Buried Treasure

"But never from a state's attorney," I said. "Least of all from one who prosecuted me." I said it in a tone that showed him I was no longer bitter.

The range was crowded when we got there, both the pistol and rifle range equipped with about ten lanes each. We put on our ear protection and gave our names to a late middle-age range officer holding a clipboard and wearing a red jacket that said Gunpowder Outdoor Shooting Facility. The range fee was fifteen dollars apiece. "I've got it," Kevin said when I took out my wallet. "After all, it was my invite." I protested but he insisted. It made me wonder if this was a "real" date. That wasn't my mindset when he asked me here. Perhaps it was Kevin's—I wasn't sure at that point.

For the next half-hour, we stood near the wood range shelters trying as best we could to converse wearing ear protection amid the booms and bangs. As the temperature rose into the upper sixties, Kevin, stripped down to his tight black T-shirt. To me, it was obvious that he worked out. One didn't get a taut, flat waist and muscular, sinewy arms by shooting. He went cycling, he revealed, and also lifted free weights a couple times a week. I also owned a bike, one gathering dust in the basement from lack of use, thanks to a bad crash incurred several months before that left me with a concussion and fearful of ever riding again. I hoped to one day conquer that fear, I told him. "What you need is someone to ride with," he replied. "You'll feel safer and also more motivated."

Playing coy, I said, "Do you have anyone in mind?"

"Well, maybe," he said, flashing me a sly grin. "I could always use the company."

Finally, a lane on the pistol range opened up. During the cease fire, Kevin pinned a target to the heavy cardboard, then scrolled it out to about twenty-five feat, same as I was shooting at Patriot Arms. Moments later, a range officer yelled, "Lane hot!"

I shot my dad's Ruger .22, plus Kevin's vintage High Standard, his .357 Smith and Wesson revolver and his Kimber 1911 .45. After the first shot with those heavier calibers, not used to the heavy recoil, I flinched like crazy before pulling the trigger. My frustration had me close to tears. Kevin said, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. All it takes is practice. Look how much better you did with the .22s." He held up one of my targets, one with many of the rounds landing in the black circle. Kevin did much better, of course, though he was far from satisfied. After yelling a few expletives following a ten-shot round, I threw his 'all it takes is practice' line back at him. "I deserved that," he said, then smiled and hugged me.

By the time we finished, it was well past noon, and we were both hungry. So, after packing up our gear, we ended up at a Chipotle's where I insisted on paying for our paleo salad. "No arguments this time, Mr. State's Attorney."

He threw his hands up in a mock defense. "None given."

As we ate, I still didn't know if this was a "real" date. In other words, would we be seeing each other on a regular basis? I sure hoped so. This guy, this great looking guy whom I once despised was now one I was beginning to grow quite fond of. Did he have a girlfriend? Should I even ask? "Kevin, not to pry, but do you have...um...a girlfriend?"

He smiled, then took a sip of his iced tea. "Well, kind of. Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Well, kind of."

We sat there, grinning at one another, waiting to see who'd make the next move. "Okay, I asked you first," I said, and then told him I hoped to see him again, and "not necessarily at a shooting range."

His warm hand on mine gave me goosebumps. "Brisa, it's a date," he said. "Maybe we can get that dusty bike of yours out of the basement and onto the trail."

Then he did something I didn't expect. He stood halfway up, leaned over and kissed me. It was brief but long enough and warm enough to where I craved more. He apparently did also, because after we left, we necked on Chipotle's parking lot in the front seat of his Wrangler. He was respectful, keeping his hands away from where he sensed they ought not to be on a girl he just met. That didn't keep my erogenous zones from wanting his hands on those places, though I kept that to myself. I didn't hold back when it came to telling him what a great kisser he was and how warm and safe he made me feel. "This feels so surreal," I said, sitting just inches from his face as he held me.

He agreed. "In light of how we met, you're right."

We kissed again in front of my house, then made tentative plans for that bike ride he mentioned. I went into the house, dreamy and excited, but also concerned about what should happen between me and Peter Jorgensen. I didn't want to hurt him, yet if things progressed with Kevin the way I sensed they might, I couldn't keep seeing him.

*****

Dating two women at once could get complicated. Janine was a sweet girl, and the last thing I wanted was to hurt her. I liked her a lot; she just didn't excite me the way Brisa seemed to, didn't light a fire under me. I'd known Janine going on six months. Brisa I hardly knew. We were in the nascent stages of a romance that could blossom into something huge or fizzle. I thought that maybe I'd be singing that oldie by the Lovin' Spoonful one day:

Did you ever have to make up your mind?

And pick up on one and leave the other behind?

I didn't have to make up my mind just yet. One thing was certain—I was bursting with excitement thinking about our next rendezvous. If I never saw her again, I'd never regret knowing her for the brief time that I did, if for nothing else than that incredibly passionate make-out we had following our lunch at Chipotle. To say she was warm and affectionate would be a gross understatement. To say she aroused me would be a super gross understatement. My self-restraint prevailed, and with it her compliment for being a "true gentleman." She also showed me her glib sense of humor: "By the way, Kevin, it's you that turns me on, not your Jeep Wrangler."

The spring weather cooperated the following week for our "bicycle date." Her mom didn't exactly welcome me with open arms; but, unlike last time, she didn't run away either. After a reserved handshake, she told me, tongue-in-cheek, to "please make sure Brisa doesn't crash again."

Once I loaded her bike into my Wrangler and drove off, Brisa went into more detail about her crash. Two idiots were speeding two abreast riding the other way, forcing her to turn off the gravel-packed trail bed to avoid hitting them. Then she hit a tree. "Even with wearing a helmet, I got knocked out, then came to in the ambulance. As you know, this will be my first time on the bike since then." Pete, her "kind of" boyfriend, had ridden with her that day and since the crash, he had been trying to get her to ride with him again. "I keep telling him I'm not ready," she revealed. She squeezed my arm. "But here I am with you because, I don't know, I just feel more secure with you." I hugged her for that.

It was cool enough to where we wore spandex bottoms, the knicker type that extends halfway down the calve, and long-sleeve cycling jerseys. After pulling into a space on the parking lot, I unloaded the bikes and set the water bottles in their holders. We were all set to enter the trail's entrance when we heard this: "Brisa, is that you?" We both turned to face the caller, a young, stocky-built guy in cycling gear standing by a green Subaru Forester, its back open to reveal what looked like a hybrid bicycle, ideal for this type of trail.

"Um, hi Pete," Brisa said, clearly uncomfortable. "You're here to ride, I presume."

Pete shoved his sunglasses above his forehead. "And from what I see, you are too. Guess you conquered your fear of crashing again, huh?" He shot her a judgmental grin.

"Maybe, I'll know once I get started." She sighed. "Pete, this is Kevin. Kevin, this is Pete."

Awkwardly, we nodded. Neither of us made the effort to traverse the few yards of asphalt between us to shake hands. Then Brisa said, "Looks like a new bike, Pete. Did you just buy it?"

He nodded, then lifted it onto the ground. "I was hoping to launch its maiden voyage riding with you. But I couldn't wait any longer. So here I am."

Had Pete not glared at me like he intended to take my head off, I might have asked him if he wanted to join us. His hostile affect was understandable, consistent with a guy watching his presumed girlfriend ready to go off with another guy. Three's a crowd and on that day, he was number three, the odd man out. Brisa didn't extend an invite either. It was up to Pete to invite himself—and he did.

"Mind if I join you?" He grinned in confidence, as if he knew we'd be too polite to say no.

Brisa and I looked at one another. "Your call," I whispered with a shrug.

Looking at Pete, she hesitated. Then: "Yeah, okay."

The grudging nature of her tone said otherwise. No matter, Pete was in. "Thanks. Looks like I get to take this bike on its maiden voyage with you after all," he said. "Of course, I thought it was going to be just us two. But hey, it is what it is, right Brisi?"

I wanted to smack the guy for making an already awkward situation worse. Still, I kept quiet and went with the flow, such as it was.

*****

It was quite obvious that Pete was both surprised and angry at seeing me with another guy. Technically, we were still dating and I hadn't said a word to Pete about Kevin except to rail against that "bastard Kevin Wrubel who told the judge to lock me up." Because I withheld Kevin's last name, it's no wonder that Pete failed to make a connection to Kevin the State's Attorney with the Kevin I introduced him to before our ride. Pete didn't know that I encountered Kevin at Patriot Arms and he sure didn't know about my subsequent date at the Gunpowder range. In any event, given his possessiveness and strong feelings for me, I gathered that Pete's desire to be included in our bike ride had as much to do with keeping tabs on me as wanting to ride. It irked me that he had asked. I wanted to be alone with Kevin, and it was obvious that Kevin felt the same way. We didn't come out there to be shadowed by someone else, least of all by Peter Jorgensen, my presumed jealous boyfriend. Yet it didn't feel right not to include him. I mean, we were still dating, and it wasn't the time or place to go into detail about Kevin, about what might or might not happen in the future. Truth to tell, I wasn't sure at that point where things were going with Kevin. Plus, as far as I knew, he was still seeing Janine.

So here we were, on a cycling date with Pete tagging along in our threesome of a pace line, headed north along the track bed of the old NCRR Railroad. Because the route was basically flat, I felt confident I could ride the fifteen or twenty miles we planned to cover, despite my "layoff," so long as the guys kept a moderate pace.

Riding the NCRR Trail is ideal for hybrid and mountain bikes. The surface is made of packed gravel, and it winds through bucolic woodland, all the way to York, Pennsylvania. Riding single file is a must when it's crowded, which is not something those inconsiderate punks bothered doing when they came close to crashing into me. For the first few minutes, Kevin pulled from the front, followed by Pete, then me. Then it was Pete's turn to pull. However, instead of keeping Kevin's comfortable pace (comfortable for me, at least), he began hammering. He was showing off, trying to impress me as the "better man." Kevin took off after him, got on his wheel and yelled, "Hey, slow down. Brisa can't do this. You know she's been off the bike awhile."

Pete slowed enough for me to catch up, then stopped. "Sorry, I got carried away," he said, rubbing that dark goatee of his.

"Funny, you never got carried away when we rode together," I said.

"Then it was just us two. I just wanted to see if your friend here could keep up with me."

He shot Kevin a challenging look. "Want to go again, dude? Brisa can wait here while we hammer a half-mile or so."

Kevin rolled his eyes. Yet I could see his testosterone kicking in, considering the challenge. "The trail's a little too narrow for racing," he said. "We might cause an accident. Don't forget what happened to Brisa."

With a wave of his hand, Pete brushed that concern away. "We'll be careful, won't pass if there's oncoming traffic. Anyway, you can see that it's not too crowded today." He grinned in that smug way he sometimes did. "Don't tell me you're afraid to lose."

Kevin looked at me as if to gain my approval. I shrugged. "You guys do what you gotta do," I said. "Just don't leave me here while you race all the way to York."

"Not a chance," Pete said. "Ride a half-mile (our bikes had computer odometers on the handlebars) or so ahead. First one to reach you wins."

I didn't want to do this, but I also didn't want Kevin to lose face by backing down. I told them to give me a few minutes to get up there before starting. Then I said: "But this is it. No two out of three. Whoever wins, wins, and then we ride like we planned."

I rode forward more annoyed with myself than with Pete. I should have told him, in so many words, that three's a crowd. But I didn't and the race was on. Far from neutral, I was rooting for Kevin to leave Pete in the dust. In my opinion, he had asked for it; he had goaded Kevin on.

Per Pete's "instructions," I rode just under a half-mile, then waited off to the side. Minutes passed, and then, in the distance, I first saw a helmet. Kevin's was green, so I knew he was in the lead. How much of a lead became apparent when he cruised in without even looking behind. "Pete bonked," he said. "He took an early lead, with me on his wheel. Then he just pooped out. Apparently, he thought he could drop me early on. Big mistake."

I did my best to contain my look of gratification when Pete rolled in moments later. He smiled, but anyone could tell it was forced. Hunched over the handlebars and breathing heavy, he said, "This guy's in better condition than I thought. I had him for the first minute or so, then burned out." By Kevin's look of sarcasm, I deduced that Pete never "had" him—Pete was simply trying his best to put a positive spin on his humiliation. Kevin's win took the wind out of Pete in more ways than one. "Look, you guys go ahead," he said, "I'm going to head back."

"Alone at last," I said, gratified, even though a part of me felt sorry for Pete.

We rode seven miles north to Monkton Station, one of the trail's rest stops, equipped with bathroom facilities and a general store. Helmets off, we sat on a wood bench in front, soaking in the sun's warm rays and watching trail traffic slip by, the cyclists, runners and hikers. I reached for Kevin's hand. "I don't think I'll be seeing Pete anymore," I said.

He began playing with my pony tail. "Why, because you don't think he'll call you again?"

"No, because I'm beginning to like you too much. It's only our second date, I know, but I no longer want to see anyone else. How about you?"

Tenderly, he leaned in and kissed me. "Me neither."

"Janine included?"

"Yes, but it won't be easy telling her. She's a nice girl. She'll be hurt."

I empathized with this person Janine who I didn't even know because I'd been jilted before, knew what it felt like. I wrapped my hands around his arm and snuggled closer. "Kevin, are you sure that's what you want?"

He brushed his fingers over my face. "As sure as I want to make love to you right now."

I laughed. "Right here? On this bench?"

"Sure, but it might be more comfortable in bed. A lot more private besides."

"And just think how your colleagues at work would react if you got arrested for fornicating in public."

"Well, if the guys among them saw you, they'd probably be jealous."

"So would Murray, my probation officer. It's almost comical how he struggles to keep up his professional façade when we meet."

"Yeah, well, I kind of struggled myself when we were in court. Women who look like you tend to seduce without trying, without doing anything or wearing anything outrageously suggestive."

"Speaking of outrageous suggestions," I said, getting wetter by the minute, "I've got one of my own. Let's ride back and then head over to your place for the sort of fun not safely available to us here."

*****

I didn't argue. Sexy, adorable Brisa Kramer, someone who once despised me, now wanted to get intimate with me. We rode the seven miles back, loaded our bikes into the Wrangler, then headed over to my suburban townhouse. Suburban is sort of misleading because the house is among a block-long townhouse development located in a congested area outside the city. Tall trees that surround it afford a measure of isolation and damp the traffic noise coming from a busy four-lane secondary route nearby.

Once we got inside, Brisa said, "You might not believe this, Kevin, but I've never taken a shower with a guy before. I'd like very much if you could be the first one."

"I'd feel flattered," I said. "But then you'd have to put on your sweaty cycling gear again. You don't mind?"

She stepped forward, tucked her hands up and under my jersey and danced her fingers over my chest. "Not at all. At least I won't get your sheets all smelly."

Kissing her neck, I said, "Brisa, with the great way you smell, it wouldn't matter. But if you'd feel more comfortable being squeaky-clean, let's do it."

We went upstairs to the master bathroom, with its walls and floor of blue tile and a sink with a granite top, installed by the previous owners. Cycling clothes can be revealing enough, though they don't really prepare you for seeing a beauty like Brisa in the buff, standing before you, up close and personal. No surprise, she was beautifully proportioned, neither top-heavy nor bottom-heavy, nor did she display gargantuan boobs that would have actually detracted from the unique symmetry of her body. What impressed me the most at that moment was her lovely skin, feminine smooth and baby-soft. "You make me tingle all over," she purred as I ran my fingers over it, as I kissed her breasts, shoulders and neck. "Kevin, if we don't get in that shower right now, I might have to skip it until afterwards." She reached down and stoked my cock, rising with every stroke. "You're obviously ready as well," she giggled.

Using body wash, we soaped each other off, then stood and smooched for minutes as the jets of warm water poured over us. Then we dried off and entered the master bedroom, where my queen-sized bed stood unmade. "Had I known you were coming, it wouldn't look like this," I joked.

She laughed. "You should see MY bed. On second thought, you shouldn't. Mom calls my whole bedroom controlled chaos."

I drew the shades, then took her into my arms. So tender was she and so tender was this moment—I could scarcely believe it was real. "This better not be a dream," I said.

I figured she was going to utter some glib, cleaver response. Instead, she said, "I was thinking the same thing. If this is a dream, I'm going to be terribly disappointed after waking up."

Other than informing me she was on birth control, not a whole lot more was said after we slipped into bed, after we got "seriously" into it. Love making has many variations on the same theme. Fucking is simply fucking, nothing special if your partner isn't someone you find special. Brisa felt special to me, not just in the way she looked but in her capacity to drop the bitterness she once felt and accept me for who I was—a prosecutor, her former prosecutor no less. I adored her for that, and I wasn't shy about showing it, nor was she shy about reciprocating. We did lots of kissing, long and passionate, and then our hands and tongues wandered elsewhere, ventured forth to our body's more private places, slow and erotic, a mere precursor to the tender love making that followed. Then came what I call the "cool down," where we lingered in bed, sated and calm, holding each other, the silence broken by endearing phrases and tentative plans to go places and do things. "I sense a future with you, Mr. Wrubel," she said.