The competition between us is in the air as we descend the stairs instead of the elevator. Chance gets one step ahead of me, and then I push off harder, retaking the lead.
This is exactly the distraction I need today.
With each step we take, we are speeding up, and before we know it, we are flying down the stairs, zigzagging between guests and staff.
About ten feet till we hit the ground floor, I shift my weight to my toes and dig in, taking two steps at a time.
Chance starts to fall back. Looking down, I see four steps left, and I jump.
Ha! I win.
Chance gives up, walking down the last couple steps, slightly out of breath.
Catching up to me, he slaps his hand on my shoulder, and we walk out the doors in silence, falling into a light jog. About a mile later, it turns into a full-on run.
And soon, I am lost in the run, in the feeling of my muscles stretching and the hot burn coursing through my legs.
Chance and I run past a group of girls, and the swish of blonde hair that flies past me causes my steps to stutter.
There’s no way it was Becca. She is back in her hotel, probably trying to convince herself she still hates me and wants nothing to do with me.
But there’s one major problem with her plan—me.
I know her better than I know the back of my own hand, from her fingertips to every curve of her body.
When Austin touched her and she shivered, I almost put my fist through his face. No one should touch her until she asks for it, until you can see the need in her hooded eyes and hear the want come from her plump, parted lips.
No one should touch her but me.
“Jones,” Chance mumbles.
I look back slightly as I run in between a couple pedestrians.
“Dude!” Chance shouts, and I can hear the breathiness in his voice.
My mind finally clicks back into the present, and my legs are on fire. I’m running in a straight sprint. Gradually slowing down, I can hear Chance pounding into the ground behind me.
When I finally come to a stop, I take a long, deep breath to calm my racing heart.
Chance is huffing and puffing beside me with his hands on his knees. “How”—deep breath—“the fuck”—deep breath—“are you not dead?” Deep breath. “Or at least fucking tired?”
I pat him on the back. “Maybe you need to do this with me more, Chancey boy. I do this for fun.”
Or because if I don’t, my fists will end up in the wall or covered in blood.
He mocks. “For fun.”
He stands back up to his full height and nods behind me.
Turning, I see the IHOP sign, and my stomach rumbles in excitement. Chance walks past me, his hand on his chest, and heads inside. I follow close behind him.
The waitress seats us immediately, and we each order a full stack of pancakes with a side of bacon and an orange juice. We fuck around with the napkins while we wait, creating our own flick football game. Our food arrives shortly, and then we get lost in the layers of sugar and syrup, devouring it.
And slowly but surely, that damn perfect smile sneaks back into the focus in my mind.
Okay, next distraction, please.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. As I pull it out, it buzzes again.
