“Good, then I can give you these.” The chief swiveled in her chair and removed two folded items from the shelf behind her. “You’re officially Denver’s Asinines.”
“Ass in what?” he exclaimed.
What kind of bloody volunteering did this woman want them to do?
“Asinine, like something stupid or foolish?” Libby stammered as Chief Ramirez came from behind her desk and presented them with T-shirts printed with a donkey on the front.
“No, it’s Ass-in-Nine,” the woman clarified, without clarifying anything. She spoke slowly as if she were addressing a pair of asinine idiots, which, honestly, she may be doing exactly that because he still had no bloody idea what she was talking about.
“It’s a nine-mile race that takes place in a small mountain town not far from Aspen called Rickety Rock,” Madelyn added.
“You’ll be representing Denver’s first responders in the race. You do support the men and women who protect and serve this city, I presume?” the chief asked, her expression hardening, and there was only one acceptable answer.
He straightened in the chair like a schoolboy. “With all our hearts and twice on Thursdays.”
Had he gone bonkers?
Possibly, but all things considered, this race had to be the best possible punishment compared to being labeled a sexual deviant.
“Just to be clear,” he asked cautiously. “If we compete in a nine-mile race in the mountains, the charges against us will be dropped?”
Chief Ramirez nodded. “That’s correct. The race is in about seven weeks. That’ll give you plenty of time to train.”
He sat back in the chair and crossed his legs. The anxiety that had built up in his chest gave way to relief that welcomed back the slightly smug, self-assured part of him. “No training needed, Chief. I could run nine miles in my sleep. I’m not sure if you recognize me, but I’m quite a big deal in the boxing world. I’m in excellent physical condition.”
There it was. His trademark swagger was back.
Hello, British Beast! Good to see you, Lion!
“You’re required to run the race together,” the chief continued.
“That’s not a problem. I can run nine miles, too,” Libby answered.
He sized her up, slipping further into his boxing persona. Sure, Libby was fit as hell but stretching, banging gongs, and throwing sex toys didn’t count as conditioning in his book. “You think you could run nine miles and keep up with me?”
She sharpened her gaze, those amber eyes boring into him like lasers. “If I can teach three ninety-minute power yoga classes in a row, then I’m in perfect shape to run nine measly miles.”
The competitive part of him couldn’t hold back. “You may be exaggerating there, plum. No need to fear, though. I can get you into shape.” He turned to the chief. “If she had to walk, would that be a problem?” But before the chief could answer, Libby tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie.
“Hey, beefcake, I’m stronger than I look. I don’t need a man to train me to do anything,” she shot back, then bolted to her feet. “Do you mind if I make a little room? I’d like to demonstrate something,” she asked, already pushing her chair against the wall.
What button did he push on the yoga nutter now?
The chief and Madelyn shared another knowing look. “Knock yourself out,” Chief Ramirez answered, leaning against the side of her desk.
Libby moved a few more chairs out of the way, kicked off her shoes, then faced the group with her hands pressed together like she was auditioning to be a monk. She shot him an icy glare, peeled off her bird-shit-encrusted little red wrap, then tossed it to him. Inhaling a breath, her demeanor shifted as the anger in her eyes changed to a look of focused determination.
“Eka hasta vrksasana. One-handed tree pose,” she announced.
This was not the time to teach a yoga class.
He shook his head. “It’s called standing, and it won’t help you run nine miles.”
She ignored him, then as gracefully as a bloody swan, his yoga nutter folded forward and lifted her legs into the air.
“You can do a handstand. Congratulations,” he muttered.
Who did she think she was going to impress with that move?
But Libby clearly wasn’t bothered by his skeptical narration. Although she was upside down, he observed the sly grin that slid across her lips. As if it took no effort, she parted her legs into a V, then lifted one of her bloody hands off the ground. Defying gravity, she remained in the pose. Her limber legs and ballerina arm projecting from her body looked as if she were doing a set of jumping jacks at the exact moment the world flipped over—and her with it.
He rose to his feet. “Bloody hell, plum! How long can you balance on one hand?”
“Longer than you,” she tossed back, still upside down, with one hand pressed to the ground. She didn’t shake or tremble. There wasn’t a wobble to be seen—just fluid motion and the strength of an elephant packed into one tiny, completely off-her-rocker woman.
“There’s another catch with the race,” the police chief added.
He caught Libby’s eye. “Are you coming back up?”
With practiced ease, Libby pressed her free hand to the ground, then gently lowered her legs and came to her feet.
“What’s the catch?” he asked, ignoring the yoga nutter showoff.
“You run the nine-mile race with a donkey. That’s why it’s called Ass-in-Nine.”
He cocked his head to the side and stared at the police chief. The woman’s expression remained muted, but she had to be kidding. “A nine-mile running race with a donkey. That’s an actual thing here?” He turned to Libby, who looked just as perplexed as he was.
“It celebrates Colorado’s mining roots,” Madelyn supplied.
He stared at the stylish woman. Now, she was an expert on donkey racing, too?
“I remember learning something about this when I was in elementary school,” Libby added. “It’s called pack burro racing, right? The donkey carries mining equipment.”
“You remember correctly. It’s our state’s heritage sport,” the chief answered.
Heritage or not, this race sounded absolutely insane.
“Why don’t they make you run with a bar of gold or silver or whatever miners mine in this place?” he blathered.
The chief peered at him. “That’s not how the race is structured, Mr. Cress.”
“So, you want me to run a race with a donkey and an ass?” Libby clarified.
He turned to her. “No, plum, it’s you and me and a—”
Bugger! This was not the time to come off a thick prat.
“Very funny,” he said under his breath.
But he had real questions. Did donkeys even run? When he pictured a donkey, which he didn’t often do, he thought of them as slow, meandering animals. How do you get one of them to sprint on command?
“It’s quite a challenging endeavor. You’ll need several weeks to prepare. But you both appear to be in tiptop condition. Excellent candidates, Madelyn,” the chief answered when someone knocked. The chief pointed at the closed door. “Is that the second part?” she asked the matchmaker.
“There’s a second part to this? And I’m not sure I can commit to weeks of donkey training. I’ve got a fight coming up,” he rattled off.