ready, to jump her first fire of the season. She cast a look up at the sky as she walked toward the track. Clear, wide and as pretty a spring blue as anyone could want.
Below it, the base chugged along in early-season morning mode. Jumpers and support staff stayed busy, washing vehicles or tuning them up—or tuning themselves with calisthenics on the training field. After the night’s revelry plenty were getting a slow start, but she wanted air and effort.
And saw as she looked toward the track, she wasn’t the only one.
She recognized Gull not only by the body, but the speed. Fast feet, she thought again. Obviously tequila shots and a bar fight hadn’t slowed him down.
She had to admire that.
As she jogged closer she noted that despite the cool air he’d worked up a good sweat, one that ran a dark vee down the faded gray tee he wore.
She had to admire that, too. She liked a man who pushed himself, who tested his limits even when he was in his own world.
Though she’d already loosened up, she paused to stretch before peeling off her jacket. And timed her entrance to the track to veer on beside him.
“What’re you up to?”
He held up two fingers, saving his breath.
“Going for three?” When he nodded, she wondered if he could keep up that killing pace for another mile. “Me too. Go ahead, Flash, I can’t keep up with you.”
She fell off his pace, found her own rhythm.
She loved to run, loved it with a pure heart, but imagined if she’d had Gull’s speed, she’d have adored it. Then she forgot him, tuned into her own body, the air, the steady slap of her shoes on the track. She let her mind empty so it could fill again with scattered thoughts.
Personal supply list, juggling some time in for sewing some PG bags, Gull’s mouth, Dobie. She should give her father a buzz since she was on call and couldn’t get over to see him. Why did Janis paint her toenails when nobody saw them anyway? Gull’s teeth scraping over her bottom lip. 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
Below it, the base chugged along in early-season morning mode. Jumpers and support staff stayed busy, washing vehicles or tuning them up—or tuning themselves with calisthenics on the training field. After the night’s revelry plenty were getting a slow start, but she wanted air and effort.
And saw as she looked toward the track, she wasn’t the only one.
She recognized Gull not only by the body, but the speed. Fast feet, she thought again. Obviously tequila shots and a bar fight hadn’t slowed him down.
She had to admire that.
As she jogged closer she noted that despite the cool air he’d worked up a good sweat, one that ran a dark vee down the faded gray tee he wore.
She had to admire that, too. She liked a man who pushed himself, who tested his limits even when he was in his own world.
Though she’d already loosened up, she paused to stretch before peeling off her jacket. And timed her entrance to the track to veer on beside him.
“What’re you up to?”
He held up two fingers, saving his breath.
“Going for three?” When he nodded, she wondered if he could keep up that killing pace for another mile. “Me too. Go ahead, Flash, I can’t keep up with you.”
She fell off his pace, found her own rhythm.
She loved to run, loved it with a pure heart, but imagined if she’d had Gull’s speed, she’d have adored it. Then she forgot him, tuned into her own body, the air, the steady slap of her shoes on the track. She let her mind empty so it could fill again with scattered thoughts.
Personal supply list, juggling some time in for sewing some PG bags, Gull’s mouth, Dobie. She should give her father a buzz since she was on call and couldn’t get over to see him. Why did Janis paint her toenails when nobody saw them anyway? Gull’s teeth scraping over her bottom lip. 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
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