Head Over Heels

“Fine,” Nolan snapped, then paused uncomfortably. “I, uh, have to get another angioplasty.”

Sawyer’s own heart skipped a beat. “When?”

“Friday.”

“I’ll be there.”

“It’s just a routine thing, no big deal.”

“I’ll be there, dammit.”

Sawyer left feeling like shit. Nothing new there. Needing a caffeine kick, he parked at the convenience store, and for just a moment, leaned back and closed his eyes. He needed something, and caffeine wasn’t it.

Balls-to-the-wall sex had a nice ring to it.

A shout interrupted the thought. Glass shattered, followed by running footsteps, which was never good. Sawyer straightened just as a guy came barreling out of the convenience store, hugging his sweatshirt close to his body as if protecting something.

A piece of paper fluttered from the sweatshirt.

Aw, Christ on a stick, Sawyer thought, catching a flash of green. Not paper.

Money.

The guy hopped into a banged-up Celica and sped away with a show of squealing tires and smoke.

Goddammit. Sawyer hit the gas to follow as he called dispatch to report that he’d caught a robbery in progress. The piece-of-shit sedan in front of him turned right at the end of town, obviously headed toward the open highway. At the freeway entrance, there were two delivery vans, moving slow as molasses. The car swerved around them, heading directly into a small, quiet neighborhood filled with midsized houses, hard-working people, and kids. Lots of kids.

Sawyer swore again and kept on the car’s bumper while simultaneously keeping dispatch abreast of their coordinates. Thankfully it was midday, both a work and school day, and the streets were relatively empty.

At the corner, the sedan went up and over the sidewalk and popped the two right tires. By the middle of the next street, the car was slowing, then drifting to a complete stop.

“Don’t run,” Sawyer said under his breath, pulling up behind him. “Don’t fucking run.” He hated foot chases. But, of course, in the next second, the suspect had abandoned his car and was hauling ass down the street.

“Fuck.” Grabbing a spare set of cuffs, Sawyer shoved them into the back of his jeans and hit the pavement. “Stop,” he yelled. “Police.”

The suspect didn’t stop. Of course not. Goddammit. Sawyer shook his head and followed with the ease that running five miles every day afforded him. He didn’t run for pleasure. Hell no. He ran every day, rain or snow or shine, so he didn’t lose assholes like this one. He chased the guy through a yard, over a fence, and into some bushes, yelling at the few curious people poking their heads out to “get back inside!” Closing the distance, Sawyer made a swipe for the guy’s sweatshirt and hauled him to the ground.

They landed hard, the suspect on the bottom, limp as a rag doll. Great, Sawyer thought. He’d killed him.

But then the guy groaned, and Sawyer was glad for it. Less paperwork if he was alive. He put a knee in the guy’s back and reached for his cuffs. “What the hell was that?”

The suspect shook his head. “No Ingles.”

No problemo. Sawyer had some Spanish. He could say “give me a beer,” “throw down your weapon, asshole,” and lucky for this idiot, he could also recite the Miranda rights.

* * *

It took another two hours and more paperwork before Sawyer could go. He had aching knees from the takedown and a mother of a headache brewing, but it was the adrenaline flowing through him that sent him straight to the gym.

Working out wasn’t his first choice for letting down the adrenaline. That honor would still go to the balls-to- the-wall sex he’d wished for earlier, but that wasn’t in the cards for him today.

The gym he went to was small but new, and state of the art. A friend of his met him here several times a week. Matt Bowers was a district supervisor forest ranger, and Sawyer’s sparring partner.

Sawyer changed and found Matt beating the hell out of a punching bag. “Why don’t you try someone who’ll fight back?” Sawyer asked.

Matt turned and looked Sawyer over. “I’ll get more action out of the bag. You’re looking soft, Thompson.”

Sawyer smiled. They both knew Sawyer was in top fighting shape himself; he made sure of it. He let out a sound mimicking a chicken clucking.

Matt smiled, one of the few people in Lucky Harbor not intimidated by Sawyer’s size. With good reason, since Matt was an ex-cop from Chicago, and deceptively laid-back. “Having a bad day?”

“Yeah, I broke a nail.”

Matt grinned. “Pussy.”

They beat the shit out of each other for the next thirty minutes before finally dropping to their backs on the mat, gasping for breath.

“You going to tell me what crawled up your ass?” Matt managed to ask.

“No.” Wheezing, Sawyer studied the ceiling while he waited for his heart to stop drumming in his ears.

“I know it’s not a woman,” Matt said. “You don’t have one. You’ve scared them all off.”

“Fuck you.”

Matt chuckled. “Not my type, man. I like ’em soft and pretty.” He paused. “Is it work?”

It was his life, Sawyer thought wearily.

“I’d try to beat it out of you some more, but I can’t feel my legs,” Matt said.

“So who’s the pussy exactly?”

Matt snorted and managed to get to his feet. “I’m hitting the shower.”

Sawyer lay there for another moment. He’d definitely gotten rid of the excess energy and adrenaline. His body was letting down now, or so the level of pain indicated anyway. Dripping sweat and holding his sore ribs, he staggered to his feet and came face-to-face with Chloe.

She was dressed for a workout in black, cropped yoga pants and a yellow sports bra that he needed sunglasses to look at. Not that that stopped him.

“You got your ass kicked, Sheriff.”

“Fuck if I did.”

“I don’t know.” She cocked her head to look him over. “Your hot friend got to his feet much easier than you.”

“Hot?”

“Mmm-hmm. Your lip’s bleeding, Sheriff.”

Sawyer swiped at his lip and resisted the urge to grab a ridiculous amount of weights and do an arm curl. “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” she said doubtfully. “If you’re sure…”

Jesus. A minute ago he’d doubted that he could drag himself to the shower, but now he sat heavily on a weight bench and reached for the weights.

Chloe raised a brow but said nothing more as she put in her earphones and sat on a weight bench facing away from him.

“What about your asthma?”

“This isn’t cardio. I’m good as long as I go slow.” Then she began to work her arms, moving that taut, curvy body to some mysterious beat.

Sawyer watched her. He couldn’t help himself. She’d piled her glorious mass of red hair into a ponytail that swung back and forth with her every arm curl. Her shoulders were straight, the lean muscles in her back sleek and feminine. She had the best ass he’d ever seen. Sure there were other cute butts in the gym, but Chloe’s was right there in front of him, drawing his gaze. He was very busy attempting to see as much of it as he could when she turned her head and caught him.

He hurriedly pushed up the weights and was relieved when his arms obeyed and he didn’t totally humiliate himself.