At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) (8 page)

She had spent time with Miles nearly every day for an entire week, watching his routines, shadowing him, trying to live his life and get into his head so that she could better communicate just who he was in her eventual article.

He seemed to have an odd clash of impulsiveness and routine. For the most part he never skipped his morning workout, but sometimes he’d go for a drive. Other times, he’d disappear for an entire day at a time, leaving Circe to wander around Bali on her own.

He was usually quite early to bed – no later than midnight – though sometimes he would leave in the evenings and not come back to the house until four or five in the morning.

Circe had thought about following him one night, but even though she had been given the keys to one of his many cars (not that she’d need them in a place like Bali where transport was as easy as hailing down a passing moped), but it had occurred to her that she didn’t particularly want to do that. The behavior was dishonest, and crossed a line in her mind.

Journalistic ethics were a core course throughout both her tertiary degrees, and she wasn’t about to compromise them in the hopes of getting some tabloid-esque material. God knows what Miles did, at four in the morning, in a place like Bali.

It didn’t help that she didn’t particularly want to think about it, especially when the obvious conclusion lay in the red-light areas that many expatriates frequented. It was silly, but it aroused a spark of jealousy in her, and it was then that Circe had decided it was time to go home. Ms. Jennings, however, was less than impressed:

Circe Cole wrote:

Dear Ms. Jennings,

I’m going home. The flat will need dusting, and I am done living out of a suitcase. It’s one more week until the next race, and I’ll be sure to be there. I’ll contact you with travel arrangements soon.

My time with Mr. Cohen has been enlightening.

Best wishes,

Circe

----------

To: Circle Cole

From: Stephanie L. Jennings

Circe,

Do what you must. My hands are tied in this matter, anyway, since Cheat is dictating the terms. I can’t think of a better learning experience for you. Make sure you come into the office and talk with me when you get back home.

S

PS. You don’t need to call him Mr. Cohen in your emails to me. Write to me your first instincts, as they will better inform my eventual editing.

The first night home was a disaster. Circe pulled out her diary, and re-read her entry:

So I got back home to find that my flat mates – two guys – hadn’t done an ounce of cleaning while I was away. I found one of them playing video games when I got back at nearly midnight, and the other had apparently not been home for days.

I don’t know why the fuck I agreed to move in with two guys. I should never have done so. They’re younger than me, too, still in school. I should have found a place with post-grad students. Ideally, lived on my own if I could find a place cheap enough.

Just to get into my room I had to wade through empty food containers and just unbelievable amounts of empty liquor bottles. I stepped in an ashtray, too.

They know they shouldn’t smoke in the house, especially if they’re smoking weed. I don’t like it, and we have a perfectly useable back garden.

The weather here is miserable, too. Nothing compared to Bali. That was absolutely gorgeous. I’m regretting coming back a little. Miles’ house is right on the beach – his own private beach! And I mean… it’s picturesque.

Not that I went swimming or anything. That would have been unprofessional.

I’m lying to myself. I know the reason why I didn’t is because I didn’t want Miles to see me in a bathing suit.

Actually his house was really nice. All post-modern or whatever. More glass than any other material, as far as I could tell. Since we were right on the seaside, with all the windows open, it was really cool. Surprisingly, considering the climate in Bali.

So I’m sitting here trying not to write it, but I guess I have to. Who else is going to read this but me? Maybe it’s me I’m trying to hide it from.

I think I miss him.

Spending a week with Miles was pretty fun. Most of the time we chatted and I never brought my pad or pen. I always felt pressure to be in interview-mode, yeah, but at the same time I enjoyed the casualness of it all. I mean, he basically just put me up, let me use his house, one of his few cars, everything. And he did his own thing, too.

He was a far better flat mate than either video-game Jake or disappearing-act Gary.

I do miss Miles.

Okay, I just saw a cigarette burn in the carpet in *my* room. What the hell were they doing in here?

Yuck! Someone has been sleeping in my bed!

Time to go kick some ass.

She laughed. She really had kicked his ass. Literally. Well it was more in the thigh because he was lying on the sofa playing his stupid shooting game, but she had booted him hard, before getting to work sanitizing her room.

The meeting with Ms. Jennings had gone pretty much how Circe expected it to. The woman, wearing an outrageous combination of leopard print and light brown trousers, had tapped her fingernails against her shiny, chrome-plated table and had asked probing questions about Miles. Circe wouldn’t blame anyone if they thought that perhaps Ms. Jennings had a thing for the racer.

Circe had been given the task of working on a pitch – as though her eventual piece was not guaranteed in
Speed
. The goal was ostensibly to develop an angle, and Circe realized that she didn’t have all that much beyond the nuts and bolts of who the man was.

It occurred to her that much of his character, what she intended to put down on paper, was colored by her own feelings for him, which, some time ago, had crossed a border into the unprofessional – and even uncomfortable – territory.

Miles wiped his brow, ambled over to Circe, pulling her out of her reverie. With his hands on his hips, he looked a little like a cowboy.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What’s that?”

“When I stayed with you in Bali.”

“Yes?”

“Where did you disappear to in the middle of the night? I know you went out a few times.”

He seemed to pause, considering his answer. “Honestly?”

“Of course. This is on the record.” She tapped her pad.

“I went running.”

“Running?”

“Sprinting, actually. High-intensity interval training. Great for fitness. It’s all the rage.”

Circe was both disappointed and relieved at the same time. “Why in the night?”

He shrugged. “Relieves stress.”

“What’s going on now?” She gestured at the pit crew. “Everyone is so busy in here.”

“Well, we’re running simulations,” he said. “It’s humid as hell today. There’s rain in the air with that typhoon coming, and the forecast says to expect a downpour in about an hour, which will put us at, oh…” He glanced at his watch, then looked back into her eyes. “About lap seven.”

Circe shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow, Miles.”

“If it rains, we’ll have to switch to wet tires. Everyone will. That will be an unscheduled pit stop. We’re wondering if we should bet on it raining early, start the race with wet tires, so that we don’t have to stop. Since I’m starting at the end, that should push me right up to about tenth position or better.”

“Won’t the wet tires slow you down until it rains?”

He grinned. “Yes.”

Circe nodded. “But that only works if the gamble pays off. Otherwise it’s
you
making the unscheduled pit stop to switch back to dry tires.”

“Quick girl,” he said, and he pushed his lips together. “What do you think we should do? Start with wets, or slicks?”

“Slicks?”

“Dry tires.”

“Slicks, of course,” Circe said. “Never trust the weather report. If you have to pit stop, then you and everyone else does. No advantage gained, no advantage lost. If you start on wets, you have more to lose.”

“But more to gain.”

“I tend to bet safe.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do! Unless rain looks imminent at the start of the race.”

“What, you were testing me?” Circe asked. She put her hands on her hips in mock-indignation.

“Of course. How can you report on Formula One if you don’t know a thing about it?” He dropped into a crouch, and smirked at her. “So, are you making mental notes about my character and who I am to put into your article?”

Circe leaned forward, bringing herself quite close to Miles. She could feel his heat; he was already completely soaked in sweat, and the thirty-three degree day meant that he would remain that way for the rest of the race. She caught his musky scent, surprisingly subtle. She rather liked it.

“I already know who you are, Miles.”

“Oh?” he asked, apparently not expecting that response. “Is that right?”

“It is. A few of the finer details may be missing, but I’ve gotten the general gist of you already. What I’m doing, actually, is giving you the opportunity to prove me wrong.”

“Ah,” he said, and he rubbed his knees and stood up. She followed him up with her eyes. “Well, I’ll consider opening up a bit more, Circe.”

“Tonight,” she said. “For our second
mandatory
interview.”

He pointed a finger at her. “It’s a date!”

Circe rolled her eyes.

*

“Fuck,” Miles spat as he climbed out of his car. It was hot as hell, and he was parched. One of his pit crew threw him a bottle of water, and he gulped it down in seconds flat.

“Tricky circuit, eh?”

“No, Richard. I lost focus.”

“Why?”

Miles looked instinctively from the team owner to Circe, sitting toward the back of the pit garage.

“Oh, I see.”

“It’s not like that,” Miles lied.

“You know, Cheat, in all these years, I’ve never actually seen you with a lady friend.”

“Richard, you’re my only friend, you know that.”

“So what happened out there? Your racing was shoddy, slapdash. Your line was off, and you’re damn lucky we have the best car on the track or you wouldn’t have overtaken Hamilton.”

“But I did overtake him,” Miles said, his voice hardening. “And I won the race.”

“Barely! This wasn’t like Melbourne, and you know it, Miles. You got lucky.”

Miles’ body tightened up, and he scowled at the man, projecting an aura of ‘leave me the fuck alone’. Richard knew better than to poke the bear.

“Keep your off-track life off the track, Miles,” the man said before waddling off. “No podium again today?”

Miles shook his head. “No. I don’t give two shits about that.”

“It would be good for your brand, Cheat.”

Miles glared at Richard, now clear across the pit garage. “I don’t care.” He leaned against his car, tires smoking slightly, and put his hand against the frame. Richard had been right. The race had been too close. He looked toward Circe, who met his eyes but seemed to sense his disposition. She didn’t come over, and instead put the pad and pen she was holding back in her bag.

The gesture alone made Miles smile on the inside, though he was still too displeased with himself to show it on the outside. She
was
becoming a distraction.

But the more he thought about it, squatting by his car, leaning on it, the more he realized that he didn’t really mind. It was welcome. It was the first time in his Formula One career that a thought like that had ever entered his mind, had ever teased his consciousness with the notion of quitting.

Though he often claimed that he didn’t care about the competition, he knew deep down inside that the truth was to the contrary. He’d make sure to go out while he was still on top, ahead of the pack.

He met Circe’s eyes again and smiled at her. She returned it, and his frustration melted away, just like that. Just the way her face lit up was enough to wash it all away. She got up then and walked toward him, cautiously, and so he put an arm out and beckoned her.

“That was my worst race ever,” he said when she was within earshot.

“So I gathered, from the way he was acting.” She jerked her head toward Richard Ford.

“Oh? What was he worried about?”

“Truthfully,” she told him, and pushed a finger into his arm. “I think it was you.”

Yes, perhaps she was right. Richard did put up with a lot of his shit. There was maybe more than a cold professional relationship between them.

“What did you think?”

Circe laughed, and shrugged. “I don’t know. You won, didn’t you?”

“But it was close.”

“It was. Your front fin or whatever it’s called was only in front of Hamilton’s by like, half a foot or less. I saw it on the slow-motion replays.”

He sucked on his lower lip. “I actually thought he finished ahead, you know.” He patted the side of his car. “But this baby is the best for straight-line speed. Saved my ass.”

“Maybe give some credit to Hamilton, and accept that even you’re only human.”

Miles wished he could reveal how humorous and ironic a turn of phrase that was. Instead, he settled for, “Perhaps.”

“Why don’t you do the podium thing, Miles? I mean, like,
really
why, not the bullshit you fed my boss.”

Again, Miles wished he could tell her the truth. The more he revealed his face, the more likely it would be somebody would recognize him. He had been racing professionally since the sport became popular, since race cars were nearly impossible to control, and death by crash was frequent.

In the pit garages, he was safe. He could walk around, and not worry about journalists. But when he left, he had to put on sunglasses and a cap.