But when he spent all his time in a cubicle or with a bunch of sweaty rugby players, cute girls were few and far between. Though he’d worry about his sex life later after he got a handle on the whole wanting to stuff Greg’s bollocks back inside his body thing. One step at a time.
“Enjoy yourself, then,” he told Greg. “I’m off for a run.” He reached under his desk for his gym bag.
Greg made a face. “It’s Friday, man, loosen up.”
Uh-huh. He was working on that. Though he’d never thought of himself as uptight. It was just that he’d spent his growing-up years swinging a stick or tossing a ball or rowing a boat. Being sedentary was making him tense.
Ten minutes later he had changed and was heading down in the elevator with three other people. The guy who’d responded to his impulsive ad, Sam, had sent him a text. Liam had briefly wondered if it was wise to give a total stranger his number, but he figured he could always block the guy if things took a downturn.
What’s on tap for your weekend? Expanding your beer gut?
Fighting the urge to take a selfie of his abs to prove that he did not have a beer gut, Liam responded. Running home from work actually.
Jogging or you mean that figuratively?
Literally. I am running.
Or he was about to, anyway. It was exactly four miles from his office in Midtown through Central Park to his apartment.
Shit. Did he admit that?
He was trying to reach five miles. But it was Friday, after all. He had plans with Travis to grab a pint later.
How many miles?
Four.
So you’re sixty-three years old then?
Damn it.
Twenty-seven.
Then you can go the extra mile. Ha-ha. Pun intended.
Liam laughed as the elevator dinged open and he followed the petite woman in front of him out. She glanced back and gave him a sour look. Feeling lighter already, he just smiled at her. She was unmoved. Cranky. Liam didn’t want to morph into that type of person. Not even leaving the office on a Friday made this woman happy? Not good. It had heart attack written all over it.
He texted Sam back. Fine. I’ll push for five.
You got this, man.
There was something odd about texting with a person he’d never met. Liam knew people did it all the time. They met on dating sites, answered ads for everything from apartments to bikes and had no problem with it. But to Liam, it felt foreign, unnatural. He needed a face to visualize. He needed to know the guy he was communicating with wasn’t a complete and total freak. Any more than the average freak. Otherwise, it was like texting with a nonentity and he wasn’t comfortable with it. Maybe it would make sense to meet up with Sam for a pint, just to get the guy’s measure.
I’ll text you when I’m done. But we should probably plan on meeting up in the next day or two and make some payment arrangements.
I’m out of town this weekend.
Monday then? I get off work at six. I can meet you anytime after that. Where do you live?
Brooklyn. So how will I know you actually jogged the five miles?
You’ll have to trust me. I’m the one who wants the benefit, remember?
Liam stepped out onto the street, appreciating the temperate fall weather. It was the perfect day for a run, crisp and clear. Putting his phone away, he started down the sidewalk, weaving in and out of the crowd of people. He didn’t imagine he’d ever get used to the sheer volume of human beings in New York. The town he’d grown up in was on the coast, a fishing village filled with colorful cottages and colorful characters. It was small, intimate, rainy, and a bit tired about the edges. Nothing like Manhattan at all, and while he loved his adopted city, there were days where he wished everyone would clear out and leave him be.
But today he didn’t mind navigating his way through the city as he ran. It just felt good to pump his arms, steady his breathing, find a rhythm. Once he’d gone a few blocks he felt better. Tension left his body and his head cleared. By the time he entered the park, he felt great, and he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his texts. Distance running was something he’d never mastered and usually by mile three he was struggling. He liked the short sprinting and the hard-hitting aspect of rugby better.
From Sam: The ladies will appreciate your increased stamina.
Then a second text. Or the gents? However you roll, leg strength is a positive attribute. :)
Yeah, this definitely felt weird. He had no interest in discussing his sexual preferences with someone he’d never met. Yet it seemed rude not to answer and it wasn’t as if Sam had asked something particularly personal. Using voice command, he responded. In my case, the ladies. Though not many ladies these days.
Why, are you ugly? Or married?
That made him laugh again. For some reason he was picturing Sam as the type of guy who was always the water boy at sporting events. Small, wiry, quick with a quip, slightly nerdy.
I’m no pretty boy but I don’t make babies cry either.
No one who wants a nemesis is pretty.
Was that true? Liam wasn’t sure. It wasn’t as though he had looked into it ahead of time. Plus he wasn’t even sure he was the type who wanted a nemesis. He was just desperate.
Ego just a tiny bit nicked, he decided to send a picture of himself playing. You couldn’t really see his face in it. Just his dirty uniform, his arm muscles. It was a cool shot he’d lifted off the team’s website, taken during a match the previous season. So take that, Sam. He was no namby-pamby.
The minute he actually hit Send he felt like an idiot. This wasn’t Tinder or Zoosk. He wasn’t looking to impress a chick. It was to release tension and the fucking ridiculous feelings of inadequacy his job, and his retirement from rugby, inspired.
Now the very fact that he was trying to impress the nerdy nemesis he was paying to bully him, made him feel like a gigantic asshole.
When the fuck had it all come to this?
As his mother always said, every man is wise until he speaks. The modern amendment should be until he sends a text.
Liam put his phone away and ran faster, harder.
Chapter Two
Samantha ogled her phone screen. “Shut the door, Trina. Figuratively of course. Liam just sent me a picture. Is this real? This can’t be real.” She hoped it was real.
“Why, is he like a troll or something?”
“No.” Sam dodged a garbage can as they walked to the deli down the street from Katrina’s apartment. Trina’s boyfriend, Drew, was bartending that night so it was Sam’s job as the single best friend to keep her company until Drew got off work at eleven. At which time she was expected to make herself scarce so the happy couple could get naked. Samantha would then go home to her windowless apartment solo, most likely mildly buzzed, and fall asleep watching Game of Thrones. It was a glamorous life, what could she say?
A life which had suddenly gotten way more interesting since she’d embarked on her new career as Professional Nemesis a few hours earlier. It