Goosebumps rose on her arms. What if she tried to be a writer? For once, she’d have time. No matter how awful her day had been, there was no reason she couldn’t change her life.
With the new possibilities abuzz in her head, the rest of her dinner was delicious.
As the sun set in a blaze of cotton candy pink and soft orange, she paid for her dinner and left the restaurant. She stood facing the glow and refused to let herself be crippled by fear. What would she do to become a writer if she didn’t have to play it safe? Like a bolt of lightning, it came to her. She could start over somewhere new. Her mind flashed back to the postcard from her cubicle. That was the life she wanted.
Not daring to think too hard, she hopped in the car and drove. She sold her almost new car at a used car lot, called a cab, and got dropped off at SeaTac airport. With the cash from the sale of her car tucked deep inside her purse, she wheeled her suitcase inside the airport, checking that her passport was accessible.
With a deep breath, Anna studied the Departures board and bought a one-way ticket to Barcelona—the first flight leaving for Europe. In three hours, she’d be on a plane.
CHAPTER 2
Isaac
Isaac shut his laptop and leaned back, slumped into his seat. He glanced out his bedroom window at the lush countryside, which was misty and cool this time of year. He relished these days as the Spanish summer would soon scorch the hillsides golden and brown. Another MotoGP season approached. Something inside told him this could be his last, and he didn’t like the uncertainty. He didn’t have a contract for next year and might not receive an offer to sign one. For the first time in his adult life, the future was uncharted.
He pulled out the journal his therapist had given to him two weeks ago. He’d suggested that Isaac write about his relationship with his brother. Until today, it had remained blank, but it was time to do something about his discontent. He wrote in his almost illegible scrawl.
My brother is a legend. A star. The Ronaldo of motorsports. The greatest motorcycle racer of our lifetime, maybe ever. I ride too, but I live and race forever in his shadow. One day, not too far in the future, he’ll retire, and so will I. He has twelve MotoGP championships, several that he ran away with almost uncontested. I scrapped and fought tooth and nail for my championships at lower levels but have never come close in the premier class. That’s my brother’s domain and neveronce have I rivaled my brother’s feats. I’m proud of what he’s accomplished and the small part which I played.
I love Vince and cherish these years we’ve had together. Training and traveling the world, from racetrack to racetrack. He’s my best friend. But when we stop, he’ll still be the brightest star in motorcycle racing history. What will I be? Vince Vasquez’s little brother? I need to find out what else I can be. I want more. There has to be more to life than living for my brother.
Isaac’s chest clamped, squeezing the air from his lungs. Ever since childhood, the family’s life had revolved around Vince, his talent, and his dreams. After a prolonged illness, their father had died six months ago, leaving Isaac wondering about his place in the world and thinking about mortality. If he wanted something more than racing in his life, he’d need to make changes.
“Ready?” His brother appeared in the open doorway. Vince’s dark wavy hair was as unruly as ever, forever stuffed under one helmet or another. Isaac appreciated that his brother’s expressive face wasn’t guarded in the way it was at the racing paddock, or artificial, as it was in front of the TV cameras that dogged his heels from late March until the end of November. At home, he was a different person, someone the rest of the world seldom saw.
“Get a move on. I want to do the usual twenty-four-kilometer loop this morning on the road bikes then hit the weights when we get home. The dirt track can wait until this evening. The season starts in two weeks.” Vince’s eyes gleamed.
“Coming.” Isaac closed the journal. He tried not to draw attention to it as he stowed it inside his desk before following his brother into the long white corridor of Vince’s villa. He’d lived with his brother for almost his whole life, even now at age thirty-two. That was something else that might need to change in the not-too-distant future. Should he get his own home?
Ideas about owning his own place brought all his recent wants bubbling to the surface. He longed for a connection of his own, someone to settle down with. The problem was, he was so busy, it had been years since he’d had a serious girlfriend. Not one had lasted more than a few months in the off-season. Isabella had been the closest, and that had been what? Eight years ago? Maybe he should move out. He could afford it. He wasn’t rich like Vince, but his racing years had left him more comfortable than their middle-class upbringing.
“Hurry up,” Vince’s impatient voice came from halfway down the stairs. “Race you into town.”
Isaac’s musing continued, unconcerned about being left behind, as he leaped down the stairs three at a time. He wasn’t the only one without connections. His brother had never had a serious girlfriend either, or if he had, he’d kept it secret. Vince had devoted his time and his heart to his one true love, MotoGP. If he retired, he wouldn’t be single for long. All Vince would have to do is crook his little finger and flocks of women would swarm the villa. Okay. Maybe not that bad, but Vince never had a problem finding women when he wanted to date.
Lifting his ultra-light steel road bicycle from where he stored it on the garage wall, Isaac pictured an American body spray commercial with women emerging from everywhere, chasing his brother in a horde. He snorted at the absurd image. Vince would have his pick from the most beautiful women in Spain. Hell, from all over Europe. Isaac shook his head. Maybe the Americas too. Vince was good-looking, had a sense of humor, and was outrageously wealthy. What more could a woman want?
Isaac grimaced. If they were anything like himself, the list was easy. Someone to talk to, be friends with, and enjoy spending time together. Well, that and attraction.
However, the women Isaac dated often had a crush on his brother, and it was impossible to blame them. Isaac lacked spontaneity or his brother’s full-throttle laugh, preferring to be quieter in his supporting role. At some point, the women he dated always wearied of being third. They all learned that Vince came first, and motorcycle racing came second. Few young women were willing to put themselves that far down the ladder.
Isaac gripped the handlebars and leaned forward. The rush of spring air as he pedaled his bike still invigorated him, even after all these years. He followed Vince down the windy roads to the village of Cervera, their hometown. White villas and terracotta roofs came into sight. Not everywhere was as beautiful as the village on the rolling tree-studded hills of Lleida. Nor as peaceful—the perfect counterbalance to their busy travel schedule in the racing season.
The fresh air whizzed past as they coasted toward town. It had been a challenge they’d engaged in for at least fifteen years—who would tap the brakes first? It wasn’t a surprise that Vince often made it all the way to the bottom. Isaac had a better sense of self-preservation than his brother and, depending on road conditions, slowed on the corners. But not today. This part of the ride didn’t even count toward their mileage, and their training circuit wouldn’t start until they left the village.
They arrived at the town square just as a bus filled with one of the first waves of tourists for the spring stopped outside the cafe. Despite its picturesque location, Cervera wasn’t a hotbed of tourism, especially this early in the year. Some of those who found Barcelona hectic might make it this far by bus, searching for somewhere quiet. His hometown was that, which was why he and Vince always returned.
This time of year, the travelers would be older, retired people, and most of the dozen arrivals fit that description. It was too soon for university students or working-class vacationerstrying to find peace or stretch their vacation dollars. Vince’s eyebrow quirked, probably because this wasn’t just another bus full of old women.
Toward the back was a young woman—a hot young woman. Isaac and Vince stopped their bikes and dismounted, watching one particular newcomer with interest.
The young woman stepped from the bus, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, while errant wisps framed her pink-cheeked face with its full red lips. Her lips gave Isaac a slew of bad ideas. Her gaze swept the square, eyes sparkling as she looked around as if she saw more than a sleepy village square in the off-season.
“Maybe I’ll look for her after our ride,” said Vince, his attention fixed. “A quick fling for a week or two before the opening round in Qatar might be just what I need.”
With no other locals standing nearby, it wasn’t a shock when the newcomer turned and walked toward them.
“She’s cute,” said Isaac, just as her dark eyes made contact with his. A current shot through him, straight to his groin. Had she heard?
