He catches me looking and smiles as I turn away quickly.

We walk along the interior corridor for a while and the smell of breakfast food wafts into my nose. "Food!"

"They keep a stand open for us in the morning. Breakfast burritos."

"So, let me get this straight, you bust your ass to burn calories, then come eat breakfast burritos? That makes no sense."

"We're not here to lose weight, Rook. People who have access to the stadium are training, which means we eat a lot of food when we're done."

"What are you training for?" I can't help myself, he's made me curious with his secret endorphin-rush addiction.

"Life, just like you," is all he says before we come to the counter and he's ordering us food and orange juice. He pays, then we walk back outside and find seats in the empty stands.

The burrito is good and even though I didn't expend much energy, I do feel awake and have more pep than I usually do in the morning. I better be careful or that reverse psychology shit will start working on me and before you know it, I might turn into one of those annoying freaks who thinks all manner of physical activity is fun.

We don't say much after that. Just eat. Then he takes my trash and throws it away and we walk back over to the studio building and part ways. He goes to his car and I walk upstairs, grab some clothes to stash at Ronin's, then head up to his place and enjoy my totally legal kick-ass shower.

Smiling.

Chapter Eleven - ROOK

Team Rook was nowhere to be found when I made my way to Ronin's apartment door, but when I emerge freshly showered, they are waiting outside in the hallway. We all act like I'm the only person there and all I hear is the scuffle of their shoes as they follow me downstairs to the third floor art room.

Spencer is already rocking out hard to that Bad to the Bone song, singing along quite loud for a guy, and messing around with some paints and brushes. "Yo, Rookie! I'm glad you came back for day two. Sometimes the girls skip out after the first session, but I guess I played it cool, because here you are!"

"I signed a contract, Spencer. I can't skip out. And please, do not ever call me Rookie again. I will go apeshit on you."

"Noted. But I played it cool, right? That's the real reason you came back, right?"

"Right," I say, smiling. It's hard not to enjoy being around Spencer. He's a clown, and a hot one at that. He's got on his usual garb today, a Shrike Bikes t-shirt, old faded Levis, and biker boots. Even though I've seen him like a bazillion times, I've never seen him wear the same t-shirt twice. And they are cool designs, not your typical black and orange Harley eagles or big-titted girls with American flag bandannas wrapped around their heads screen-printed on those cheap-ass black polyester shirts.

The designs on Spencer's shirts look like someone drew them with a charcoal pencil. This one is a light gray and has a blackbird on it, beak open like it's cawing, bending down with wings half open, like it's about to take flight. It says Shrike Raven in big bold letters on top, and at the bottom it has the new Shrike motto, Not Your Daddy's Ride.

I know that's a dig at Spencer's father because Ronin told me. He retired a few years back and left the business to Spencer, and Spencer, wanting to make his own name, came up with that tag line to let everyone know this was his game now.

And he's done pretty well. The guy's not even twenty-five and he's taken the company from small pop-and-son to mega-commercial in like two years.

Spence notices my gaze and points down to the raven on his chest. "This is one of the designs we're gonna use to promote the bike, but I'm gonna make one of you too."

"You're part of the merchandising package, Rook." For the first time I notice Ford sitting in the corner in that director's chair. "I just thought I'd let you know that, in case Spencer conveniently forgot to mention your face will be made into dolls and put on clothing." He says it in an irritated voice and then Spencer flips him off and turns away, busying himself with his art supplies again.

"Wonderful," I say to no one in particular. "How lucky am I? Don't all girls want to be turned into Barbie?"

"Yeah," Ford says, again with the irritation, "but I'm pretty sure Biker Barbie was never part of your girlhood fantasy, was it?"

I scowl at him. "What's your deal, Ford? I'm a big girl, OK? I'm fine with the doll shit. It's a f**king doll. Who cares, they'll probably make like five hundred of them, people will buy them, break them, lose them, destroy them—whatever—and it will be over. It's not like someone's naming a f**king battleship after me."

Ford says nothing, just keeps his bad mood to himself over in the corner.

"OK, well, what's the plan today, Spence?"

"Bikinis, four of them."

I shake my head trying to imagine four paintings and photo shoots. 'That sounds like a long day."

"Well"—Ford is back in action again—"it's not really, Rook. Because the term bikini is used loosely here." I mouth the words shut up at him, but he looks right at me and continues talking. "Because those little postage stamps Spencer is going to paint over your ni**les barely count as clothing, or paint for that matter."

Spencer turns around, his eyes blazing, his whole demeanor screaming f**k you. "That's it, Ford, I warned you. Out. I'm not putting up with your bullshit."

For a second I figure this is some theatrics for the sake of the cameras, but when I look over at Team Spencer, they start to get uncomfortable. Team Rook steps back, like these two are about to throw. "OK, what's going on? Are you guys fighting? I mean, I just saw you an hour ago, Ford. What's the problem?"