Luca?’ Hunter shakes his head. ‘Huh, Ben?’
‘A blend of sound and vision,’ Ben shrugs, raising a bottle of beer on catching Luca’s eye.
‘Huh?’
‘The aural senses send nerve impulses to woman’s carnal core,’ Ben expostulates, knowing it’s bullshit but that Hunter would never think so. ‘At least, that’s my theory.’
‘Huh?’ Hunter repeats, wondering whether it is a finer point of medicine, Ben’s grammar or the effect of the rare beer that is making comprehension a little difficult.
‘Ears, right?’ Travis clarifies.
‘The accent,’ Ben specifies. ‘Luca’s curious blend of Italian and Carnaby Street peppered with Americanisms causes an involuntary chemical reaction in womenfolk.’
Hunter laughs and chinks bottles with Ben and Travis. ‘Way to go, Luca!’
‘You can kissa my ass ’cos I’m not going up that fuckin’ ’ill,’ Ben imitates Luca perfectly.
‘Fucking Al!’ Hunter proclaims, chinking bottles again and taking a good swig.
‘Plus,’ Ben continues in all seriousness, ‘it comes out of the mouth of a perfectly formed, aesthetically pleasing twenty-four-year-old.’
They observe the younger rider, in his element, flirting for England, or Italy, or America. Wherever. Perfect white teeth surrounded by pillowy lips, set into a boyish face atop a beautifully athletic physique.
‘Look at those women,’ Ben remarks objectively, motioning to the throng with his beer bottle, ‘they are utterly bewildered. They are caught in an extreme dilemma.’
‘They are?’ Travis probes, inquisitiveness keeping him in the bar though he’s glanced at his watch and thinks that, at half past nine and after half a bottle of beer, he really should be leaving so he can get eight hours’ sleep. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Well,’ says Ben contemplatively, ‘they don’t know what they want more – to mother him or fuck him.’
‘Je-sus!’ Hunter exclaims. ‘He’s a fucking bike rider.’
‘Exactly,’ says Ben, ‘they can’t decide whether they’d rather run their fingers through those soft, Botticelli curls or grab hold of his buttocks and drive their nails right in.’
‘Go, Luca!’ Travis jockeys, ordering another beer and thinking what the hell.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Hunter agrees with admiration.
Luca extricates himself from the tangle of women and saunters over to his team-mates and doctor. ‘You guys, you talking about me, hey? What you saying?’
Bottles chink.
‘You’re a chick magnet,’ Hunter congratulates him so solemnly that it should be impossible to take seriously.
‘Cheers!’ Luca responds ingenuously. ‘Here’s to France and the belle femmes.’
‘Coming hot on the heels of the Giro and all those belle signorine,’ counters Ben.
‘Ah, the Giro,’ Luca says wistfully, as if it were something he’d done as a young man. ‘All those pretty babes in denim shorts and bikini tops, waving and calling your name from the roadside, coming to you at the village départs wanting an autograph—’
‘And being rewarded with your double kiss,’ Travis adds.
‘Gawping, in hot-flushed awe, as your legs were rubbed,’ Ben remembers.
‘All our legs are rubbed at the finish,’ Luca remonstrates.
‘Yes,’ Ben says, ‘but the rest don’t spread their limbs quite so wide while maintaining unflinching eye-contact and suggestive smiles with young ladies.’
‘I’m a young man, man,’ Luca shrugs, ‘and strong. I’m a bloke. The crowds, the passion, the girls – vive le Tour.’
‘OK guys,’ says Hunter, suddenly horny from the beer, the conversation, the freedom of the evening and the realization that he won’t see his fiancée again for nearly a month, ‘I’m out of here.’
‘Me too,’ says Travis. ‘All set?’
Ben nods approvingly and raises his eyebrows at Luca. ‘You should do the same.’ Luca looks petulantly over to the posse of pussy whose eyes have not once left him. He regards Ben and then nods.
‘I’m going to have a great Tour, hey doc?’ Ben places a supportive hand on his shoulder in response. ‘I’m going to make the sponsors proud and they’ll sign me for next year – with a raise, perhaps elevate my status in the team.’
Ben steers him through the bar and out into the night. The mountains lumber and slumber in dark mauve velvet masses against a sky smattered with an inordinate array of stars.
‘And my Mama and Dad – make ’em proud too,’ Luca continues. They stroll to their bikes. ‘Podium girls,’ Luca says, swinging his leg and freewheeling away. Ben catches him and they pedal slowly back to the apartments, the lethargic pace caused as much by their intent conversation as from a little alcohol.
‘Podium girls?’ Ben repeats.
‘Yeah! I want to be flanked, Ben – flanked, kissed and zipped into that yellow jersey – just for a day. I’d die happy.’
‘You can’t die,’ Ben reasons, ‘or you won’t be able to bask in glory, sign more autographs, dish out more kisses and increase your female fan base.’
‘I want to have fun,’ Luca says, ‘you know? On the Tour. On my bike and off. It’s the fuckin’ Tour de France, man – it’s my dream. I’m going to be living it. My goal is to finish in the top thirty in Paris. My dream is a Stage win. My ambition is recognition for my skill, to be recognized by the spectators, the media, my sponsors. Yeah, and the girls!’
They pedal thoughtfully, virtually tasting the imminence of the Tour, the hopes that might be realized or could be dashed.
‘You know,’ Luca says imploringly to Ben as they arrive outside the doctor’s apartment, ‘I don’t mind the hills, I like the flat, I enjoy Time Trials.’
Ben pats him on the back and bids him a good night’s sleep, stressing the word sleep with a slyly raised eyebrow.
‘You’ll have a great Tour,’ Ben says, ‘and it won’t end there.’
Luca grins and spins away.
I want to have fun. I am twenty-four years old and I want the world to know who I am. Luca Jones and the Tour de France – awesome.
Ben closes his apartment door and regards his suitcase, packed and waiting.
‘Let’s have a good race, boys,’ he says, wandering over to the window and rolling down the blind. He sits on the sofa and looks at his fingers. ‘I would rather they ride well enough and safe enough that I end up twiddling my thumbs instead of using healing hands.’
I know what the team are doing with their hands right now, Ben muses as he slips naked between his sheets. Hunter and Travis are running them all over their fiancées’ bodies, with courtesy and their partners’ sexual gratification leading the route. Luca, no doubt, now has a minimum of two pairs of tits to choose from and grope. I’ll put money on him having cycled back to the bar. No amount of sport – indoor or outdoor – alters his testosterone levels.
He switches off the light and wonders whether he’s too tired to masturbate or tired enough not to have to.
Shit, when was the last time for me? And not by me? That girl in Paris with the gecko tattoo?
What was her name, Ben?