Chasing Fire

to be a habit?”
    “I was running first yesterday,” he reminded her. “I like putting in a few miles first thing. Wakes me up.”
    He’d gotten a look at her, too, and decided she looked a little pissed off, a little shadowed around the eyes. “Are you going for time or distance?”
    “I’m just going for the run.”
    “We’ll call it distance then. I like having an agenda.”
    “So I’ve noticed. I think three.”
    He snorted. “You’ve got more than that. Five.”
    “Four,” she said just to keep him from getting his way. “And don’t talk to me. I like being in my head when I run.”
    Obligingly he tapped the MP3 playing on his arm and ran to his music.
    They kept the pace steady for the first mile. She was aware of him beside her, of the sound of their feet slapping the track in unison. And found she didn’t mind it. She could speculate on what music he ran to, what agenda he’d laid out for the rest of his day. How that might tumble apart if they caught a fire.
    They were both first stick on the jump list.
    When they crossed the second mile she heard the sound of an engine above, and saw one of her father’s planes glide across the wide blue canvas of sky. Flying lesson, she determined—business was good. She wondered if her father or one of his three pilots sat as instructor, then saw the right wing tip down twice, followed by a single dip on the left.
    Her dad.
    Face lifted, she shot up her arm, fingers stretched high in her signal back.
    The simple contact had the dregs of annoyance that the run and Gull’s companionship hadn’t quite washed away breaking apart.
    Then her running companion picked up the pace. She increased hers to match, knowing he pushed her, tested her. Then again, life without competition was barely living as far as she was concerned. The building burn in her quads and her hamstrings scorched away even those shattered dregs.
    Her stride lengthened at mile three. Her arms pumped, her lungs labored. The bold sun the forecasters had promised would spike the temperatures toward eighty by afternoon skinned her in a thin layer of sweat.
    She felt alive, challenged, happy.
    Then Gull glanced her way, sent her a wink. And left her in his dust.
    He had some kind of extra gear, she thought once he kicked in. That’s all there was to it. And when he hit it, he was just fucking gone.
    She dug for her own kick, found she had a little juice yet. Not enough to catch him—not unless she strapped herself to a rocket—but enough not to embarrass herself.
    The last half-mile push left her a little light-headed, had her breath whooping as she simply rolled onto the grass beside the track.
    “You’ll cramp up. Come on, Ro, you know better than that.”
    He was winded—not gasping for air as she was, but winded, and she found a little satisfaction in that.
    “Minute,” she managed, but he grabbed her hands, pulled her to her feet.
    “Walk it off, Ro.”
    She walked her heart rate down to reasonable, squeezed a stream from the water bottle she’d brought out with her into her mouth.
    Watching him, she stood on one leg, stretched her quads by lifting the other behind her. He’d worked up a sweat, and it looked damn good on him. “It’s like you’ve got an engine in those Nikes.”
    “You motor along pretty good yourself. And now you’re not pissed off or depressed anymore. Was that your father doing the flyover?”
    “Yeah. Why do you say I was pissed off and depressed?”
    “It was all over your face. I’ve been making a study of your face, and that’s how I tagged the mood.”
    “I’m going to hit the gym.”
    “Better stretch out those hamstrings first.”
    Irritation crawled up her back like a beetle. “What are you, the track coach?”
    “No point getting pissed at me because I noticed you were pissed.”
    “Maybe not, but you’re right here.” Still, she dropped down into a hamstring stretch.
    “From what I’ve heard, you’ve got cause to be.”
    She lifted her head, aimed that icy blue stare.
    “Let me sum up.” He opened the kit bag he’d tossed on the edge of the track, took out some water. “Matt’s brother and the blond cook spent a good portion of last season tangling the sheets. Historically, said cook tangled many other sheets with dexterity and aplomb.”
    “Aplomb.”
    “It’s a polite way of saying she banged often, well and without too much discrimination.”
    “That also sounded polite.”
    “I was raised well. In addition, Jim