The week that follows is extremely strange.
I’m not used to having another person with me constantly. Raylan stays by my side morning and night, no matter what I’m doing. I think he’d stand outside my shower if I let him.
I appreciate that he’s taking the job seriously, but I like my alone time. I’m cognizant of him constantly watching me, even when I’m trying to work or read or exercise.
I guess it could be worse. His company isn’t entirely unpleasant. He insists on cooking for both of us. “ ‘Cause otherwise I’d starve,” he says, apparently feeling that the volume and frequency of my meals leaves something to be desired. And he is a good cook. He makes pasta carbonara with fresh basil, bacon, and peas, and a citrus-marinaded chicken that he serves over risotto.
As I suspected during our dinner with Dean, Raylan is pretty damn smart under that country-boy schtick. While I’m working, he’s often reading. He goes through half the books on my shelf, reading The Bell Jar, Life After Life, Barkskins, and The Devil in the White City all in one week.
“What do you mostly read?” I ask him, curious about his taste.
“I like any book that puts you inside somebody’s head,” he says. “Like this Devil in the White City one. Have you read it?”
I nod.
“This H.H. Holmes guy. He’s pretty fucked up. But it makes me curious, anyway. Trying to see why he did all the things he did.”
Raylan is observant. His laid-back attitude doesn’t fool me. It’s obvious that he sees everything, and files it away.
“You like watching people,” I say.
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
“Why?”
“People are interesting.”
“I find most people pretty boring.”
“Am I boring?” He grins.
“No,” I admit. “You’re not.”
Raylan isn’t boring. Because he’s intelligent, and because he’s a paradox. From the way he talks about his family and the ranch where he grew up, I know he had a happy childhood. Yet he felt compelled to join the army and wander all over the globe. And on the surface he appears folksy and friendly. But I know he’s a trained soldier who wouldn’t hesitate to kill.
I can see he has a more intense and competitive side to him. He likes to joke around, but I see it surface under the right circumstances.
For instance, when he joins me for my evening workouts.
I haven’t gone back to the rooftop pool. Even though I know the diver isn’t likely to come back, and I know Raylan is there with me, I can’t stand the thought of slipping into the water again.
Instead, I go to the gym on the floor right below. It’s got ellipticals and treadmills, squat racks and free weights.
Raylan joins me working out so, as he puts it, “I don’t turn into a lazy ass just sittin’ around watching you work.”
The treadmills all face the bay of floor-to-ceiling workouts so you can look down over the city as you run. Raylan takes the treadmill next to mine and sets it to a steady jog, keeping pace with me easily.
I like running. Dante and I used to go for runs together in the nicer spring and summer weather. It’s getting too cold for it now.
I can go for a long time. Running suits people with slim builds. It’s easier for me to go on and on, versus someone like Dante or Raylan with more muscle. That’s a lot of weight for them to carry.
I notice that Raylan sets his pace and incline to match mine exactly. He’s probably doing it to annoy me. Or to prove something to me.
To test that theory, I turn my pace up from 6.5 to 7.2, and I increase the incline to 2%. Sure enough, he does the exact same thing, tossing me a wolfish grin.
“You can’t outrun me,” he says. “We’re right beside each other.”
“Oh, really?” I say, and I crank it up again, to 8.0 and 3%.
Raylan copies me. We’re running at a decent clip now, both of us breathing harder and getting a little red in the face.
After five more minutes, I up the speed to 8.5. Raylan does the same.
“I can go forever like this,” I tell him. That’s not exactly true, but a little psychological warfare never hurt anybody.
“So can I,” he says, winking at me.
I have to admit . . . the wink is kind of sexy.
I’ve been telling myself that Raylan is not that attractive, and definitely not my type. I have no interest in a mercenary who wears flannel shirts and takes pleasure in teasing me like an annoying older brother. I like men who are dignified and respectful. Men I can take seriously.
Despite those absolute facts, I find my eyes drifting over to Raylan and the way his t-shirt is starting to cling to his broad chest as it soaks through with sweat.
I whip my head straight again and turn up the treadmill to 9.0.
Raylan matches me stride for stride. He’s grinning at me, despite the fact that he’s breathing hard and a little drop of clear sweat is running down the side of his face.
“Really putting me through my paces, huh?” he says.
“You can stop anytime you want,” I say, trying to sound like I’m not out of breath in the slightest.
“No fuckin’ way,” he growls.
The growl sends a shiver down my spine.
To chase it away, I turn the treadmill up to 10.0.
We’re really sprinting now. I’ve got long legs, but so does Raylan. I have stamina, but apparently he does, too. Neither of us is talking now. We’re staring straight ahead, pumping our arms, both ridiculously determined not to give up.
I don’t know why I started this competition, or why we’re both so intent on winning. I want to prove to Raylan that he can’t beat me, and he apparently feels the need to do the same. We’re running fiercely, doggedly, furiously.
I turn the treadmill up to 10.5.
“Are you training for the Olympics?” Raylan pants.
“You can give up any time,” I say.
He just laughs.
I have the strangest mixture of annoyance and admiration for him. I want to fucking beat him—I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but it is. And at the same time, a tiny secret part of me doesn’t want him to quit. I know myself—I’m always looking for people to show weakness. To fail. And then I have disdain for them. A tiny piece of me wants Raylan to force me to respect him.
I can tell he’s tired. He’s red-faced, sweating, panting. So am I—maybe even more than Raylan. It’s a battle of wills now. Our brains are driving our bodies forward, despite our exhaustion.
Silently, throwing a cheeky look at me, Raylan turns the treadmill up to 11.0. I try to do the same, barely able to keep pace enough to reach up and hit the button.
“I’m a lot of things,” Raylan says to me, “but never a quitter.”
My lungs are burning and so are my legs. I’ve never sprinted for so long. I can feel my knees getting wobbly beneath me.
All of a sudden the roof and the floor swap positions. My legs give out from under me.
“Riona, what the hell!” Raylan shouts.
He jumps off the belt and grabs me right before I hit the floor.
I can hear the treadmills still whirring away at top speed, but white sparks are flashing in front of my eyes. Raylan grabs his water bottle and splashes cold water in my face.
“Are you insane?” he says.
“Get off,” I push him away. “I’m fine.”
I don’t know why I’m angry at him. Maybe because I lost. Maybe because I’m embarrassed at almost passing out like that.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he says.
“You were racing me,” I snap back at him.
My head is pounding, and I feel simultaneously too hot and too cold. I can feel sweat running down my chest, even though I’m not running anymore.
“You’d rather kill yourself than let me win?” Raylan says. His smile is gone. He looks properly pissed.
“Just leave me alone,” I say, getting to my feet. I’m planning to stalk away from him, but my legs are too wobbly, and I almost fall over again.
Raylan grabs my arm. “Calm down and get your breath back.”
I know it’s good advice, but I hate the way he thinks he knows what’s best for me.
“Don’t tell me what to do!” I shout, yanking my arm away from him.
Thank god we’re the only people in the gym. I’d hate to have anyone else witness what an asshole I’m being right now.
“What’s your problem?” Raylan demands. “I’m only here to help you.”
“I don’t need your help!”
“The fuck you don’t.”
He’s not letting go of my arm and that really pisses me off. I shove him hard in the chest, feeling how hot he is from running.
Raylan yanks me back again. When I try to shove him once more, he grabs me by the face and kisses me. It’s a rough kiss, his black stubble scratching my face. It’s hard and violent and I can taste the salt of his sweat.
I wrench away from him and slap him across the face.
“Don’t you fucking kiss me!” I shout.
Raylan’s blue eyes are blazing, and he looks completely different from his usual cheerful self. He’s all wolf now, teeth bared and jaw rigid. He grabs me by my ponytail and kisses me again, even harder.
Then he lets go of me and we pull apart, staring at each other and panting audibly. My heart is hammering against my ribs like I’m still on the treadmill. I can practically hear his doing the same. We both know we crossed a line. Actually we jumped over the line with both feet.
I can’t look him in the eye.
I grab my water bottle and towel and walk back toward the elevators.
Raylan is following after me, five feet behind.
No matter what insanity just passed between us, he’s not going to stop guarding me. Not for a second.
We get into the elevator together, silent and awkward.
I think of a dozen things I should say. But I can’t seem to make up my mind whether to apologize, or shout at him some more.
So I just stay quiet.
We ride back down to the twenty-eighth floor and go into my apartment. Then I head straight to my room, while Raylan stays in the living room to sleep alone on the couch.
