Chasing Fire

Assholes who ganged up on a little guy.
    Gull kicking ass in a dark parking lot.
    Gull’s ass. Very nice.
    Probably better to think of something else, she told herself as she hit the first mile. But hell, nothing else was as appealing. Besides, thinking wasn’t doing.
    What she needed—what they all needed—was for the siren to blast. Then she’d be too busy to fantasize about, much less consider, getting tangled up with a man she worked with.
    Too bad she hadn’t met him in the winter, though how she’d have run into him when he lived in California posed a problem. Still, say she’d taken a vacation, dropped into his arcade place. Would she have experienced that sizzle if she’d met him across the lane in the bowling alley, or over a hot game of Mortal Kombat?
    Hard to say.
    He’d have looked as good, she reminded herself. But would there have been that punch if she’d looked into those green eyes when he sold her some tokens?
    Wasn’t at least part of the zip because of what they both did here, the training, the sweat, the anticipation, the intense satisfaction of knowing only a select few could make the cut and be what they were?
    And, hello, wasn’t that the reason she didn’t get sexually or romantically involved with other jumpers? How could you trust your feelings when they were pumped through the adrenaline rush? And what did you do with those feelings when and if—and most likely when—things went south? You’d still have to work with, and trust your life to, somebody you’d been sleeping with and weren’t sleeping with anymore. And one or both of you had to be fairly pissed about it.
    Entirely better to meet somebody, even if he sold you tokens in an arcade, have a nice, uncomplicated short-term relationship. Then go back to doing what you do.
    She kicked up her pace to hit the last mile, then eased off to a cooldown jog. Her eyebrows lifted when Gull fell into pace beside her.
    “You still here?”
    “I did five. Felt good.”
    “No tequila haze this morning?”
    “I don’t get hangovers.”
    “Ever? What’s your secret?” When he only smiled, she shook her head. “Yeah, yeah, if I sleep with you, you’ll tell me. How’s the jaw, et cetera?”
    “It’s okay.” Banging like a drum after the five miles, but he knew that would subside.
    “I heard Dobie nixed the overnight for observation. L.B.’s got him off the jump list until he’s fit.”
    Gull nodded. He’d checked the list himself. “It won’t take him long. He’s a tough little bastard.”
    She slowed to a walk, then stopped to stretch. “What were you listening to?” she asked, gesturing to the MP3 player strapped to his arm.
    “Ear-busting rock,” he said with a smile. “You can borrow it the next time you run.”
    “I don’t like music when I run. I like to think.”
    “The best thing about running is not thinking.”
    As he stretched, she checked out the body she’d been thinking about. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
    They started the walk back together.
    “I didn’t come out here because I saw you on the track.”
    “Well, hell. Now my day’s ruined.”
    “But I did admire your ass when you were whizzing by.”
    “That’s marginally satisfying,” he considered, “but I find it doesn’t fully massage my ego.”
    “You’re a funny guy, Gull. You tend to use fancy words, and read fancy books—I hear. You’re mean as a rattler in a fight, fast as a cheetah and spend your winters with foosball.”
    He bent to snag her jacket off the ground. “I like a good game of foosball.”
    As she tied the sleeves around her waist, she gave his face a long study. “You’re hard to figure.”
    “Only if you’re looking for one size fits all.”
    “Maybe, but—” She broke off as she spotted the truck pulling up in front of Operations. “Hey!” she shouted, waved her arms, then ran.
    Gull watched the man get out of the truck, tall and solid in a battered leather jacket and scarred boots. Silver hair caught by the wind blew back from a tanned, strong-jawed face. He turned, then opened his arms so Rowan could jump into them. Gull might have experienced a twinge of jealousy, but he recognized Lucas “Iron Man” Tripp.
    And it was a pretty thing, in his opinion, to see a man give his grown daughter a quick swing.
    “I was just thinking about you,” Rowan told her father. “I was going to give you a call later. I’m on the second stick, so I couldn’t come by.”
    “I missed you. I