Cowboy Ending - Overdrive: Book One (17 page)

Words caught in
my throat.

I had
been running – not jogging,
running
– at over seven miles an hour for the past ten minutes. Total
time on the machine was climbing fast over the forty-five minute
mark.

I was barely
breathing heavy.

Sure, I
was soaked with sweat. My gray
Fruit of the
Loom
tee shirt was completely drenched and sweat was
pouring in rivulets down my hairline, sending a chill down the back
of my neck. I could feel my heart pounding away but it was distant,
like an afterthought.

I stared at the
display, my legs and arms churning mechanically. Completely on
autopilot.

I
have
never
been a runner. Born
big and bulky with a wide shoulder and hip base. All my phys-ed
teachers swore up and down that I was built to be a tank and should
train like it. As such, cardio and running simply were things I did
in short bursts when I got tired of pounding iron. And when I did
hit the cardio going much faster than a brisk walk was often
torture for me. Leaving me in a state of wind sucking exhaustion
any time my heart rate climbed too far.

“This is
unbelievable,” I muttered.

Off to my left,
the taller lady was waving to get my attention. I tore my gaze away
from the display.

She smiled.
“Just saying, you move pretty good for a big guy.”

“Maybe when
you’re done there you can help us with some of the machines,” her
shorter friend chimed in.

“Yeah, we’re
hopeless with those things.”

“Totally”

Weirdest
conversation ever.

“Uh …
Okay?”

They both
smiled as they got off their treadmills. Chatting amiably amongst
themselves as they sashayed away to the stretching mats, taking
their sweet time in doing so.

My legs and
arms still churned.

I was now over
fifty minutes total.

I stared at the
display for another thirty seconds as I debated what to do
next.

My finger
stabbed forward and increased the speed.

At nine miles
per hour my heart rate stopped being an afterthought. But still
nothing I couldn’t handle and adjust to.

At ten miles
per hour my breathing picked up steam, but my body wasn’t fazed by
the need to huff and puff .

The treadmill
maxed out at twelve miles per hour, which was far and away the
fastest I had even run before for any length of time. I was holding
the pace steady in a flat out sprint, the cold sweat intensifying
down the back of my neck as my breathing picked up in time with my
heart rate. The display screen began to fritz and flicker from the
continual heavy impact of my near three hundred pound frame
hammering it at top speed.

I held that
pace for another five minutes, the sweat pouring in a cold tingle
down the back of my neck and along my spine.

I felt like I
could’ve gone faster.

Until the
machine went dead.

The screen
flickered once and then went black as the running belt stopped with
a squeal. Smoke billowed up from the engine in that familiar putrid
burnt rubber smell. The electrical socket the machine was plugged
into burst in a shower of sparks behind me.

Since my body
didn’t receive a memo advising this was happening in advance I was
unable to prevent myself from being launched abdomen first into the
display mount.

The
entire treadmill lurched forward, rocking heavily under my impact.
My momentum continued, awkwardly sending me ass over teakettle and
tumbling over the display mount. My body made a meaty
splat
on the cold floor as I curled
up in a ball around my agonized guts.

Ow.

And … No,
just fucking
ow
!

People
came over to check on me of course. Two people in YMCA maintenance
shirts. My new
Jersey Shore
wannabe friends strolled over as well but stayed a
respectable distance back, allowing them to rubberneck on the
action. For the record, they never followed up with me for help
with gym equipment. Shocker, I know.

I was helped to
my feet by one maintenance employee who suggested I stay down for
the first aid people. I waved him off and felt at the scars under
my soaked shirt.

I hadn’t torn
any of them open, though they ached like fury matching the
throbbing in my belly. I was in store for a wicked bruise just
above my pelvic bone where I pin wheeled off the treadmill.

“We’re gonna
need you to fill out a form,” The maintenance guy said as he
examined the smoking remains.

I nodded
vaguely as I stared at the machine. Too stunned to talk. Not from
the impact, but from the feeling of pins and needles trailing down
the back of my neck.

The one that I
had mistaken earlier for chilled sweat.

My hands
started trembling from where they pressed into my bruised gut.

The maintenance
guy shook his head with a whistle, examining the smoking treadmill.
“Looks like a bomb went off,” he muttered.

Chapter
14

Hot water
poured over my head as I stood under the shower and tried to
concentrate.

Which is easier
to do in my tiny stall at home then it is in the public showers at
the Downtown Y.

It was weird
enough trying to get my head wrapped around the plethora of strange
things going on in the last few days without having to wonder if
the weird tingle in my head was this new, bizarre sensation or one
of the old naked dudes checking me out.

Not that
there’s anything wrong with that.

My fingers
traced over the gunshot scars as scalding water washed over me.
Soothing. There would be a wicked bruise all over my guts and it
would be painful to move or do anything for a few days. Also the
maintenance folks had suggested I do my running on the track from
now on. Guess they were tired of fixing treadmills.

Leaning back so
the water smashed into my face and poured down my chest, it helped
to wash away the weirdness clouding my mind. Allowed me to push it
away. Cleanse it. Ignore it.

Nothing weird
was going on.

Accidents
happen all the time.

I’ve always
been clumsy.

Shit’s always
breaking.

I can’t keep a
cell phone or a debit card for any length of time.

This stuff
happens to everybody.

I snapped off
the shower once my denial became firmly locked in place.

Grabbed my
towel off the rack and headed back to my locker. According to the
clock on the wall I still had time to snag a burger on my way to
meeting Cathy at the studio.

That’s right.
Starving.

But seeing as
how I just ran for an hour I didn’t see anything weird about
it.

Would you?

Pulled on
my jeans and laced up my well-worn walking boots. My
Evil League of Evil
logoed t-shirt
came out of my gym bag and I grimaced at it. I’d forgotten about
the interview today and this shirt screamed “nerd” from the very
rooftops. I was going to be embarrassed enough going through this
ordeal. But since it was the only clean shirt I had with me, I
threw it on and zipped up my black
Poison -
2oth Anniversary Tour
hoodie to cover it somewhat. I
ran my fingers through my shaggy, too-long hair and decided the two
days growth of stubble was acceptably manly and not worth buying a
disposable razor for.

I retied my
boots and rolled up my sleeves, checked that my keys and wallet
were in my pockets before admitting to myself that I was stalling.
So I looped the straps of my gym bag over my shoulder and headed
for the door.

The same
two old guys watching golf in the locker room were still sitting
there debating whether Nicklas was better than Norman as I passed
by. On the TV a promo piece was rolling, advertising a special
segment;
Winnipeg’s Missing Women – Social
or Criminal Epidemic?

Out in the
lobby there had been a changing of the guard. The morning crew was
trading info with their relief whom I was more familiar with. I
nodded politely at them as I passed, not wanting to get caught in a
conversation. I lengthened my stride – my stomach gurgling in
anticipation at the prospect of the food court – and started up the
staircase to the mall entrance.

On the other
side of the windowed hallway I got ambushed by a tiny bundle of
energy attempting to crush me in a hug.

Tamara’s arms
couldn’t make it halfway around me, but that didn’t stop her from
trying. Her face pressed into my sore upper abdomen.

“Uh … Hi.” I
said down to the top of her head. “How’s it going?”

She stepped
back far enough to wind up and drill me hard in the left arm.

“Hey!”

“Three days?”
Tamara spat with wide eyes. Wide, accusing eyes framed by her
sultry librarian glasses. Wait. When did I start thinking of those
specs as sultry? She put both fists on her hips in the universal
stance of upset women everywhere. “You’ve been out of the hospital
three days and didn’t call?”

I shrugged,
rolling my left shoulder slightly. That fricking hurt. “I don’t
have your number.”

She hit me
again.

“Ow!”

“I gave it to
you that night. Here at the gym!”

“No, you
didn’t. Remember, I don’t have a cell phone? You laughed at me. It
was funny. You enjoyed my humiliation?”

Tamara hit me
again. All knuckle right in between the muscle. Manfully I didn’t
wince but it was a near thing. “Mark has my number, why didn’t you
get it from him?”

Because I
didn’t want Mark to know I didn’t already have your number.

“Because I
didn’t think he’d … Look, please stop hitting me.”

“I’m not
sure I want to.”
“Well I
am
sure.
Please?”

Tamara wound up
again, her face screwed up in petulant anger. Then she gave it up,
dropping her hand to her side. She looked so small just then, her
red YMCA shirt and track suit combo making her look like one of the
kids in the daycare program. Her face softened.

“There was so
much blood, Joe.”

“I heard.”

“So
much blood.” Tamara shook her little head.
“It was loud. It was scary. People were screaming. And fighting.”
Her eyes met mine, her expression grim. “And you were on the
sidewalk. You and all your blood.”

I grimaced,
readjusting my gym bag uncomfortably. “Sounds like I made quite a
mess.”

She was quiet.
Staring at me.

Her fingertips
reached out towards me. Towards my chest. Then froze.

“Did it … Does
it hurt?”

“Not really,”
Not as much as the thought of you making out with Mark. Damn you,
unforeseen jealousy! “I mean, it aches some. Doc says I’m healing
up good.”

“Well clearly,”
she said, humor beginning to resurface even though a bit forced.
Tamara looked me up and down. “I thought you would be flat on your
back and sipping soup.”
“Never much cared for soup.”

“And here you
are, walking and everything.” Tamara blinked, noticing my gym bag
for the first time. “Wait, were you working out?”

“Uh
…”

“Joe! You
should
not
be lifting weights
right now.”

I scoffed
gently. “No worries. And no weights. I swear.”

“No
weights?”

“Nope. Just a
little .. uh… light cardio.”

“Light
cardio?”

“Yeah. Nothing
too crazy.”

“Like
yoga?”

“Do I
look like a
Namaste
guy?”

She tried to
stay mad at me. She really did.

But years of
smart-assery has its benefits.

A giggle
bubbled up from Tamara’s lips, and she covered her mouth. “I have a
hard time picturing you trying Dancer’s Pose, I have to
admit.”
“One of those Warrior Poses sounds more my style.”

“That it
does.”

She stared at
me a moment more. My stomach gurgled loudly. Tamara blinked at
me.

Great
timing.

“Yeah, sorry. I
might’ve skipped breakfast.”

“Probably not a
smart idea given your condition,” she replied. A small beeping
broke the silence. Tamara pulled a cheap cell phone out of her
pocket and grimaced down at it. “That’s my alarm. I’m teaching a
Box Class in ten minutes.”

“No worries, I
have a thing right away too.”