Page 7 of Rogue Survivor
His eyes widen for a split second before the casual smile slides back into place. “Trina asked me to help her out a few times when her laptop was in for repairs. We really need to prioritize a mobile application for our counselors in the next fiscal year.”
Some of the tension in my back melts away. “I don’t disagree. But next time, have Trina—or anyone else who asks—contact Helen or Sybil instead. We restrict access to those records for a reason. Our clients trust us to keep their personal information secure.”
A hint of color darkens Luke’s cheeks, and he nods. “It won’t happen again.” In the next breath, he’s on his feet and reaching for the suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. “If you’ll excuse me, I have reservations at Comedor on Colorado Street in fifteen minutes.”
As he brushes past me on his way down the hall, I blow out a long, slow breath. Most of the time, the gym is a necessary evil. A way to combat the long hours sitting behind a desk. Today? It’s an escape I desperately need.
Connor
The microwave dings, and I grab the burrito, only to drop it a half second later when molten cheese spills over my fingers. “Son of a bitch!”
Today has been a steaming pile of shit. The H-E-B was out of milk, and the rain started as I was limping out to my truck.
I knew getting up this morning was a mistake. Not like I have anywhere to be. Except the gym. For two weeks, I’ve gone every single day, but the halos and migraines? They’re still happening. I can’t lie to Brent—as much as I’d like to—and every time a flash of light fires in my periphery, I worry I’llneverget my life back.
My knee aches when I kneel down to clean up the soggy mess, but my vision’s clear today, so I give up on the idea of lunch and grab my gym bag.
Until I can earn a minimum of twenty points on the Bureau’s physical fitness exam, I won’t show my face at the field office.
Before my injuries, I tested myself every few months and never scored less than twenty-five. Now? On a good day, I hit sixteen.
Thank God the doc cleared me to drive. Taking the bus five miles to the Central Austin Fitness Center every day was getting old. The end of January is cold, wet, and miserable, and the extra stress wasn’t doing shit for my mental state.
After I stow my duffel bag in my locker, I drape a towel over one of the treadmills and drop down next to it, hooking my feet under the running board. My stopwatch buzzes as I reach forty-eight sit-ups. Not bad. That’s a solid five points. But I only earn a single point on the 300-meter sprint, and by the time I collapse after forty-five push-ups—another four points—I know I’ve failed.
If I’d been raised with an ounce of quit in me, I’d head for the locker room. Instead, I set the treadmill for a little over seven miles per hour and try to outrun my demons.
Next to me, a curvy brunette reaches for her water bottle, but it slips from her hand and bounces along the belt. Her foot misses the hazard by less than an inch. I’m not going to hit my time on the mile and a half run, so I stop the machine and retrieve the metal container with UT Austin emblazoned on the side.
She jabs the stop button and offers me an embarrassed smile when I hand over the bottle. “Thanks. That could have ended very badly.”
“Any run that ends is a good one,” I say, and our fingers brush. Hers are soft and delicate, her nails painted a muted coral against her sun-kissed skin. What the hell? I shouldn’t be noticing shit like that.
“You hate running? I see you here every day on the treadmill.” A little furrow deepens between her brows.
She’s noticed me?
Now it’s my turn to be self-conscious. “Not by choice.” Gesturing to the long scar running along my left leg, I grimace. “Multiple pins in my leg and a rebuilt knee. This is the only way I’ll get my speed back up.”
“Speed is overrated.” Her lips curve again, and when she takes a swig of water, I can’t look away. Flushed cheeks, minimal makeup, two tiny gold hoops in each ear. “Besides, weren’t you over seven miles an hour? That’sfast. I can barely manage five.”
“Not fast enough.” Grabbing my towel, I mop the sweat from my brow. “Need to be able to run a mile and a half in under ten minutes.”
“Shit. Whoever’s making you do that should be dragged behind a horse until they beg for mercy.”
My laugh feels…good. Weird, but good, and I realize it’s been months since I was able to relax around anyone. Hell, it’s been months since I’ve talked to another person besides Brent and my medical team. “I’m afraid my employer wouldn’t take too kindly to that, ma’am.”
Now it’s her turn to grimace. “Oh, God. I know you’re just being polite, but don’t call me ma’am. I already feel old enough trying to make it three miles on this cursed machine. I’m Isabel.”
She holds out her hand, and I take it, my fingers dwarfing hers. “Connor. I didn’t mean to offend…”
“This is Texas. And from your accent, I’d guess you were raised here?” She leans against the side of the treadmill and takes another long pull from her water bottle.
“Yes, ma’am—Isabel—just outside of Dallas. Only been in Austin a few months, though.”
“Then it’s in your blood. No offense taken. But if we’re going to keep showing up here at the same time every day, I don’t want you thinking of me as ‘that old woman with butterfingers’ or ‘ma’am.’”
My throat goes dry, and a strange warmth coils in my gut. “Not a chance of that, Isabel.” I doff an imaginary hat, then reach for my own water bottle. “Any labels you have for me I should know about?”
