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  “Do you know how I got my position, Mademoiselle Racing?” he asked.

  She pretended not to have heard the question, answering it instead with more apologies. If she could just get him started on the workout, he’d calm down and everything would be fine. “I’m so sorry for being so late, but I’m happy to stay long enough for you to get a good—“

  “I said, ‘Do you know how I got my position?’”

  She shook her head. “Hard work?”

  “Yes. Hard work. But lots of people are willing to work hard. That’s not how I got where I am. I got my position by doing things I didn’t particularly like.” He glared. Without moving.

  Faith had no idea what to say.

  Barker went on. “I have no talent for learning languages, but my French is getting better. The French want us to be in shape? Fine. I come here for CrossFit. I don’t give even the tiniest suggestion of a shit about baselines or WODs or whatever. But I do it. I eat baguettes and I drink up the La Victoire even though I prefer light American lager beer. Why?”

  Again, Faith was at a loss. It seemed like a rhetorical question, so she just looked at him. She felt the urge to put her desk between Barker and her but resisted it.

  “Because I want to get ahead. The French are our masters now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I realize that,” Faith said.

  “Do you? Do you understand that in a few months I will be mayor of this city?” Now he wore a wry smile.

  Oh god. A petty tyrant like Barker as mayor? It would be awful. It was bad enough having to report to him, enduring his slimy advances. Maybe as mayor he’d be too busy to pay any attention to her. She realized she should probably say something. “Congratulations,” she said. It didn’t sound very sincere.

  “Yes. Merci. It is good for me. But it is also good for you. It could be very good for you.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because I would like you to marry me,” he said.

  Marry him?

  The urge to laugh bubbled up, but she forced it down. He wasn’t one to make jokes. He was more the type to fly into a rage if he thought someone was laughing at him. Instead she said, “But, we hardly know each other.”

  He nodded. “That is true. But we could have a nice engagement. Get to know each other better. Travel to France. They want me to do that anyway, you know. It would be quite nice, drinking a Châteauneuf-du-Pape at the chateau itself. Or . . .” He trailed off here. Obviously, he wanted her to say, “Or what?”

  She obliged. “Or what?” she asked.

  “Or I will do everything in my power to make sure your brother is prosecuted for his crimes.”

  How could anyone be this mean? “Michael! But . . . he has nothing to do with this. With any of this.”

  “Mademoiselle, I do not relish threatening you. I want to treat you well. I want to get to know you. Every little bit of you, yes.” He paused. “I get what I want. I will have you, I will have this city, and who knows? Perhaps I’ll have this province, and later, all of New France.” He chuckled. “But that is for later. For now, to show you I mean business, I am closing this facility.”

  “What?” she said, her voice coming out as a yelp. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle. Oh mon dieu, yes, I absolutely can. You see, you need to know you are being given an opportunity. Oui. Given an opportunity by a man who has power. Some power now, and more later. You can accept the opportunity and enjoy the luxuries that power brings, or you can feel the sting of its glove against your face. It is up to you.”

  She felt tears welling. This bastard invading her gym and making threats—no. Demands. She felt like an outsider in her own gym. She’d built this place, built its membership with hard work and careful attention. And now this cheese-eating wannabe would pry her out like a snail pulled free of its shell for cooking.

  “Please, Monsieur,” she said, “don’t do this.”

  “Then I will hear your answer,” he said. “Oui ou non?”

  Tears rolled down her face. The thought of marrying him, going to bed with him . . . Ugh! He would be a petty tyrant of a husband just like he’d be a petty tyrant of a mayor. And she would no doubt be the target of that tyranny often as not. But Michael. She had to save Michael. And perhaps she could get better jobs for her parents as well. They would do it for her, she knew.

  Barker spoke again. “Oui ou non, Mademoiselle?”

  All she could manage was a nod. Wait. “My brother? And my parents?” she said, voice thick with emotion.

  “They will be taken care of,” he said. “Anything for ma chérie.” He was smiling now. “Oh, I am so pleased! I knew you would see this as a great opportunity. Forgive me for not bringing a ring. I will have one for you soon.” He strode across the room and embraced her. She smelled his cologne, something from Paris probably. It wasn’t a bad choice, but under it was the smell of his sweat and some onion he’d had for lunch. She put her arms around him and tried to stop crying. The tears were getting on his coat, and if she wasn’t careful her nose would run on it as well.

  Married. To Barker. She was going to be married to Barker. Probably have kids with Barker. But her family. Oh, god.

  He broke their embrace, held her at arm’s length, and smiled at her. “I’ll give you a few moments to collect your things here. Let your employee know his services won’t be needed anymore. Then you can leave the keys with me. D’accord?”

  She felt the tears trying to come again, but nodded. Her gym. Jason unemployed. He’d have to go to the wineries or the dairies, probably. His personal training career would be more or less over. In a few years it would be like a dream he’d had. So real at one time, and then forgotten.

  Her current life would be like that dream soon as well, a vivid dream where she was a functioning part in a machine of her own design. How would she find that same feeling of personal fulfillment without her own business to run? Barker didn’t seem like the type to want his wife to work. It would offend his sense of self-importance. She’d have to be dutiful. Meek. A good wife who spoke only when spoken to. And she’d have to get fluent in French too and learn everything there was to know about wines and cheese. And baguettes. Would he expect her to actually eat carbs? Ugh!

  In the end, she had to leave her gym without so much as being able to do a few squats or a last baseline. She put the keys in Barker’s gloved hand, and they were gone forever. She felt like a balloon in the sky, buffeted this way and that by the winds, and no hand to hold her steady.

  Chapter 8

  If Buck’s soreness was making walking an issue before the race, it was even more of a problem now. But at least he had the win to make him feel a bit better. His body was beaten, sore, and full of pain, but he felt light inside.

  LeMond treated him to an uncharacteristic burger and beer at Petrol, a local pub and eatery. Buck removed the bun to make the burger more paleo but didn’t refuse the beer. If you’re gonna take on carbs, at least pick your battles.

  They chatted amiably over the table top, but after a few minutes, LeMond’s face darkened and he grew quiet.

  “What’s up?” Buck asked.

  “Well,” LeMond began, moving a hand open as if he were turning the page of a book. He looked around the room. Regulars propped their elbows on the bar, smoked cigarettes, and chatted among themselves. No one appeared to be looking. LeMond leaned in anyway. “I’m pretty sure they’re going to close the New Lyon team.”

  “What?” Buck said—around a mouthful of sweet potato, it came out as an odd yelp.

  LeMond nodded.

  “Why?”

  LeMond’s shoulders rose. “I don’t know. My hunch is they don’t think we’re French enough. They want New Orleans to represent the Southeast region. Obviously it can’t be Miami. They’re not French at
all.” The Southeast region was comprised of the former US states of Louisiana, Mississippi, Tennessee, Alabama, Florida, and Georgia, though the state governments were now all lumped together under provisional French rule. Miami was a city of strong Latin American heritage and had never been much of a cycling powerhouse.

  “So they’re just going to close our program? Even if we beat them?” Buck asked.

  “That’s just the thing. I don’t think we were supposed to beat them. I think Bernard has made an inside deal to be the new coach at New Orleans. Their coach is an older man, ready to retire. I think Bernard has been grooming Polini to be his team star at New Orleans. Then he planned that surprise crit so Polini could beat you. Then maybe they lose to New Orleans, the New Lon team gets shut down, so the teams get to merge? I don’t know. I mean, Polini’s a decent sprinter, but he’s no stage racer.”

  “So New Lyon loses to New Orleans, they close our program, and Bernard gets to take over the New Orleans program?”

  “I think that’s the plan, yeah. Don’t know for sure, just suspicion.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We have to be very, very careful. Keep our heads down. Don’t trust anyone. Prepare all your food yourself.”

  Buck snorted. “Come on. You think they’d go that far?”

  LeMond gave him a wide-eyed look. “Cycling is everything to these French. The local New France officials have to show France we can produce a rider good enough to win the Tour.”

  “But the French haven’t even won their own race since 1985!”

  “Exactly. And the bigwigs here in New France want to curry favor by bringing the yellow jersey back to France.” Well, that much was obvious, at least. France wanted to win its own bike race. No big surprise. But that New France and the New Lyon officials were willing to collude with New Orleans to bring about a win was.

  “Well, we can do that,” Buck said firmly. “We can get that win for them.” Here he was once again, sounding awfully confident about wins that were by no means in the bag. Since when had this become his thing, promising he would win? Sure, it worked out today, but winning a local crit and taking a regional title were two different matters entirely, not to mention a national or a Tour de France win. He might as well be promising that not only was the moon made of Chèvre, but he’d jump really high and break off a hunk of it.

  Buck had another thought. “Wait, why doesn’t Bernard just close the New Lyon program and go to work in New Orleans? Why all the secrecy?”

  LeMond shrugged again. “Who knows? Some kind of political thing probably. Someone’s got a piece of paper somewhere that says it has to be done ‘zees way’ but not ‘zat way.’” LeMond used an exaggerated French accent.

  Buck made a huffing sound, almost a laugh. Except that it wasn’t funny to have your life jerked around by a bunch of politicians who were keeping you under their wine-soaked thumbs. No. Not funny at all.

  LeMond’s phone chimed, and his eyes went wide when he looked at it. “Oh god, exactly what I was afraid of. One of the girls just texted me that Bernard and his cronies are pulling bikes out of the facility. Come on, we gotta get down there!” LeMond leaped from the table and chucked a multicolored bunch of francs on the table, plenty to cover the meal. He helped Buck out the door and into his car, started it, and roared out of the parking lot and down Highland Avenue, swerving around other cars. Buck braced himself against the door and gritted his teeth.

  “Why does one of the girls have your cell phone number?” Buck asked.

  LeMond’s mouth was a thin line of concentration as he sawed at the wheel, throwing the car this way and that to speed across town to the cycling facility. But Buck thought he saw a sheepish grin threatening to form at the corners of his mouth. “No time for that now!” LeMond said, steering just a bit more violently than was exactly necessary and making Buck’s bike clatter in its rack on the trunk.

  They raced through the streets without attracting the attention of the gendarmes and pulled up to the cycling facility with screeching tires. Sure enough, men were loading gleaming bikes into a van. Another van was being loaded with massage tables and other boxes of team gear.

  LeMond leapt out and began asking for answers in a loud voice. Buck followed, getting out of the car as fast as his tired and battered limbs could carry him. “What’s the meaning of this?” LeMond was saying, and then in French, “Qu’est-ce qui se passe ici?” The men loading the truck shrugged and pointed inside. LeMond stalked in with Buck close behind.

  Inside they found Bernard looking over his clipboard and a man Buck didn’t recognize. They both looked up to see LeMond stalking in, and Bernard’s face hardened. The other man just looked quizzical.

  “You want to tell us what’s happening here, Bernard?” LeMond asked, gesturing to the empty racks where the bikes normally stood.

  “All right, yes, I will tell you,” Bernard said, flipping the sheet he’d been reviewing closed on his clipboard. “This facility is closed. The program is closed. And you are fired.”

  “On whose authority?” LeMond demanded.

  “That would be mine,” said the other man. His voice made it clear he’d been born American, even if he was attempting a French pronunciation of some words.

  LeMond turned his glare to him. “Oh yes? And who are you?”

  “For now, you may address me as Monsieur Barker,” the man said. “But soon it will be Mayor Barker.”

  LeMond drove Buck back to his flat, both men thinking their own thoughts in silence. In the parking lot, LeMond still looked determined.

  Buck sighed. “I guess it’s all over, huh?”

  LeMond shook his head. “Not by a long shot. I can’t say anything now, but I have a few moves I can make. You just rest up a few days.”

  Buck didn’t hold out much hope for those moves being able to get them back on track. LeMond was an optimist, which served him well most of the time, but there were no moves left to make at this point. Buck got painfully to his feet and turned to go inside.

  LeMond rolled down his car window and called out, “Buck!” Buck turned. The man was smiling ruefully. “Don’t forget your bike.”

  His bike! He’d forgotten all about it. Bernard and that Barker guy had cleaned out the bike room, but Buck’s bike had been on the back of LeMond’s car. They hadn’t gotten it. LeMond helped him get it inside, leaving his car running.

  “I doubt they’ll think about it,” LeMond said. “And I think you’re gonna need it.” He wouldn’t say anything more than that, so Buck was left to wonder what he might mean. But for now, all that was on his mind was sleep anyway. After LeMond was gone, he climbed into bed, feeling as if every muscle on his whole body was sore, every joint full of sand. He was asleep in seconds.

  Chapter 9

  It couldn’t have been worse, Faith reflected. Well, it could be worse. Barker could have had her brother executed. Or turned her parents out and made them live on the streets. She’d probably live a pretty nice life by a lot of people’s standards: going to cocktail parties, wearing dresses and the like. But that wasn’t the life she wanted for herself. She wanted to help people bring meaning to their lives through proper exercise, through CrossFit. She liked working for herself, running a business, and growing her client base. All gone now.

  Perhaps in a few years, when things settled down, she could convince Barker to let her open a small gym. But that was far down the road. For now she’d just have to keep her back straight and—ugh!—be a good wife to him.

  Barker had said they’d be married in six months. Six months. She didn’t even have anyone to talk to about it. She’d just have to keep her own counsel. She was a strong woman. She could do it. The saying was that no man was an island. No mention of women not being islands. She could—must—be an island now.

  She spoke to Jason on the phone about
the gym closing. He would be fine, he said. His parents had work he could do without having to make cheese or wine. When she told him about her engagement he blurted, “But that guy’s an asshole!” and then quickly and profusely apologized.

  “No, no, it’s fine,” she said, and then since she couldn’t think of anything else to say about Barker that was nice, “I’m sure I’ll get to know him.”

  Talking to Jason was good, but that done, she was at loose ends again. She didn’t know what people did who didn’t work. Watch TV? She flipped it on. The newscaster was talking about more hostilities in Latin America. Apparently the Mexicans weren’t eager to be subjugated under the Bleu Blanc Rouge any more than their American cousins had been. They seemed to be putting up a better fight, to their credit, even if the newscaster framed it in such a way that it made them sound like they were in the wrong for resisting the French.

  After a minute or two, she couldn’t take the TV anymore. It was pointless to worry about things she couldn’t change, especially when they were so far away. She had problems of her own right here in New Lyon to worry about. But she couldn’t let herself be too negative. That wasn’t helpful either.

  She thumbed out a quick text to that Buck bicycle rider guy to say congratulations on his win. Maybe hearing from someone in good spirits would lift hers. She thought about how he’d looked on the bike, like a thoroughbred horse at full speed. It had been beautiful but so terribly masculine. Terribly? Yes, because it was exciting and also a bit scary. But that was exciting too. And her thoughts drifted to other things she’d seen as well. Hmm.