MANIC: Rook and Ronin, #2 Page 6

  "Hey, I never thought she'd take the contract that night. Rook, tell them, you were a little impulsive, remember?"

  "I was," I admit. "It's not Spencer's fault. Ronin and I were fighting and I overreacted and signed the contract without talking it over first."

  Ford just looks at me but says nothing. The three of them talk about bikes and photo shoots, and even old times, since Antoine has known both Ford and Spencer since they were in high school. I don't participate much and I'm just too tired to think about making meaningless conversation.

  After we eat Antoine and Spencer head over to a sports bar to watch the Rockies play the Padres in San Diego and Ford and I walk back to the studio in silence. I punch in my code when we get to the doors and then stop and turn to him when he tries to follow me in. "Aren't you going home?"

  "I need to check on Larry's crew before the day's over." He holds the door open wider and beckons me to enter. We walk up the stairs in silence again, then he heads off at the third floor, waving a gesture back at me which might pass as a goodbye.

  I continue up to the fourth floor and then make my way out onto the terrace. It's a beautiful night and since it's Monday, it's also quiet. I go inside my garden apartment and grab my cell phone. Sure enough, there are seven missed calls from Ronin. I press redial and walk back outside to sit on the grass under the cherry trees.

  He never picks up, of course. He's probably mad at me for forgetting my phone, or maybe he took one look at that photo Antoine sent him of me in the painted-up latex suit and decided Clare the junkie was a much better fit for him.

  Being jealous sucks. I hate it. I hate the feeling you get when all you want is to hear your boyfriend's voice on the other end of a phone. It's a horrible feeling and I don't even understand how something as little as getting someone's voicemail can ruin a perfectly fine day. And this day wasn't so bad, really. I mean, it was better than the first day I was groped by Billy. That was a weird day. I lie back on the grass and look up at the canopy of leaves on the cherry trees and then close my eyes for a second.

  "Rook?"

  "Huh?" I sit up, confused. "What?"

  Ford is kneeling down next to me. "Why are you sleeping outside?"

  "I just dozed off, Ford. Shit, cut me a break, will ya?

  "Are you sure that's all it was?"

  "What else would it be?"

  "Not wanting to sleep inside under the cameras."

  I laugh and sigh at the same time. "Yeah, forgot about them, thanks for reminding me though. I appreciate that."

  "Well, if you prefer to sleep under the cherry trees let me know, I'll put some cameras up there too."

  I glare at him. "You probably would, too." I get up and brush off my shorts. "Well, I'm heading in."

  "We're still on for breakfast tomorrow?"

  I snort out a laugh this time. "Yeah, we're on."

  "Wear something comfortable," he calls out as I walk away. I leave him there and make my way inside, not even bothering to turn the lights on. I just sleepwalk back to my room and crash, not even remembering to squish myself into the corner or wear pants to bed so the audience can't get a good look at my ass in the morning.

  Chapter Ten - ROOK

  Why, God? Just why? Why do people insist on pounding on my door at the most ungodly hours? "I'm coming!" I scream. The pounding stops and I reach for my phone. It's five after five in the morning.

  What the fuck?

  I roll out of bed and stumble down the hall, then throw the door open and shield my eyes from the morning sun.

  "You're not ready." Ford frowns down at me.

  I look down at my shorts, then up at him, and shoot him my own frown. "Give me a second." I leave the door open and shuffle back to the bedroom, grab a clean pair of shorts and a tank top—

  "I said comfortable and loose, but you'll need a good bra."

  "What?" I shake my head at Ford, who is peeking his head around the corner of my closet.

  I look down at his clothes and recognize the garb of trendy exercisers the world over. His outfit looks like he pulled it off the rack at Sports Authority this morning. "Ford, you said breakfast. I do not work out."

  "It is breakfast, you'll see. Unless you want to take showers in that claw-foot monstrosity down the hall?"

  "All right, get out. I'll meet you outside."

  He backs off and I grab some sporty stuff that Ronin gave me from the Chaput closet when I first got here. The tank top has a built-in bra and it's a pretty coral color. The sport shorts are black with a matching coral racing stripe going up the sides of my thighs. I look the part until I put on my shoes, and that makes me laugh because all I have for my feet in the way of sneakers are my Converse.

  I brush my teeth and pull my hair back in a ponytail, then head outside. Ford is talking with Team Rook over by the picnic tables. I guess that means we're not going to Cookie's, since the crew isn't necessary for that eatery.

  "Ready?" Ford asks as I approach. "Nice shoes," he says, shaking his head.

  "What are we doing?"

  "You'll see, just follow."

  I do what I'm told—I'm used to that anyway—and we walk down the stairs and go outside using the back door that leads out into the parking lot, then cross Blake Street and we're at Coors Field, the baseball stadium where the Rockies play. Ronin loves baseball and we've gone to two games together already. "We're eating breakfast at the stadium?"

  "Yes, afterward, anyway."

  "After what?"

  He never answers, just walks us around the side and stops at a plain gray metal door that has no windows at all. He knocks and it opens immediately. The Mexican guy on the other side greets Ford in Spanish and they act like old friends, laughing and joking and shaking hands. He finally turns to us. "Rook, this is Jose, he's the head guy back here. I've known him since I was a kid. I used to come to the stadium every morning until I moved to Boulder." Then he looks over at Team Rook and says, "Sorry, guys, only one guest allowed."

  I smile at that and follow Ford into the dark hallway. So whatever we're doing here, we're doing it in private. I'll take any privacy I can get at this point. I follow him through the convoluted hallways and up a couple flights of stairs until he pushes through a door and we walk down a long hallway that leads to another stairwell. He pulls the door open and waves me in. "Which way, Rook? Up or down?"

  "What are you up to?"

  "Just pick, up or down."

  "Down," I say, "because climbing stairs is not my idea of fun right now and I'm already pissed off about climbing the last set."

  He stifles a chuckle and leads the way down the stairs, then we get to another landing and he pushes through a set of double doors and we're in the stands, about midway up.

  "Cool," I say, still not sure what the hell is going on. He walks over to the railing and looks out. I follow of course. There are a few other people here, all running up and down the stairs spread out across the seats across from us. "I sincerely hope"—I stop to snort here—"that you do not expect me to run, Ford. Especially up and down stairs. Because I'm not a runner. I'm a slow walker at best, possibly a shuffler, or an aimless wanderer, but never a runner."

  He's just smiling.

  "I'm serious."

  "I can tell, but so am I. So I'll make you a deal, OK? You run stadiums with me every morning and I'll let you shower at Ronin's any time you want. As long"—he stops to give me a stern look—"as you don't take advantage and start spending all your free time in the shower."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why do you want me to run these steps with you? There's a reason, you're just not telling me, so maybe I'll agree, but I wanna know the real reason you want me to do this with you. Are you coming on to me? Trying to piss off Ronin? What?"

  His smile falters for half a moment, then it's back, brighter than ever. "Are you sure you want the real reason? Because most people prefer white lies to truth."

  I roll my eyes. "Just tell me. There's no need for dram
a, Ford."

  "Fine." He shrugs. "I want you to run with me in the morning because you're too young to take this job and maybe I don't know your whole story, but I'm perceptive enough to see that there's something wrong with you. I'm not sure what it is, I don't even want to know what it is, but this job will change your life. So instead of letting you dwell on how much it sucks and how big a mistake you really made when you took this contract, or beating the shit out of Spencer for letting you, or belittling Ronin for not being able to control you better—I'm just gonna take it upon myself to help you." He stops to pan his arms wide at the empty stadium. "With exercise. Because it will make a difference, take my word on that."

  "That is the dumbest shit I've ever heard."

  He busts out a laugh. "You're a fighter, that's for sure. And I'm not gonna ask, Rook, so don't wait for that moment. I do not care why you come off as broken, I really don't. I'm just not gonna be the guy responsible for making it worse."

  "Well, I'm not gonna exert myself, Ford. I'll walk up the stairs."

  He turns his back and starts running up the steps. "Fine with me, just don't stop climbing until I do. That's the deal."

  I huff out some air and drag my feet up the steps. When I look up to see where he is, he's already finished this set and is running down the middle landing to the next set. He descends those stairs with just as much enthusiasm. I trudge my way up to the landing, then find him again. That asshole is like four sets of stairs away from me now.

  It's like reverse psychology or something, right? He thinks he can shame me into putting in more effort, but he's wrong. I'm naturally lazy when it comes to athletic pursuits. I like sitting in the stands at the baseball game, not playing. Or running stadiums, for God's sake. I reach the bottom of my second set and then walk over to the next one. When I look up to find Ford, he's like a million miles away now.

  We do this for a good while before I notice him starting to make his way back towards me. My legs are a little sore, but I do exactly what I said I would. I practically mope up these steps. I only cover a few aisles, that's how much I mope, but Ford, he does almost half the stadium, at a fucking run, before he turns back towards me.

  I wait for him on the landing as he bursts up the last set of stairs and then stops to breathe hard, bending over a little in the process.

  Damn, the guy really made an effort, he's dripping sweat, and I'm still fresh as can be. Not even thirsty. "I thought you said we were gonna eat, Ford?" He laughs, but he's still very much out of breath. "Shit, dude, you really take this stuff seriously, don't you?"

  "Feels good, Rook. It feels good to run it off every morning."

  "No," I say, shaking my head. "Mornings are for sleeping in and eating breakfast. Speaking of which, I'm starving, where's my food?"

  He waves a hand at me to enter the stadium doors, not the way we came, but the way you go to get snacks during a game. We both go inside and Ford whips his shirt off and starts dabbing it across his wet body.

  I steal a look. I'm a girl, I can't help it, he's not bad-looking. His hair is lighter than Ronin's, but not blondish like Spencer's. He's got a bit of scruff on his chin left over from yesterday. But I bet he shaves it when he gets home because he's more of a clean-cut kinda guy. The complete opposite of Spencer, who is one hundred percent biker, and Ronin, who comes off as hip and edgy.

  Ford's look says goal-oriented or I come from a long line of bankers. I tuck down a laugh at those thoughts and sneak a look at his body. It's very nice. Maybe not Top Model Ronin nice, but still nice. He obviously takes very good care of himself.

  He catches me looking and smiles as I turn away quickly.

  We walk along the interior corridor for a while and the smell of breakfast food wafts into my nose. "Food!"

  "They keep a stand open for us in the morning. Breakfast burritos."

  "So, let me get this straight, you bust your ass to burn calories, then come eat breakfast burritos? That makes no sense."

  "We're not here to lose weight, Rook. People who have access to the stadium are training, which means we eat a lot of food when we're done."

  "What are you training for?" I can't help myself, he's made me curious with his secret endorphin-rush addiction.

  "Life, just like you," is all he says before we come to the counter and he's ordering us food and orange juice. He pays, then we walk back outside and find seats in the empty stands.

  The burrito is good and even though I didn't expend much energy, I do feel awake and have more pep than I usually do in the morning. I better be careful or that reverse psychology shit will start working on me and before you know it, I might turn into one of those annoying freaks who thinks all manner of physical activity is fun.

  We don't say much after that. Just eat. Then he takes my trash and throws it away and we walk back over to the studio building and part ways. He goes to his car and I walk upstairs, grab some clothes to stash at Ronin's, then head up to his place and enjoy my totally legal kick-ass shower.

  Smiling.

  Chapter Eleven - ROOK

  Team Rook was nowhere to be found when I made my way to Ronin's apartment door, but when I emerge freshly showered, they are waiting outside in the hallway. We all act like I'm the only person there and all I hear is the scuffle of their shoes as they follow me downstairs to the third floor art room.

  Spencer is already rocking out hard to that Bad to the Bone song, singing along quite loud for a guy, and messing around with some paints and brushes. "Yo, Rookie! I'm glad you came back for day two. Sometimes the girls skip out after the first session, but I guess I played it cool, because here you are!"

  "I signed a contract, Spencer. I can't skip out. And please, do not ever call me Rookie again. I will go apeshit on you."

  "Noted. But I played it cool, right? That's the real reason you came back, right?"

  "Right," I say, smiling. It's hard not to enjoy being around Spencer. He's a clown, and a hot one at that. He's got on his usual garb today, a Shrike Bikes t-shirt, old faded Levis, and biker boots. Even though I've seen him like a bazillion times, I've never seen him wear the same t-shirt twice. And they are cool designs, not your typical black and orange Harley eagles or big-titted girls with American flag bandannas wrapped around their heads screen-printed on those cheap-ass black polyester shirts.

  The designs on Spencer's shirts look like someone drew them with a charcoal pencil. This one is a light gray and has a blackbird on it, beak open like it's cawing, bending down with wings half open, like it's about to take flight. It says Shrike Raven in big bold letters on top, and at the bottom it has the new Shrike motto, Not Your Daddy's Ride.

  I know that's a dig at Spencer's father because Ronin told me. He retired a few years back and left the business to Spencer, and Spencer, wanting to make his own name, came up with that tag line to let everyone know this was his game now.

  And he's done pretty well. The guy's not even twenty-five and he's taken the company from small pop-and-son to mega-commercial in like two years.

  Spence notices my gaze and points down to the raven on his chest. "This is one of the designs we're gonna use to promote the bike, but I'm gonna make one of you too."

  "You're part of the merchandising package, Rook." For the first time I notice Ford sitting in the corner in that director's chair. "I just thought I'd let you know that, in case Spencer conveniently forgot to mention your face will be made into dolls and put on clothing." He says it in an irritated voice and then Spencer flips him off and turns away, busying himself with his art supplies again.

  "Wonderful," I say to no one in particular. "How lucky am I? Don't all girls want to be turned into Barbie?"

  "Yeah," Ford says, again with the irritation, "but I'm pretty sure Biker Barbie was never part of your girlhood fantasy, was it?"

  I scowl at him. "What's your deal, Ford? I'm a big girl, OK? I'm fine with the doll shit. It's a fucking doll. Who cares, they'll probably make like five hundred of them, people will buy them, break the
m, lose them, destroy them—whatever—and it will be over. It's not like someone's naming a fucking battleship after me."

  Ford says nothing, just keeps his bad mood to himself over in the corner.

  "OK, well, what's the plan today, Spence?"

  "Bikinis, four of them."

  I shake my head trying to imagine four paintings and photo shoots. 'That sounds like a long day."

  "Well"—Ford is back in action again—"it's not really, Rook. Because the term bikini is used loosely here." I mouth the words shut up at him, but he looks right at me and continues talking. "Because those little postage stamps Spencer is going to paint over your nipples barely count as clothing, or paint for that matter."

  Spencer turns around, his eyes blazing, his whole demeanor screaming fuck you. "That's it, Ford, I warned you. Out. I'm not putting up with your bullshit."

  For a second I figure this is some theatrics for the sake of the cameras, but when I look over at Team Spencer, they start to get uncomfortable. Team Rook steps back, like these two are about to throw. "OK, what's going on? Are you guys fighting? I mean, I just saw you an hour ago, Ford. What's the problem?"

  "The problem is what Spencer plans to do with you today, even though Antoine told him there's no one to help you between shoots, that's the problem."

  "Spencer?" I ask, totally lost.

  Ford continues, not even giving Spencer a chance to talk. "Well, let's walk through this, Rook. Spencer's gonna paint you up in a bikini, but he wants to do four shoots today, so that means that paint will have to be washed off four times." He stops to stare at me. "I think you can put two and two together from there."

  "So Spencer will have to wash me off? Is this the problem?"

  I look over at Spencer and he shrugs. "Rook, I gotta get through this catalog and get back up to Fort Collins by Friday, so we have to get as many shoots as we can. The bikinis are popular, easy, and quick."

  "Hey, I could care less, Spencer. I'm not sure what Ford's problem is, but I'm pretty sure you're not painting on bikinis to feel me up." I roll my eyes. "Let's just do this."