At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters)

by A. E. Grace

  Miles thought that he had caught her scent, just on the edges of cognition, but he had doubted himself. Though his sense of smell was heightened even in human form, he didn’t want to believe it. But now that this man was intimating they got her too… He had to get out. He couldn’t let her get hurt because of him.

  “Actually she wasn’t impressed. She told me I was being stupid.”

  “Ah, clever girl then, huh?”

  Miles nodded. “Very clever.”

  “So she didn’t give you any, huh?” The man licked his lips, smirking.

  “No.” Miles returned the sordid smile.

  “Too bad for you. Can’t say I blame her, though, yeah? You’re a bit dull, huh?” He laughed then, an annoying high-pitched cackle that clashed with his mean exterior. “Couldn’t get a piece of tail before you died. And you’re a fucking superstar race-car driver! That’s funny, bru.” His face hardened. “You are going to die, Cheat. You know that, right?”

  Laughing, Miles nodded slowly.

  “Ah,” the man said, pointing the tip of the knife at him. “You get it, huh? Not so dull after all? You fuck with us, we take your life.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s going to be painful, too. You ready, my friend? Think you can handle it, huh? Think you’re a tough guy, laughing like you’re not afraid, huh? Well, trust me. You’ll be afraid. This isn’t my first go, you know.”

  “So what are you waiting for?”

  “Can’t start without the boss, can we? You keep flip-flopping, bru. Smart one minute, dumb as a donkey shit the next. But don’t worry, he’s coming, he’s on his way. You’ll get to put on a show for an audience one more time. Just have to be patient, eh?”

  Miles didn’t doubt it, and though he was rather enjoying their chat, he decided it was time to at least attempt to get out of his predicament.

  “Hey, my mate,” Miles said, imitating and getting the man’s attention. “Will you do a dead man a favor, then?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I had a big fucking meal today.”

  “Yeah? So what?”

  “My jeans are really tight. They’re a size too small.”

  The man blinked, but there was a look of curiosity in his eye.

  “Will you undo the top button?”

  “You a fairy or something?”

  Miles grinned and shook his head. “No, I’m serious. It’s killing me. Ate sauerkraut at the hotel today. Don’t know why I ordered that shit. Think it was a bit off, because it’s giving me a lot of gas. I mean, just heaps. I’m bloating, bru. It’s really uncomfortable. Just help me undo the top button of my jeans.”

  The man looked him up and down, unmoving, but before long a smile parted his lips.

  “Come on,” Miles said. “I promise I won’t kiss you.”

  “Try anything,” he warned, pointing the knife at Miles. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

  Miles nodded like he was bored of hearing that. “I know.” He watched as the man approached him, knife out until it was touching his neck. With his other hand, he fiddled with the button until he got it through the fabric loop.

  “Oh, God, thanks,” Miles said, exhaling dramatically. “You ever want to do that when you’ve had dinner with a girl but you don’t know her that well?”

  The man laughed. “I wear elastic.”

  “Smart man,” Miles said. He looked at him, judging his distance. Less than ten feet away, it would be as easy as a single pounce, and a raking paw, or a clamping jaw.

  Miles squirmed in his chair, heard the wood creak. Now was as good a time as any. He kicked backward, felt the chair teeter on its two hind legs before falling back onto the floor with a crash. He started the shift, entering the dizzying state that bridged man and animal. His wrists narrowed, hands turned to paws, and slipped out of the cuffs. His jeans, loose, were easy to pull his legs out of, followed by his briefs, and all that remained was his shirt hanging around his neck and body, like somebody had been playing dress-up with their pet.

  Miles launched into the air, springing off his two hind legs, latching onto the stunned guard’s throat. He sank his teeth into flesh, felt the rubber of an artery against the roof of his mouth. He tore, and ripped, and was sprayed in crimson while the man let out a strangled, gurgling gasp before collapsing to the floor, holding uselessly onto his neck, knife still in his hand. Miles growled at the man angrily, loud enough so that somebody would hear, and he waited behind the door.

  When it inevitably opened, he dispatched the next thug with ease, weaving through his legs to climb up onto his back and rake at the side of the man’s neck. He tore out into the corridor, low and in the shadows, shaking the shirt off his head.

  He caught a smell carried on the arm of a breeze. His heart filled with black dread.

  Circe!

  *

  Circe glared. The guard seated opposite her, hilariously wearing sunglasses despite the hour, seemed to be nodding off. She watched as his head dipped lower and lower, and the grip on his gun, an assault rifle the best she could fathom, loosened, so that his hand slid down the barrel before resting on one of the grips.

  They had tied her up and left her in the room, and only one man with an accent she guessed was South African had given any orders: “Don’t touch her until after we’ve killed him.”

  She wasn’t about to wait that long. Though the thought of them murdering Miles weighed heavily on her emotions, she wasn’t about to let it distract her, either. She had to save her own skin before she could indulge in any sort of sadness.

  And, besides, Miles was a cheetah and no doubt had been in trouble before. She had to believe he’d find a way out!

  What she didn’t expect to feel in addition to her fear, worry, and near-panic, was anger. It brewed inside her. Miles had made her a fucking target! Why hadn’t he told her all of that sooner? She was incensed, being swept up in this. She was innocent to the whole affair, and it was patently obvious that they had taken her too as a means of getting to him.

  What could they possibly want to know? Did he have a team, a crew? Surely once he told them he worked alone, they’d let her go, right?

  It dawned on her then that they might not. They might never let her go. If kidnapping was something they did so lightly, was getting rid of risk that big of a step upward?

  She began frantically then to move her wrists as much as possible trying to loosen the knot. Doing her best not to make any sound, she attempted to pull her hands through, but realized she’d never manage short of breaking her own thumb, and that was definitely not an option. She continued to wiggle her wrists, growing ever more confident that her guard really was asleep. When he started to snore, it only cemented her conviction to escape right fucking now!

  Realizing that loosening the knot was not going to work, she ran her arm up and down the sides of the back of her wooden chair. She found a rough patch, and twisted, her waist painful, so she could rub the rope binds up and down against it.

  Her progress was painstaking, and she had soaked her top through with sweat, and her muscles were constantly on the verge of cramping. But she could feel the rope beginning to fray, and kept at it frantically.

  Then, just like that, the rope snapped. It didn’t even make a sound, but her arms shot out to the side, catching her by surprise, and she almost toppled the chair forward. Standing up, she looked at the guard and his gun. She could take it easily, but she didn’t know how to use it. Wasn’t there a safety? She’d have no idea where to look. Plus, there were more men outside, anyway. It would be foolish.

  She went to the window instead, and saw a rusty handle that would unlatch it. Testing it lightly with just a finger, the metal creaked, and she knew that she’d never get the window open without making a sound. It was barely large enough to crawl through, too.

  “Fuck,” she mouthed. But there was no other option. She picked the chair she’d been strapped to off the ground, and placed it immediately in front of the snoozing guard. That would slow him down.
<
br />   Counting to three in her head, she took three quick breaths and opened the window. The metal hinges groaned. The guard woke. He got up, tripped over her chair immediately, his gun clattering onto the floor.

  Circe climbed out of the window as fast as she could, fell onto the hard, sandy ground beneath it, and then set off running into the night, throwing a glance over her shoulder to see the guard in pursuit.

  She’d never outrun him.

  The icy fingers of fear wrapped around her throat.

  She couldn’t breathe.

  *

  Miles’ cheetah crept through the house they were in, sticking to the shadows, darting in and out of cones of light from the overhead bulbs. He could smell Circe acutely, and was following the scent, weaving through the corridors of the shabby cement household.

  The taste of human blood was pungent in his mouth, and made him sick to his stomach, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He had to get to Circe!

  He found a closed door, behind which her smell was stronger, and so climbed onto two hind legs and managed to turn the doorknob with his paws. The door creaked open, and inside he saw two upturned chairs, a gun on the ground, and the window wide open.

  Catching her scent on the air, he leaped out of the window, sprinted through tight alleys, until he saw Circe and her pursuer. His growl sounded like a race car roaring by as he darted at the man, leaping onto his back and clamping his jaws around the back of his neck.

  The man yelped, fell face first onto the ground, and Miles, seeing the terrified Circie on her bum, scooting away, dragged the limp body of her attacker into the shadows of a side street.

  He emerged from the alley a man, running over to Circe, cool sand in between his sweaty toes, and he wrapped an arm around her.

  “I’m so sorry,” he breathed into her hair, kissing her and holding her tight. “I’m so sorry.”

  *

  “What the fuck!” Circe hissed it at Miles, hitting him on the shoulder with a balled fist. “Fuck you, Miles! Ew, you’re covered in blood!”

  “Be quiet,” he told her. His head was darting left and right.

  “What the hell are you looking for?”

  “A laundry line.”

  “Why? Let’s just get out of here!”

  “How the hell are we going to do that when I’m bloody naked?” he asked, irritation in his voice. She looked at his face properly for the first time, and saw that he was bleeding from a deep gash beneath his right eye.

  “Damn, Miles, you’re going to need stitches there.”

  “Come on,” he said, taking her hand. The two kept low as they weaved through two-story buildings in the unknown town they were in. “Help me look for clothes on a line.”

  “Nobody leaves laundry out overnight!” Circe whispered.

  “There’s got to be a bloke around here who lives alone.”

  Taking alleys between buildings, and hugging the walls, eventually they spotted a line, strung between two buildings overhead.

  “I’m going to lift you up, Circe. You see if you can reach any of those clothes.”

  Circe looked at Miles and then up at the line. She saw some fairly traditional looking clothes – a long-sleeved loose shirt, and equally loose, light-colored trousers.

  “Miles, I don’t think you can-”

  “I can,” he said, and he turned her around, grabbed each of her hips with his hands. “But it might hurt you a little.”

  “You’re going to lift me up like that?” Circe shook her head. “No, that’s not going to work.”

  “It’s going to work, damn it.” She felt herself hoisted into the air by just her hips, and gasped loudly. “Quiet!” she heard him say below her. She reached up, grabbed hold of the clothing, and then he lowered her back down.

  His arms hadn’t even trembled.

  “Wow,” she said. “Does that come from being a shapeshifter?”

  He nodded quickly, putting on the clothes. They were too big for him, but it wasn’t like they had a choice.

  “Is every shapeshifter like that?”

  “Probably,” he said. He took her hand again and, sticking to alleys and backstreets. From what Circe could gather, looking around as they frantically zig-zagged through the settlement, this was a small town, more a collection of houses, farms and simple stores than anything resembling the all-glass-and-steel stadium city they had been kidnapped from.

  “Miles, where are we going?”

  “Looking for a car.”

  Circe blinked. “But we just passed one!”

  Miles turned back to look at her. Sweat and blood was dripping off his chin. “Yeah, but it’s a shit model. We can do better.”

  “Miles!”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, nodding, going back the way they came. “Come on then.”

  “Can you even hotwire it?”

  “Of course I can. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you pick up a few things along the way.”

  They rounded a corner, and sure enough, on a narrow street, was a crappy four-door covered in dust. It looked to be a model from the eighties.

  “Will it even still work?”

  “Only one way to find out.” He walked up to the car, and was about to elbow the window through when Circe put her hands up.

  “The fuck are you doing, Miles? Try the door first!”

  He looked at her for a moment, before pointing at her, his mouth pulling into a grin. She watched as he tried the door, but it was locked.

  “Oh, all right,” she said, waving dismissively at him. He smashed the window through with his elbow. It was a surprisingly quiet thump and crack, rather than the cacophony she expected to hear.

  “Did it hurt?” She climbed into the car, and watched as he strode purposefully around the hood.

  “No.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Rea-”

  “Okay, okay, it did, but don’t tell anyone.”

  Seconds later, Miles had the car started, and he sped out of the town, found the sand-swept motorway, and drove toward the brighter patch of sky in the distance, with telltale human illumination on the rolling underbellies of clouds.

  *

  It’s been a week now since we were kidnapped. I’m glad it was all over as quickly as it was. The police never found them, of course.

  It still weighs heavily on me that I watched Miles kill a man. That man would probably have killed me. I don’t know how I feel about being with a man who has killed before. It’s a big deal to me. But soldiers kill all the time, right? Do their wives and girlfriends have problems reconciling that? Police officers sometimes kill. What do their wives think?

  Is it a problem with me that I have a problem with it?

  I can’t believe I’m writing this.

  Killed.

  Kill.

  Murder.

  Am I in a movie?

  My life’s never been in danger before. It was that night I was taken. It probably still is due to my association with Miles.

  If they knew who he was that night, then they’ll *still* know who he is now, right?

  I know the best thing to do would be to leave him.

  But I really don’t want to do that.

  I don’t want to work on this bloody interview anymore, either.

  I’ve learned too much about him. There’s too much I can’t write about. It would be dishonest. It would be difficult.

  I’m not as invested professionally anymore, either. I almost don’t care about it anymore.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  Forsake a great career for a man who almost got me killed? But I feel so strongly for him…

  I was angry at him those first few days. I don’t know why I’m writing this. I could just go back and read my entries from then. But I didn’t talk to him for days.

  He’s been off too. I think he might be rattled, though it doesn’t seem his style to be rattled. Maybe he’s plotting revenge. I have no idea. We haven’t exactly been chatting like we used to.<
br />
  What a rollercoaster! The down followed the up so fast. I don’t know what it means for us.

  I mean, we’re talking again, now. It’s cautious. I know he feels terrible. I know that he’s beating up on himself for putting me in that position. Fuck, for putting himself in that position.

  We made love today and that was cathartic. It was a release I needed, a reminder of life. Of love. Of what could have been lost, and of what I – we – still have.

  What should I do, dear diary?

  What should I do?

  “I’m retiring from Formula One,” Miles said. The sea of reporters gasped in unison, and it was as if all the air was sucked out of the room in an instant.

  After a quick pause, the silence erupted into shouting, questions being hurled at Miles left, right, and center.

  Taking in the din for a few moments, Miles then put his hands out and gestured for quiet. It took a few minutes, but eventually the crowd settled down.

  “There is nothing to it, ladies and gentleman. It is simply a phase of my life that is now over. I wish all my colleagues, fellow racers, and crew members every success. I would like to apologize to my good friend and team owner Richard Ford for putting his excellent team in such a tangle. He has put up with my endless dramatics, my difficult, often boyish behavior, and he is without a doubt the best owner and manager a driver could ask for.”

  Miles looked at Richard. With a nose like a prized strawberry, the man looked ever jolly, and he was not wearing a sour face now, despite the bad news. He waved at Miles, and Miles waved back. He felt a sentimental string tugged in his heart, and was surprised. Beyond his feelings for Circe, he didn’t know he had any others to pull.

  He continued: “But I am certain they will quickly find a replacement. The team is the best in Formula One. The cars are the best. It follows that they’ll have their pick of the best. The best drivers. I will not be answering any questions, as, truthfully, there is nothing to tell.” He offered an exaggerated shrug, got up, and exited the press room at the Shanghai International Circuit, just one hour before the Chinese Grand Prix was set to start.