“You’re a sick man, Veikko. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“My doctor, last year, when I had the flu,” Veikko answers Felix, without a trace of irony.
Sebastian shakes his head, letting out a sigh. A puff of frozen breath crystals expands in the cold air. “I’m already regretting this.”
Veikko is a cardio freak. He loves to go on runs outside, and he’s not about to let the freezing temperatures of the Vermont winter stop him. Today, he somehow convinced us all to go on a run around the neighborhood.
It’s partially my fault we’re out here, because when he proposed it at the house this morning, I did pipe up and mention that we’ve all been slacking off when it comes to cardio. Especially thanks to the holiday break we just returned from.
I take a deep breath, puffing out my chest. The cold air makes my lungs sting. “Veikko, I was always on your side when the topic of whether or not you’re secretly a serial killer came up. But knowing that you voluntarily subject yourself to this multiple times a week, I might have to reconsider.”
“If I were a serial killer, do you really think Felix would still be around?”
A beat of silence stretches as we stand shivering in front of our house, and then we all crack up with laughter.
“Fucking hell, V,” Carter says, playfully punching Veikko on the shoulder. “A real joke.”
Veikko wears a rare grin.
“Yeah, right. You love me, you Finnish asshole,” Felix replies through a smirk.
Veikko claps his hands together, and a moment later, he’s off, eating up the distance on the sidewalk with his long strides. “Keep up!” he calls back to us.
“I hate you, Jamie,” Carter grouses by the end of the second block.
“Hey, we all agreed to this,” Sebastian says. “We should all hate ourselves equally.”
“No, we should hate Veikko the most,” Felix grumbles.
When I glance at Felix, who’s running by my side, his eyes seem pointed directly at Veikko’s butt. Maybe he’s paying attention to how the more experienced runner moves his hips and legs efficiently.
For the next block, I keep my eyes low, pointed at the sidewalk lined with snow and strewn with rock salt. I try to get control of my breathing. Hopefully the physical movement brings my body temperature up enough to stop the shivering soon.
The next time I look up, my chest clenches.
Carmen is about two blocks ahead, walking towards us.
She looks so damn cute it literally hurts. She’s wearing a big, puffy black winter jacket, bundled up with a yellow scarf tucked into the collar. A blue beanie is pulled over her head, her curly hair spilling out of it. She’s looking at her phone as she walks down the sidewalk, wearing a fingerless glove.
In defiance of the brutal cold, a pulse of heat swells between my legs when my gaze latches onto those fingertips, the same ones that brushed against my hand two days ago.
Fuck me. I’m getting aroused over fingertips now. I’m like some perverted Puritan from four hundred years ago, getting off on seeing one of the village maidens wearing a skirt that rises above her ankles. I need help.
My lungs still feel tight, but it’s not because of the cold anymore. In fact, I’ve grown oblivious to the temperature. My brain isn’t paying attention to the nerves on my skin anymore. My legs keep pumping like they’re on autopilot, rather than from any conscious effort.
I don’t see Carmen outside Last Word often. When I do, my brain tends to tune out everything else, focusing exclusively on her.
Sometimes it has unfortunate results, like …
The harsh screech of car brakes and the blare of a horn yank my attention back to reality.
My head whips to the sound.
Okay, great, I’m about a quarter of a second away from being hit by a car.
My reflexes kick in. My hips twist, and I kick one leg back, shifting my weight to the hand that I plant on the car’s hood. The quick braking of the driver decelerates the car enough to give me time to somersault over it, avoiding the collision.
But when I’m back on my feet, I’m totally disoriented and off balance. To make matters worse, the tip of my shoe snags onto the curb, upsetting my equilibrium.
