Page 31 of Fastlander Fighter

I’m the king of running. Sorry. Want to get some food, friend?

Captain

Friend.

Irritated, she texted back. Dear Walker, it’s been a long day. I don’t need the boys-will-be-boys games. Find another friend to get food with. Send.

You’re mad.

Tired of men. Send.

I’m not going to pay for Ryan’s BS. I’m not him.

“Okay then,” she ground out, and tossed the phone back onto the counter. She shook her head, staring off into the distance. He didn’t understand how much she had liked him back in high school, and he’d bolted. He didn’t understand how much she had enjoyed spending time with him at Moosey’s and at the baseball game, and he ran. He really was the king of running.

She was angrier than made sense for the situation, but you know? Fuck it. She was so done with men playing with her emotions. She wanted off the roller coaster.

Sorry, but I’m busy tonight, friend. I’ve got a date. She hovered her finger over the send button. He couldn’t hear the lie if she sent it in text. Send.

On second thought, it wasn’t a lie. She was going to go on a date. With herself.

Emboldened, she marched into her bedroom, where boxes of her belongings still sat all taped up and packed. She pulled one off the top of a stack and read the hurried scribble on the top of the second one. Going out clothes.

Yep, that’s what she needed. She pulled a pocketknife off her dresser, popped it open with a flick of her wrist and cut the tape, then riffled through the box until she found what she wanted—strappy high heels and a black lace bodysuit. She already had her ripped-up black skinny jeans folded in her closet, so she dressed quickly. Then she took her hair from the claw clip and tossed her head forward and back, fluffing up her hair for volume. Makeup next, and she was not messing around tonight.

She smeared black glitter eye shadow across her eyelids and glued false eyelashes to her freaking real ones, and even contoured her cheekbones like she’d learned to do from online tutorials.

Still feeling angry with anything that possessed a wiener, she stomped to the kitchen, only rolling her ankle twice in the heels, and then snatched up her phone and her purse.

“I’m out, motherfuckers,” she growled to the male gender in general.

As she passed the full-length mirror by the front door, she decided to take a selfie.

There were new text messages from Captain, but she ignored them and struck a pose, took a selfie in the mirror, and sent it to him.

Hope I get laid tonight. Send.

Feeling motivated to go sit by herself at some restaurant, she threw the door open and abruptly came to a stop at what she saw.

Captain was parked in the parking lot right outside her apartment door. He was leaning against the front of his truck with a bag from the supermarket hanging from one hand and the other in his pocket. He wore a forest green sweater that clung to his muscular shoulders, and his eyes were too bright.

He dragged his gaze up and down her body, pausing at each curve before he lifted his hungry gaze back to her eyes.

“Who is the date?”

“None of your business,” she said primly.

He hung his head and sighed, then pushed off his truck. “You’re right.”

“What are you doing here? How did you find out where I live?”

He gave an empty smile and lifted the bag. “I texted you what I’m doing here.”

Feeling sheepish, she checked his texts.

I got a batting system for Ruger so he can practice hitting off the tee. And a couple other things that reminded me of him at the store. Can I drop them off? Before your date?

She pursed her lips as heat crept into her cheeks.

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