“Yeeeello.”

I laugh a little. “You’re a dumbass.”

“Hey, if it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll go kiss her goodnight for you.”

“Asshole. OK, I’ll check in tomorrow.”

“Later, Larue.”

The line goes silent before I can respond to Spencer’s dig.

Nothing I can do. Ford is right, this is all about her and there’s just nothing I can do.

Chaper Fifteen - ROOK

I’m up with time to spare the next day. I throw on some black yoga pants, a black running tank, a Shrike Bikes zippered hoodie, and my running shoes. Ford lives above the shop, so I grab my camera and head down the driveway to see if he’s awake and ready.

Spencer has all his doors coded like Chaput Studios so the crew and other employees can get access when they need to, so I punch in my code and walk through the shop reception area. This is where I’ll be working. Answering phones, making appointments for clients to Skype in with Spencer and place a custom order, driving around town picking up and dropping shit off.

Your basic receptionist-slash-delivery driver position.

Right now the shop has eight bikes in progress. Spencer and another guy named Ryan build the custom bikes, while Fletch and Griff make the showroom bikes. Customers are allowed to ask for modifications, so they do a little custom shit too. What Ford will be doing here is beyond me. As far as I know, he doesn’t build bikes. But he’s been known to surprise me before. He lives upstairs above the shop in another apartment. I walk to the far end of the work area, picking my way between half-built bikes and tool chests, then climb the steep steps.

I knock.

I hear a faint, “Come in,” from behind the door.

“Ford?” I call back as I open the door.

“You’re early,” he says through a mouthful of toothbrush. He’s wearing a pair of old jeans that hang low on his hips, exposing his happy trail because he has no shirt on.

Hmmm. Ford is not a bad-looking guy. He’s all muscle, but not the same way that Spencer is. Spencer is bulky and buff. Ford is lean and taut.

Taut. What a great word. I laugh internally at that, then realize I laughed externally as well.

“Stop staring at me. I never stared at you when you were prancing around naked all summer.”

“I didn’t prance! And I’m not staring,” I reply, blushing. “I was comparing your body to Spencer’s.”

He walks back into the bathroom to spit and rinse. “How do I stack up?” he asks, walking across the hallway to his bedroom to change.

“Umm—” I shouldn’t even go there.

He peeks his head around the corner and tugs a black shirt on. “Well? You can be honest because let’s face it, I’m much better built than Spencer.” He ducks back into his room and I laugh.

“Well, you’re certainly more full of yourself.”

“Right. That’s a good one. I’m humble compared to Spencer.” He comes back out into the little living room with his shoes and sits down on the couch. His jeans are gone now, and replacing them are his usual black running pants. “Why do you have that camera? Is this gonna be your thing? You’re one of those film students who records every moment of their life?”

I shrug. “Maybe. What’s it to you? I’m eager, that’s all.”

He looks up from lacing a shoe and smiles. “Yes, I can tell.”

I’m not sure if that was innuendo or not, so I change the subject. “Where are we going, anyway?”

“CSU Football stadium. It’s southwest of FoCo, but there’s a back road we can take from Bellvue, so it shouldn’t take too long to get there. It’s a scenic drive, that’s for sure. So you can film that if you want something nice for B-roll.”

“I love it when you talk film to me, Ford.”

He smirks up at me as he finishes up his shoes. “You’re not allowed to be this happy at five in the morning. I will train that smug smile right off your face in about twenty minutes, you wait.”

He grabs his keys and one of those trendy running jackets and we hop down the stairs and walk outside to his Bronco. I get my camera ready just in case there is something pretty to shoot for B-roll. You never know when you’ll need a shot of Colorado back country.

We drive in silence—well, that’s relative because this hunk of junk is not exactly quiet. But neither of us mind letting the rumble of the engine fill the silence. I just watch out my window, filming the scenery. We go right through Bellvue and come out on an empty road south of town. It takes us past a lake on one side and a bunch of university buildings on the other. “Research stations,” Ford says, pointing to the buildings. “Horsetooth Reservoir,” he says, pointing to the lake.

A few miles later the stadium comes into view. We have to go past it and double back on another road to get there, but it really didn’t take that long. “Wow, there’s a lot of cars here. They must have quite the AM training program.”

“Homecoming weekend stuff,” he explains. “But we’ve got permission as long as we’re out by eight.”

“How do you get permission for all this, Ford?”

“Money,” he deadpans. Then he looks over at me and laughs. “How else?”

“You have to pay for us to run? Did you have to pay for me at Coors Field?”

He ignores me and pulls the Bronco up to a security guard at the parking lot entrance, then reaches into his jacket pocket and flashes two ID’s. The guard waves us through. “Money,” he says again, looking over at me this time. “And hacking skills.”