AJ recalled the words, the speculation on who and what Bianca had done. Personally unwilling to think the worst, he had bowed out of a lot of the conversations, but not before he learned that she kept a list and rated men on their performances. When he had asked her about it, she had unwrapped her white silk blouse, stretched it wide, flashing him. “What would be the problem?” she had smiled.
And AJ knew it was over—if it had ever been anything more than mindless, release-driven sex. The thought that his name, among others, might be on such a list was unbearable. “And those dudes didn’t seem to have any problem with it.”
Breaking up with Bianca was a kind of oxymoron. To break up with someone, you kind of had to be going with her, you had to have a specifically singular relationship with that person, didn’t you? And if your woman was trying to set world records as a sexual athlete, what happened to that “singular” relationship? For AJ Yarborough, the answer was nothing—not even a birthday or Christmas card.
On Peachtree Street, AJ kept running past spectators shouting encouragement and holding signs. His speed was faster, and the sun was stronger and climbing quickly. Passing a water station, he accepted a cup from a boy of about twelve and winked when the boy gave him a thumbs up. He tossed the water down in a single gulp and returned the gesture.
From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw the redhead and picked up his pace. “Chicks like that—the reason I don’t do Buckhead.” It was a known party district, and AJ made it a rule to give Buckhead a wide berth for anything outside of restaurants and shopping. Don’t go lookin’ for trouble and you won’t find it, his father liked to say. It was one of the few things about which he agreed with Antoine Jacob Yarborough, Senior.
Funny about Bianca, though. Nothing ever came of their time together, brief as it had been, but she always had a kind of hold on him. “Maybe it was because she came along around the same time my knees started to go,” he speculated. Or maybe it was because when he had looked into her oval face with its beautifully matched features, he had wondered what their children would look like. Listening to her voice, soft in conversation or husky with passion, he had wondered what her ‘mommy’ voice would sound like to a child with a skinned knee.
He had shared the questions with Dench and looked sheepish when he laughed. “Man,” Traylor said laughing, “you sound like your biological clock is ticking. I think you just need to get laid.”
“I took his advice, and it ain’t workin’ yet.” AJ smiled when he thought of the last woman he had slept with. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, she possessed the kind of curves that could only have been carved by the hand of a gracious god. She was elegant to the point of appearing almost feline in her grace. “She was also dumb as a rock.” His smile widened when he thought of the conversations the beautiful woman was at an absolute loss to follow. “Dench ain’t never settin’ me up again. And I told him so, too.”
Dench Traylor had sat across the table in AJ’s broad-windowed breakfast room and laughed the morning after, swearing that the hunt wasn’t always about capture. Sometimes, he insisted, it was just about the hunt. “I’m not just about the hunt,” AJ had told him. “It’s sure not that I don’t like women; it’s that I want to fall ass over teakettle for the right one and have her be a part of my life forever.”
Dench just laughed. But the thing of it was that AJ knew and believed in his heart that every woman passing through his life had left something behind. Every one of them had left him knowing just a little more of what he did and didn’t want. They left him knowing just a little bit more of who he was, what kind of man he really was.
Looking down, at his feet moving along Peachtree Street, he knew that every lover in his past had been a way station to completion—a stop on the way to where he knew he was meant to be.
“That sounds damned self-involved, if I do say so myself.” He cast a fleeting look over his shoulder. The carpet of running, jogging, walking humans seemed to stretch for miles behind him. “Many folks as there are out here, wouldn’t it be nice to just run up on the right one?”
Peachtree Street had always seemed like a series of curves to Marlea, but the climb to mile four of the race route was known as “Cardiac Hill” and, even in training, it was a challenge. Her face tightened and her arms pumped when she heard the timer beep on the monitor she wore on her left wrist. “I slow down, and I drop my time,” she reminded herself, inhaling deeply. Lifting her head, she looked past the bulk of Piedmont Hospital, fixed her eyes on a cloud, and pushed to the top of the hill.
“Don’t worry,” a woman screamed, waving her flag frantically, “mile four is downhill!”
Thank you, Lord! Marlea exalted and ran on.
“In and out of this city all my life and it’s never felt this hot.” AJ slipped the cap from his head and swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. He jammed the cap back on as he noted the peach-shaped marker for mile five. Another hill. He almost cursed. A steep half-mile climb and a sharp half-mile descent had him sweating just almost as hard as he had when he was part of the back line. It felt good.
“Almost there,” a white-haired man in a Peachtree volunteer tee shirt called out, urging the racers forward. “Almost there.”
Almost there, and ahead of him, the crowd of runners had thinned considerably. No more than twenty people moved to speeds and rhythms of their own determination. Chancing a glance over his shoulder, AJ saw that like those ahead of him, he had far outdistanced the pack. These frontrunners, he realized, were the ones who had set the pace for the Peachtree. These were the class of the bunch. “And I’m up here with ’em.”
Not thinking, he picked up his pace and grinned at the man next to him, who struggled to stay even. Seeing challenge in the man’s eye, AJ pushed a little more. When the man fell steps behind, AJ cranked it up another notch and passed two women. “Well, this ain’t too shabby for a brother with a bunged-up knee.” No, it wasn’t too shabby for a brother who held state records in high school and national speed records in college. The speed was part of what took him to the pros—a big part. AJ sucked air, shifted his run into higher gear, and relived his glory days. Then he couldn’t help himself. He went for broke. “Wouldn’t it be somethin’ if…”
Marlea could almost feel the push of time against her hot skin as she made the turn, passing a man with gritted teeth, and a woman who screamed, “Noooo!” at her back. “Been there, done that, and never again,” Marlea swore, tightening her resolve and leveling her gaze on the Nike-shirted back in front of her. A tiny piece of her heart bent for the screaming woman. She recognized the agony that came with seeing a rival runner pass you without so much as a backward glance. Her monitor sounded again as her feet pounded the path through Piedmont Park. Shielded by ancient oak trees, Marlea could see the finish line. The monitor beeped again, five seconds ahead of the mark…
“Damn,” AJ said, his breath low and hoarse, “this was easier than I thought.” He passed another man, and sited on the woman just ahead. Her head was high, her shoulders level, her hips tight. She had a nice long stride, the rhythm setting her ponytail swinging, and she seemed determined to finish fast. Her kick was high, and AJ felt his knee twinge when he tried to match it, but he did. Drawing even with her and pushing hard, he chanced a glance, then grimaced when his knee folded beneath his weight.
What the…Marlea had no words for what was happening. Pain in her foot and ankle, and the sudden slide of the whole world. Gravel bit into her knees and her palms as the ground rushed toward her. Something hard and heavy and…manly? crashed into her body, flattening her on the ground. She could hear cheers, cries of “aww,” and a sonorous beeping that she finally recognized as her chronometer.
The time: My time!
Dazed, Marlea shook her head at the race volunteers who rushed toward her with outstretched hands. Waving them off, digging the toes of her shoes into the gravel, Marlea nearly gained her feet when the…was that a man? moved beneath her foot. Her eyes widened when
they met his, and he wrenched his big body to one knee. Feeling trapped in time, Marlea couldn’t stop the disaster she saw coming and he crashed against her shins, bringing her down again.
The chronograph still sounded against her wrist and Marlea realized she had lost all track of time. Planting her hands against the ground, pushing herself up, she finally managed to untangle her body from the man’s. Stepping over him, she sprinted for the finish line, eyes searching for the time clock. Unable to find it, she circled back toward the finish line. “Time?” she asked the nearest volunteer. “Where can I find my time?”
“Over there.” The volunteer waved an arm in the general direction of the official podium. Marlea ran toward the high wooden bandstand in the center of the vast green space.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” On his feet, AJ dusted his hands against his shorts and shook his head. “See? That’s how we got cut,” he scolded his knees. When they didn’t respond, he stood straighter and looked down at the medical volunteer staring anxiously up at him.
“I’m okay,” he told the short, white-shirted man. The hand he passed over his head told him he had lost his cap somewhere in his tumble with that long-legged runner. “Wonder where it went?” he mumbled, looking at the path around him. He saw the cap, muddy and obviously beyond repair, flop beneath the feet of a running quartet. “Poor hat.”
“You took quite a tumble,” the volunteer insisted, his blue eyes intense and bulging behind thick prescription lenses. “Why don’t you…Hey, I know you! You’re that guy…the football player…the one on TV who…I swear, I been watchin’ you since before you took the Heisman trophy back in ‘92. An’ that last game against New York, when you rushed for…Are you sure I can’t help you?”
The man raised his bushy black brows, and AJ raised a hand. “Really, I’m fine. Can you tell me which way the lady went? The lady I, uh, inadvertently tripped.”
Awed, the little man grinned sloppily and hunched his shoulders. AJ left him on his own.
Crossing the finish line, AJ raised his hand to greet clapping spectators, glad that they were happy to applaud any human body finishing the run. One little guy, about six years old, ran along the sidelines giving high fives to every runner he could reach. When AJ held his palm out, the kid slapped and grinned. Something about the boy’s smile with its missing teeth made him feel better. Maybe the woman would smile, too, when he found her.
Still at a slow jog, he tried to remember what she looked like, but it wasn’t easy. He had a distinct impression that she was tall and pretty, long, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing pretty much standard running gear: a white Nike shirt and bright shorts. “And she was serious about her running.”
For the first time since the race started, Marlea was having trouble breathing. Instead of her usual rhythmic exhalation, she was panting. Anxiety, she decided, fingering drops of sweat from her face. Sighting the official time station, Marlea angled her run in that direction. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she could hear Libby’s voice: Relax. Calm down. If this is meant for you, it’s yours. All those platitudes—what the hell did Libby know, anyway?
AJ finally spotted her running across the open green field toward the time officials. “Least I can do is own up to what I did and apologize,” he figured, jogging toward her. “If I’m lucky, maybe she’ll let me buy her dinner to make up for it.”
“Excuse me.” The end of the stage was so high that Marlea had to stand on her toes to see over it. Her fingers tapped the splintered edge. “Excuse me.”
“Yes, dear?” Middle-aged with weathered skin and fading blonde curls, the woman in the light green red-lettered shirt pressed her clipboard to her thighs and peered down at Marlea. “How can I help you?”
“I…” Marlea pressed her lips together and tried not to think of the time she had lost while tangled up with a no-name spoiler. “My name is Marlea Kellogg. I’m a runner. I’m…I was in…Is there any way to get my time? I need to know.”
“Sure, honey,” the woman drawled. Taking her time, she adjusted her white sun visor and shifted her clipboard to a better angle. Squinting, she traced her finger down the list of times. “Kellogg?” she asked. Marlea nodded. “Kellogg? Kellogg? Ah, here it is…time is 40:11.”
“No,” Marlea said, disbelieving. “No, not 40:11. I was on track for less than thirty minutes for the whole race.” Her shoulders dropped, and she closed her eyes. “I need thirty-six or less to qualify. Can you check again? That can’t be right.”
The woman knelt and looked into Marlea’s eyes. “You were seeded, right?” Marlea nodded. “Let me see your number.” Marlea held it up and watched as the woman ran her fingers over it. “Your time registered because of the microchip. It’s right here,” she ran her thumb over a thin bump beneath the paper. “Unless you can prove some sort of computer malfunction, I’m afraid we’re going to have to go with the time your chip registered.” Her eyes touched Marlea’s. “I’m sorry, Ms. Kellogg. I’m very sorry.”
“Sorry,” Marlea echoed, reaching for her race number. “Thank you for checking.”
“Your time still puts you high in the standings.”
“Thank you.” Numb and not caring where her feet carried her, Marlea moved away from the stand. Wending her way between triumphant race finishers, she didn’t want to hear where she had placed among the runners. She knew it wasn’t first.
“Excuse me, miss; I don’t know your name…” The man’s hand was light but firm on her bare shoulder, and Marlea hesitated. “I want to apologize for what happened out there…I wanted to, uh, say…”
She turned slowly, and her mouth dropped. “What? You want my DNA now? What do you think you have to say to me that’s going to make your clumsiness go away? Where the hell did you come from, anyway? You had no business hauling your big…”
“Whoa!” AJ held up both hands, his conciliatory smile dangling loosely from his lips. “Wait a minute. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“To what? Your clumsiness or your stupidity?” Marlea swung her fist, narrowly missing him. “Do you even know what you just cost me? No! No, there’s no way you could. I’ve worked all my life to get to Olympic gold, and all I needed was to finish the Peachtree, and then you and your big ol’ Bozo feet come along. You had no business…”
“Ma’am, I’m just tryin’ to be courteous here. I said I was sorry. What happened between us was an accident, pure and simple…”
“Simple?” she flared, stepping closer.
“Well, yes. It’s actually funny, if you let yourself think of it that way. Kind of like what happened to Mary Decker and Zola Budd in the 800 meters. You remember? In the Olympics, back in…”
“1984. Yeah, and Mary’s career is over, too!” Marlea swung again, then kicked at him when he blocked her punch.
“I really am sorry; will you let me at least offer to buy you dinner? To make up for…”
“What you’ve done to my life? No, I don’t think so.” Marlea snatched her hand from the big man’s grasp and turned her back to him. Her steps went from a march to a jog, to a flat-out run across the park. Running down Tenth Street, she heard and ignored the questions about the mystery design on the treasured tee shirt. She ignored calls from the people running for fun. She was too busy trying to outrun her rage.
Nearly blinded by tears, Marlea managed to find her way back to the lot where she and Libby had parked her silver Accord. Dropping to her scraped knee, Marlea snatched and pulled at her shoe, finally fumbling her car key free of her knotted shoelace. Still kneeling, she jammed the key into the door, then pulled herself upright when it opened. Falling behind the wheel, she realized she was still wearing her race number.
“Libby said I would need this in case of an accident. Well, I guess I had an accident.” Without closing her eyes, Marlea could still see him—the accident. I’ll never forget him. I could pick him out of a lineup if I had to. Caramel skin, closely barbered dark hair and a neat mus
tache over a nice…no, nothing about him was nice, the big, sweaty oaf!
Even features and broad shoulders, and feet the size of Texas! He was tall, but Marlea still wished she had connected on at least one of those swings she had thrown at him. Probably would have broken my hand, but at least I would have had some satisfaction. As it is…I have nothing.
Lips pushed together, she pictured him again. Tall, probably more than six feet, because he had towered over her five feet and eight inches, he had barreled into her, knocking her flat. He was heavy, too. Heavy, but not fat, she suddenly remembered that. When her body was tangled with his, he seemed all broad shoulders and long, strong-muscled legs.
Yeah, tangled is a good word for it. Every time I tried to free myself from him, some part of his body was pressed all up against me. Not only did he screw up my time, but I’ll probably be black and blue tomorrow. Her finger poked at the scrape on her thigh. It was bleeding now, blood running down her leg, and she remembered shouting something about his taking her DNA. Guess he got that, too, she thought bitterly.
Her shoulders heaved, and all the hurt Marlea Kellogg had ever denied rose to the surface, and she slashed at the tears that finally fell from her eyes. Disowning the grief, she turned the key in the ignition and steered her car from the parking slot.
“I should have known better. It was going too well. Nothing is ever that easy.” The car slid neatly into traffic as Marlea made the turn that would take her to the highway. Her cellphone chimed, startling her. Her eyes danced between the traffic framed in her windshield and the narrow flip phone. It was Libby; she knew it without answering or looking at the phone.
Marlea swore, her voice low, though she felt like screaming. “I don’t need this. She’s looking for me in the park. By now, she knows what happened, and she’s going to tell me that she told me so. I swear I don’t need this.” Her right hand swept the phone from the car seat, sending it skittering across the floor on the passenger side. Breathing heavily, tears still sliding down her face, Marlea watched the battery snap free of the phone—no more ringing. “Good enough.”
Dream Runner Page 3
