Sinners and Saints

Sinners and Saints Chapter 2 - Obssessive/Compulsive, anyone?

I roll out of bed at five the next morning, not happy.  It has nothing to do with the impending meeting, Drake or my latest mark.  It has to do with the fact that I absolutely hate to run.  I do it, every blessed day without fail.  But I don't understand the "runner's high."  "Breaking though the wall."  I never once got that endorphin-shot that all the magazines talked about.  All I get is Charlie-horses, stitches and twisted ankles, despite the fact that I've been doing this for nearly ten years.

Unlike succibi and incubi (bi's), who can shape-shift into any form they want and always look flawless, we Saint sisters have to deal with what we were handed.  Which means that we have to keep in shape.  Besides running, I also do Pilates (aka torture sessions) four times a week.  Jojo does yoga and spin-classes.  Shorts, sports-bra and tank on, I lace up my running shoes and head out with a small towel and a bottle of water.  

MP3 player on NPR, I hit my stride in less than a block and am soon running through the canvassed trail of my local greenbelt.  Most runners listen to music when they run.  I, however, find that the news stimulates me. No sexual pun intended.  I like keeping up with the world, and getting wrapped up in a news story takes my mind away from how much I hate stride after stride.

I hit the kids' park at the top of the trail and let myself have a drink, sweat rolling off of me now.  The towel is already damp, and I have another three miles before I can turn around and go home.  I stretch through a side-stitch and eye the monkey bars, waiting to get my breathing under control enough for me to do the pull-ups and dips and crunches that will work my arms and core.  

I put myself through chin-ups and dips, working my arms until they scream at me.  Then I wrap my legs around the bars and cross my arms like a bat.  Using my core only, I swing myself up so my nose meets the intersection of the bars.

"Nice view," Drake appears and comments, "I can see your underwear is lime-green from here," he chuckles and pulls a drag from his clove-cigarette.

"Go away," I mumble and continue to count. 29, 30, 31.

"I could work your core in a much more pleasurable way," he offers, the smell of cloves and musk and wood-smoke making me lose count for a second, "Sex burns more calories per minute than any other exercise."

"Too bad it doesn't last as long," I allow myself to flip forward through my arms ,not an easy feat at 5'10", and land in front of him, already stretching again, "Is this a social call, or is there any more of your infernal wisdom to impart this morning?"

"Claire, Claire, Claire," he chuckles, popping a grande latte into his hand, "Don't you know I claire about you, care?" he smiles and waggles his brows.

"Whatever," I dismiss him and his stupid pun again.  Not like I have never heard that before - sigh! Despite how hot he is, I find his one-track mind childish.  All sex and no substance does not a relationship make.  The line from Real Genius comes to mind, "A girl's got to have her standards."  Although I think with Drake's hell-enhanced abilities, he just might be able to hammer a spike with his penis.  But there's probably little else about him that I would find endearing long-term.

"I'm being transferred," he sips, "Thought I would come by to say my toodles."

"Where?" I ask, pushing my left calf through a hamstring stretch that makes every other feeling, good and bad, recede.

"Phoenix," he winces.

"Why" I ask, turning to my right calf.

"Who knows?" Drake gestures, nearly sloshing his coffee, "This is my last day in Miami.  Thought I'd get a goodbye hug, at least."