In the debauched hinterlands of my brain, my fantasy from the night before plays on repeat.
I do my best to repress it, ignore it.
Pretend I’m not hyperaware that I did in fact maybe make myself orgasm while fantasizing about Thai Bristow, my archenemy.
I put on my hip-hop running playlist and step out my front door. Do a few jumping jacks and high knees to get my blood pumping, and then head out at my usual slow but steady jog. I have a five-mile circuit that I could do in my sleep, with my eyes closed: down the driveway and to the dirt road, turn left, two miles along the dirt road until I come to the stile that marks the border between our property line and the thousands of acres of state forest that’s on the other side. Around the stile, jogging along the two-track used by the forest rangers, along the western edge of McKenna land. A mile of that, and the trees give out, with the county line road as the northern boundary of our property—it’s this county road that Thai would have taken to get to the far side of the woods. I’m in the groove, now. Feeling the beat and my heart is pounding and I’m sweating and my breathing is nice and rhythmic and deep. Just me and the music and the pound of my feet, just the rising sun and the occasional squirrel darting across my path, or a crow wheeling on a wingtip overhead.
I almost don’t register it, at first, as I near it—a truck, parked along the tree line. Who would be here, at this time of day? It’s either state forest land or private property for miles in every direction, so it’s highly unlikely to be a hunter or hiker—it’s not hunting season anyway. But then as I get closer, I realize I recognize the truck—it’s Thai’s.
Draw closer and slow to a walk as I approach it.
He’s asleep, seat tilted back, head to one side, mouth open.
I tap on the glass with a fingernail. He stirs. Tap again, a little louder. This time he jerks and bolts upright, blinking.
I back up as he shoves the door open, rubbing at his eyes. “You okay?” I ask.
He wipes at his face with his palms. “Huh?”
I laugh. “I asked if you’re okay.”
“Oh.” He draws in a deep breath, stretching, arms going up and behind his head. The hem of his shirt rides up, and I catch a glimpse of golden-brown skin and a hint of hair in a thin trail under his navel. Finally, the stretch ends and he blinks a few times at me, then looks around. “It’s morning?”
“You arenota morning person, are you?” I say, with a laugh.
I’m still breathing hard and sweating from my run. I feel a drop of sweat trickle down my throat, and down into my cleavage.
Thai’s eyes follow it. Linger.
Drop lower. To my belly, my hips. My legs.
Back up, to my breasts.
Then, finally, to my eyes, after that long, perusing, appreciative, lingering scan of my body.
I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest, over my stomach. I have a flat belly, and I’ve worked my ass off to get that. No visible abs, but I know I’m toned.
He shakes his head, as if just then realizing he was staring. His eyes drop, turn away. “No, I’m…not a morning person.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
He scrapes his hand through his hair a few times, but it’s tangled and snarled. “I, uh…I was going to drive home after we talked last night, but figured I probably shouldn’t. So I lay down to rest and maybe sober up a bit, and then next thing I knew, you were tapping on the window.” He glances at me—at my eyes. “Out for a run, huh?”
“Stunning powers of observation you have,” I say, the snark automatic.
He snorts. “Well, we did just establish that I’m not a morning person.” He rolls his shoulder, twists his torso to work out the kinks in his back. “You run a lot?”
“Five miles every morning.”
“At dawn?”
“I’ve woken up at six without an alarm for years now. Just habit, I guess.”
“Sounds horrible.” He laughs.
I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Funny thing is, every morning I grumble and complain as I’m getting ready. I try to talk myself out of actually running. Like, I’m just too tired, my legs are still sore, I didn’t really eat anything bad yesterday, I don’t feel like it, that kind of thing. But I force myself out the door. I force myself to just start running. The first half a mile, mile…it just sucks. My legs hurt and my lungs burn, and I hate it. And I want to quit, turn around and go home. But I don’t let myself. Force myself to keep going. And then, it’s kinda like magic. Somewhere around mile two, two and a half, something shifts. I can breathe better, and my legs feel good and I’m in the groove and I’m not even really aware of when it happened.” I laugh. “And then by the time I get home, I feel proud that I did it. I neverwantto run but I’m always glad tohaverun.”
He nods. “Sounds like me and going to the gym. The first few sets suck and are hard and I hate every second of every rep. Then somehow, by the third or fourth set, I’m just…bam, I’m in it. Y’know?”
