At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) (2 page)

“Be quiet!” she hissed. “Stop making strange noises!”

Because what if somebody was walking by the lavatory outside and heard the noises? They might think something was wrong!

They might call an ambulance!

And Circe wasn’t about to let a concerned and well-meaning coworker ruin her chances at going to Melbourne with her boss.

No bloody way!

*

Faster!

He was a cheetah, sprinting at full speed, legs criss-crossing, each bound clearing nearly four meters at a time.

The ground melted away behind him. He kicked up dust, sprayed out sand and small rocks. His prey, a zebra, turned. He followed, slowing down just a fraction to pivot on his left front paw before leaping off after the majestic black-and-white beauty.

The zebra’s nostrils flared. Steam poured out of the two gigantic holes.

Hills in the distance floated by, while plants in the foreground were snatched backward by his speed.

Another turn, another pivot.

He was getting closer. He could smell the zebra’s sweat. Pungent, sour, it aroused his senses, awoke his appetite.

The sun was setting, an orange lantern falling back down to earth.

The winds were damp, and there was static in the air.

Clouds collected in the distance, rumbling, rolling, and tumultuous.

A storm was coming.

Another turn, another pivot.

He was a cheetah. The zebra wasn’t far.

He wanted to run this fast forever.

He wanted to stay this way forever.

Another turn, another pivot.

He was within striking distance. He leapt, claws out, paws poised to latch on to the thick muscles of his prey’s posterior.

But the zebra vanished.

He landed, rolled, and tumbled, hind legs flailing and flipping over fore legs. He growled angrily, before getting back to his feet and looking around. In the distance he saw the beast running away. How had the zebra gotten there? Running up a ridge, clearing the ridge, disappearing behind the ridge.

The cheetah licked his wounds, just small scratches, but irritating, scars of his failure. His prey had gotten away. His food had gotten away.

He looked back at the cloud of dust his fall had created. It was shaped like a zebra.

It, too, ran away.

Angry now, he yawned, sharp canines bared. He rubbed his cheek against the ground, scratching an itch, and then returned his small face and black eyes back to the ridge.

There was a child there! A cub of the creatures that walked on two feet. His brown hair flapped in the wind. His bright eyes stared.

The cheetah stared back at the boy.

Their eyes locked.

A channel was opened.

Their minds merged.

Miles Cohen woke, sweat-soaked, and panting. “Fuck,” he groaned, touching his forehead before pulling his hand across his face. He sat up, lean body slick, hair matted to his head, and his muscles tense and stressed.

“Fuck,” he repeated, shaking his head. He knew who the boy was. The boy was him. Yet he was the cheetah. He had looked upon himself as the cheetah.

This dream came way too often.

Miles got up, and the sheets fell away from his naked body. He towered. The width of his back stole center stage. His ass was tight and hairless.

Standing in the open doorway to his balcony, silhouetted against a large moon, he glanced at his digital clock, blinking red-pip numbers telling him it was not yet four in the morning.

There was still time. It was still late enough – or early enough – that nobody would be up. He walked out onto the balcony, and looked down over the edge. It was only two floors up.

He hoisted himself over the railing, and dropped to the ground below, landing softly in a crouch, muscular thighs absorbing the shock.

He became the cheetah then. Not the one from his dreams, but the cheetah from his reality.

Endorphins flooded into his system.

A great wave of excitement and happiness took ahold of him, imbued him with energy.

He was a cheetah. There was no prey, but he was running, sprinting at top speed down the long, neatly trimmed lawn that stretched out toward the stream.

Instead of kicking up dust and sand, he kicked up dirt and grass. Instead of chasing down prey, he chased his elation. Instead of seeing a boy, he was that boy, all grown up, a hundred years hence from the day that changed his life.

He stopped at the stream, and turned around. He would not go in.

Miles and water did not mix well.

*

Tomorrow I board a plane with Ms. Jennings to go to Melbourne. It’s a long way from London, and we’ll need to stop off in Hong Kong for four hours. As I sit here, writing in my diary, I feel a little sick with nerves. My head feels light, and my knees wobbly. I’ve been trying to prepare as best I can, to make sure I don’t in any way disappoint Ms. Jennings. She seems to like me – she said as much – and could very well be my ticket to a career. Imagine that… a career. Fresh out of school. It seems crazy just to think about it.

But I am fearful that I’ll fuck everything up. That I’ll out myself to be far less intelligent than she seems to think I am. Since being given this opportunity just two days ago, my confidence has taken a repeated bashing by none other than myself.

Mum was pleased, of course, but she is always pleased. Dad said he was proud, but behind the words I heard the lingering question, the one he didn’t ask this time because it was my time to shine: when are you coming home to visit?

I feel like they were less supportive, less congratulatory, than they should have been.

But then I second-guess myself. Why do I need that so much? Why do I seek it? Why can’t I simply be happy for myself, and be satisfied with that internal validation?

Look at me… writing the word ‘validation’. I feel like an idiot using buzzwords.

We’re flying business class. I’m actually more excited than I probably should be about that. I mean… a large seat in no way compares to the comfort of my bed, but I’m excited to try it out nonetheless. I don’t imagine the food will be much better than in economy, and that I’ll be with my boss means I won’t be able to take advantage of free-flowing expensive drinks, either.

Which is a bit of a shame!

I’ve never been to Australia before. I like the accent, though. It’s going to be nice going somewhere warmer than here. It’s the tail-end of summer over there, so a bit of sun will be very welcome. I don’t think I’ll have the chance to get a tan, but from what I’ve read, Melbourne’s beaches aren’t great for that, anyway.

Despite my wandering mind right now, I cannot shake the feeling that I’m going to mess this up.

I really don’t want to.

This is such a great opportunity, and it would be so like me to just stuff it up.

How can I ensure that I won’t?

I mean, what if I say something stupid to Cheat Cohen in front of Ms. Jennings?

Speaking of Cheat Cohen… I did some research (obviously). Wow… yeah. Stop it, Circe, because that’s only happening in your dreams.

Dreams. I hope I get some sleep on the flight.

Sleep.

I hope I don’t snore in front of Ms. Jennings!

T
he cars screamed by, their high-pitched wails like souls of the damned being dragged down to hell.

And they were only warming up.

Circe Cole was glad that she was wearing protective earmuffs, and she looked toward Stephanie Lee Jennings, her enigmatic boss and idol, and grinned.

“Wow,” she mouthed silently. “It’s so loud.”

BZZT! Her boss’ voice came in loud through her left earmuff. “These are radios, too, you know.”

A wave of embarrassment crashed over Circe as she reached atop her head to find, sure enough, a microphone pointing straight upward. She angled it back down until it was in front of her mouth, and for the first time, noticed that on the other side of her boss’ face, there was a mic, too.

“Oops,” she whispered into the microphone, shrugging. “Uh, why do we have mics?”

“We’ll be hooked into Cohen’s frequency once the race starts proper,” Ms. Jennings told her.

“Pay attention,” Ms. Jennings told her. “No, no, put your bloody notepad away. Listen to the cars. Watch them as they weave on the track, warming their tires. See how fat and smooth the rubber is? It’s dry weather, and those tires will wear down fast. Look at Miles. Go on, look at him!”

Circe nodded and followed the woman’s finger, pointing at the red-and-white Formula One car currently weaving in rapid zig-zags across the steaming grey concrete-asphalt mix. Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen held records in nearly every professional racing outfit there was. Currently the reigning, and seven-time consecutive Formula One champion, he also was the most accomplished driver in Formula Three, Australia’s V8 Supercars, the British Touring Car Championship; he was a one-time winner of Le Mans, one-time champion of the Rolex Sports Car Series, and one-time champion of NASCAR. In short, the man had done it all, and was regarded by armchair experts and other drivers alike to be most skilled driver… ever.

Circe had made sure to do her homework before boarding that plane with her boss. She laughed as she recounted his curriculum vitae in her head. Quite simply put, he was straight out of fantasy, larger than life, and, ultimately, impenetrable. Nobody knew anything about him outside of his professional work. He was never seen with a girlfriend, wasn’t married as far as anybody could tell, and seemed to have no family to speak of. No parents, no siblings, no distant cousin, no anything.

Stories popped up now and again of beautiful women claiming to have spent a night with Cheat Cohen. These were almost always proven wrong, no matter how lurid the details. It was as good a guess as any that he simply wasn’t interested in women, not that there was any indication he swung the other way, either.

“Pay attention!” Ms. Jennings snapped, dragging Circe from her reverie by the scruff of her neck. “See how the tires have darkened?”

Circe nodded. “Yes.”

“That’s because the rubber is warming, starting to soften.”

Circe looked up at the sky, saw the burning sun overhead. It was a hot day in Melbourne, the start of the new Formula One season, and she had scored the equivalent of journalism pole position.

“The race is close to starting,” her boss told her. “They’ll lap one more time, and then take their positions. So we’re watching the final warm-up lap right now. Look at the way Cheat pushes his car right up to the tail of Michael Hamilton’s. Do you see that? What do you make of that?”

“Flirting?” Circe offered, but instantly regretted the poor attempt at humor. After seeing the look on Ms. Jennings’ face, she replied in proper. “Um, intimidation. He’s trying to intimidate Hamilton because that’s his biggest threat to the drivers’ championship.”

“Both right and wrong,” she said. “Right in that Cheat is trying to get in Hamilton’s head. It’s a bit of cocky showmanship. Wrong in even thinking that Hamilton poses any threat.”

“Last season Hamilton finished in second place.”

“And by how many points?” her boss countered. “Cheat Cohen finished first in all but one race. Nobody could catch him. There was no threat.”

Circe thought back to the research she’d done on the season before, but couldn’t remember when Cheat had finished second. But she didn’t dare ask Ms. Jennings that one.

“Everything the drivers do before the actual race,” her boss continued, “is more important than you think. What you are watching right now is character politics. Look at the way Sebastian Keitel has overtaken, even though he’s not supposed to during the warm-up period. Watch how Danny Webber is already taking his corners too sharp. The edges of his tires are touching grass. Watch each and every one of them! If you want a future at
Speed
, and if you want to cover Formula One,
the
most prestigious racing to cover – yes, more prestigious than Le Mans – then make sure you
pay attention!
Journalism is more than just the words, Ms. Cole. Journalism is understanding the nuance.”

Circe turned her eyes toward the track, and saw that the cars had finished their warm-up, and were all moving into their starting positions. That was when she noticed that Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen was at the very back of the pack.

“Why is Cheat Cohen all the way at the end?” she asked. “Didn’t he qualify?”

“Cheat will be starting last in every race this year. He deliberately throws qualifying.”

“Why?” Circe asked, and her boss laughed.

“Why else? The challenge.”

Circe groaned. “Men.”

“Well, this one is special, Circe. You watch. There’s more to him than simply being a man. I don’t know what it is, but I intend to find out when I interview him this evening.”

Circe nodded. All around her people fell silent as the starting lights flashed their first double-red orbs. A series of five pairs of lights lit up in sequence, one second after the last, and when all five pairs were shining crimson, there was a short pause before they would wink out, and the race would start.