Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89598 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
“I ate like I usually do on race days. Stretched too.”
“You race?” There was both grudging respect and utter disbelief in Bacon’s tone.
“Oh yeah.” Spencer was happy to mess with his expectations. “I like having something to train for. It keeps me focused. I’ve done various distances, but I did the LA marathon for my thirty-fifth birthday. Liked it so much that I did an ultra-marathon for my fortieth.”
“Huh. And what are you going to do for fifty?” Bacon finally picked up the pace, probably because he was finally convinced Spencer wasn’t going to keel over on him.
“Seven years away.” Spencer laughed. He didn’t think Bacon meant the question as any kind of fishing expedition. He’d gone gray prematurely in his twenties and never bothered with dyes or other cover-ups, so people always read him as older. And as such, he couldn’t resist messing with the dour Bacon. “But I think for fifty, I’ll learn to swim.”
“What? You can’t swim?” As predicted, Bacon’s mouth fell open, and he lost his rhythm, almost tripping before he righted himself. “F—What the... They gave you to us and you can’t swim?”
“Watch your step,” Spencer said brightly as he jogged ahead.
“Seriously. You can’t swim, like at all?” Bacon easily caught back up to him.
“Chill.” Without breaking stride, Spencer smiled at him. It wasn’t returned. “I can swim. And fire a gun. And I’ve skydived. You think they’d let me embed if I couldn’t keep up?”
“Yep.” Bacon had a world-weary tone. Spencer wanted to know his story, what had made him seem old beyond his years. “PR has different definitions of ‘fit’ then the rest of us. No offense.”
“Well, I made sure to be as ready as I could for this assignment. Feel free to test me.”
“You want to go faster?” Bacon sounded almost eager, which was cute. Not that Spencer needed to go find anything about this guy—this much too young, much too off-limits guy—cute. He was part of the job. He wasn’t allowed to be cute.
“Yeah. Let’s kick it.” Spencer needed the hard pace to push aside any personal curiosity about Bacon. He was a source. He didn’t like Spencer, that much was clear, but Spencer had a job to do, one that he’d waited years to do. This was the chance of a journalistic lifetime and he wasn’t going to blow it.
Chapter Two
Bacon liked running, liked anything that got his body moving. Being still and alone with his thoughts was harder on him than any twenty-mile trek. And generally, he liked company, was never the sort to turn down being around people. But, he was trying hard not to like being around Bryant—getting too comfortable with the journalist seemed like a recipe for disaster. Who knew what would make it into his articles? And fuck this being on Team Bravo nonsense. Why the hell did he have to hang back on their next mission and babysit the reporter? He was still not over the LT assigning him this duty, and it didn’t matter how good a runner Spencer Bryant was, Bacon’s mood wasn’t improving.
Bryant hadn’t been kidding about being in shape, at least as far as running was concerned. He easily matched the pace of the men at the rear of the pack, no hanging back like Bacon had been prepared for. They’d put him in the same physical training uniform as the rest of them, but Bacon had expected it to be painfully obvious that Bryant wasn’t cut out for this. However, not even breathing that hard, Bryant moved with a natural grace. He was built more like an aging dancer than marathoner with long, lean, muscular legs, slim torso, and arms that were capped by expressive hands. Even when running, he’d managed to talk with his hands. Once they caught up to the pack, though, Bryant talked less, seemingly content to observe the team.
“So us getting the journalist, that’s gotta mean we’re shipping out soon, right?” Curly asked around the halfway point, huffing between words. As usual, he was to the rear of the pack, his naturally burly build more suited to long hikes and carrying loads than running.
“No clue,” Bacon replied.
“Not before the weekend, man,” Rooster groaned. “I got plans.”
“Making workout videos for your thirsty Instagram fans doesn’t count as plans,” Bacon joked before he remembered to watch what was revealed in front of Bryant.
“Oh, fuck off. You just wish you had my numbers.”
“Dude. Some of your followers aren’t even chicks.” Donaldson mock shuddered. “Gotta shut that shit down.”
“I am here for all the thirsty people.” Rooster laughed. Bacon still hadn’t figured him out—Rooster, whose real name was Renzo and who wore a Catholic medallion he fingered before missions, seemed pretty damn straight, just cocky as fuck. He could be bi or pan, but he hadn’t said as much to the team, and he put up with Donaldson’s homophobic crap with far more grace than Bacon did. “And I’m going to a buddy’s sick backyard obstacle course. Can’t wait.”