Part 17 (2/2)
Keelie Keller does TribRide?
My battered b.u.t.t. This biker babe was getting the star treatment and-I suspected-frequent shuttle service.
I sent a disgusted look at Manny on her left.
”How's the babysitting gig going?” I inquired. ”Any super-dooper security vulnerabilities? You know. Like, broken fingernails. Smudged makeup. Unglossed lips?”
Manny's lips twitched.
”Don't like serial killers get their start killing small animals?” Keelie asked. ”I read that somewhere.”
Read it? She read it? Oh, puhleaze. She picked that little tidbit up from the drop-dead gorgeous profiler Derek Morgan via Criminal Minds like the rest of us.
”I did not send you that rat,” I responded. ”And, for the record, neither did my sister.”
One of the cycling cameramen turned his camera in my direction.
”Says you,” Keelie fired back.
”Yeah. Says me.”
”Miss Keller. Drew Van Vleet. New Holland News.” Drew turned briefly in Keelie's direction and put a hand to his visor. ”I want to a.s.sure you I had nothing whatsoever to do with the unfortunate rat incident. My riding partners.h.i.+p here is professional, not personal.”
Van Vleet sold me out quicker than my uncle Frank sells out day old coney buns and ice cream cakes nearing their expiration date.
”Is that right?” Keelie said.
”I'd love it if you would let me interview you.” Van Vleet gushed. ”And I a.s.sure you, I wouldn't be the kind of low life who would write a hit piece or anything-unlike a certain compet.i.tor I could name.”
I resisted the temptation to deliver a sharp jab to his ribs. There was that collateral damage to consider if we took a spill, after all.
I could see the headlines now: Newsflash: Newshounds On the Trail of a Story...Literally.
”So, you're not...a couple?” Keelie's eyes s.h.i.+fted back to me.
”Gawd, no!” I wasn't sure who screamed the denial first or louder-Van Vleet or me.
”We write for competing small town newspapers in the same county,” Van Vleet explained. ”The ride was our bosses' collective brainchild.”
Collective brainchild? Try collective brain fart.
”Isn't that special, Tiara?” Keelie said. ”Pedaling paparazzi!”
Tiara giggled.
”And look at their cute little Trekkie tees!” Keelie went on. ”But, oh no! A red s.h.i.+rt?” She clicked her tongue. ”Not a good omen.”
If I hadn't been focusing on keeping my feet on the pedals and sucking oxygen into my deprived lungs, I'm sure I could've come up with a snarky comeback. As it was, all I could manage was a gravelly grunt and a disgusted shake of my head.
”Aren't you like, really far behind?” Tiara asked. ”You know. The back of the pack. Bringing up the rear? Last place?”
”Losers,” Keelie offered. ”At the a.s.s end of the line.”
”It's her fault. She had to wait until her soggy b.u.t.t dried out,” my teammate whined from the helm. ”Consequently, we got a late start.”
Traitor.
”Obviously we weren't the only ones late out of the gate,” I huffed, irritated that we were being labeled slackers. ”That is, presuming you all began at the starting line.”
”What is that supposed to mean?” Keelie asked. ”Are you suggesting we didn't begin the race where everyone else did?”
I managed a shrug. ”All I'm saying is you all look way too...fresh to have twenty Iowa-in-July bike miles behind you. That's all.”
By now-and this is just a guess since I hadn't actually sniffed an armpit or anything-I imagine I looked and smelled like someone who didn't survive Survivor. But, again I'm just guessing.
”Maybe we're just in better shape than Team Trekkie,” Keelie said. ”Or maybe we don't perspire like Team Trekkie.”
”Yeah, and maybe you just got out of your air-conditioned luxury bus and hopped on your bike a mile back,” I suggested. ”'Cause, unless you're a cyborg or have serious glandular issues, Toots, you're gonna sweat. Buckets.”
”I resent your implication,” Keelie protested.
”Resent away.”
”Now, now, ladies,” Langley Carlisle III chided. I raised an eyebrow. Between the neon green bike shorts and matching neon and white tee, the funny little Brit looked like he'd raided Joltin' Joe Townsend's closet. Even his bicycle was a funky green. ”Can't we all just be friends? Or at least, friendly? No need for fisticuffs.”
I made a face. Fisticuffs? Really? Next Keelie's bosom bud would be suggesting we hold hands, braid each other's hair, and strike up a chorus of k.u.m ba Yah.
”Friends, Langey? Be friends? With someone who has armpit stains that reach her waist?” Keelie stuck her tongue out in an ew-gross face. ”I'll pa.s.s. Come on, Manny. Let's pick up the pace,” she said, and off she went.
Manny pedaled alongside. He put a hand up, the middle finger and ring fingers forming a V-the Vulcan equivalent of the fist b.u.mp.
”Live long and pedal Barbie,” he said.
I gritted my teeth. Oh, for a phaser set on stun about now.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN.
Van Vleet and I pedaled in silence for the remainder of the morning. He sulked. I steamed-in more ways than one. Obviously, I hadn't logged nearly enough pre-TribRide road miles. My rear felt like a flank steak my gammy had taken the tenderizing hammer to after enjoying too many tipples of the cooking sherry.
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