, and I freeze. Sure, I have a pretty good sense of humor, but not usually on demand.
She throws her head back and laughs. "I'm just messing with you." She leans in, and only her cap lid stops her from getting even closer. "I wouldn't put you on the spot like that."
I breathe a sigh of relief, catching a whiff of her fruity-smelling gum. I bet its sweetness has made her tongue taste amazing. And while I realize my thoughts about this girl are becoming increasingly improper, I'm caring less and less about its implications.
"You still laughed," I say slightly disappointed when instead of lingering like I wish she would, she pulls away. "So maybe I am good at this."
Lauren takes my hand again. "You make it easy," she says, before pulling me along the railing to explore the rest of this level.