At Full Sprint (A BBW Shifter Romance) (Last of the Shapeshifters) Read online

  At Full Sprint

  Last of the Shapeshifters

  By

  A.E. Grace

  * * *

  Last of the Shapeshifters

  Hunted for centuries to near extinction, only a few shapeshifters remain alive, seeking truth and love. These are their stories.

  A Change To Bear

  Bear This Heat

  At Full Sprint

  Each Last of the Shapeshifters book is standalone, though they share an over-arching mythology. You can enjoy them in any order!

  * * *

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  Table of Contents:

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  License

  Circe Cole was being yelled at by her boss. It was her very first day on the job. She was absolutely loving it.

  “Yes, Ms. Jennings,” she replied in as diffident a manner as she could muster, nodding her head, looking down at the bright purple toenails wedged into the woman’s peep-toe pumps.

  “Look at me,” her boss snapped, and Circe did, but was unable to stop a grin from parting her lips. “Is there something you find funny, Ms. Cole?”

  Circe shook her head, and cleared her throat, before shifting her weight a little. In front of her, seated behind a large, chrome-plated desk, empty but for a single laptop and mug of coffee, was Stephanie Lee Jennings, the most influential woman in automobile journalism. Scratch that. She might be the most influential person in all of automobile journalism.

  Ms. Jennings was editor-in-chief of Speed, the world’s best-selling English-language car-enthusiast magazine. That the stern, fiercely intelligent, and no-nonsense woman had made it to the most coveted position in an entirely male-dominated arena was simply astounding to Circe.

  She was something of a personal hero.

  “You’re an intern,” her boss continued, pointing a jagged, bony finger at her. “That means you do as you’re told, and nothing more. No taking the initiative. No setting out on your own. We give you work, and you do the work. Simple.”

  “Yes, Ms. Jennings,” Circe said, hating herself that she was still smiling.

  Her boss sighed, and tapped a finger to her temple. “What’s the problem, Ms. Cole?”

  “There is no problem,” Circe replied. She managed to wipe the smile from her lips this time, and looked at her boss level in the eyes. The two were almost polar opposites. While her boss was tall – over six feet – with an alarmingly skeletal body that turned dresses to drapes, Circe was short – barely over five feet – and had an ass and thighs that made shopping for jeans an often tiresome exercise in futility. Where her boss had a long face that could double for a Halloween scream mask, with deep, dark eyes and a vicious mouth that barked severely and bit much worse, Circe had a delicate, round face, soft cheeks ever slightly reddened, and large, shallow-set eyes that gave her a perpetual look of wide-eyed naiveté younger than her years.

  “It’s just…” Circe continued, and she locked her fingers together and squirmed. Ms. Jennings tapped her matching fingernails against the desk with metronomic precision. “I’m a little star-struck right now, and I’m finding it hard not to smile being here, being shouted at by you, Ms. Jennings.” She corralled a stubborn strand of red hair and tucked it behind her ear.

  Her boss’ features softened, and the deep lines that joined the outer edges of her nostrils to the corners of her lips changed from canyons to creases. “Circe,” she said. She paused, and touched her thin lips, behind which were perfectly straight teeth stained by coffee and cigarettes. “Ms. Cole. I appreciate that you were trying to do a good job.”

  Circe nodded. “That’s true.”

  “But surely you know that Speed caters to the high-end. Street-racing, no matter how exciting, does not fall beneath our umbrella.”

  “I understand,” Circe said. “It’s just that it’s getting really popular, and I thought it might open you up to a new demo-”

  “Stop right there,” her boss said, and Circe immediately clamped her mouth shut. “Our demographic is highly targeted at the moment, and neon lights and twenty-two-inch chrome rims” – she ran her veiny hands over the surface of her desk – “is something our demographic does not care about.”

  Now that the initial giddiness had worn off, Circe was beginning to feel rather stupid. “Understood, Ms. Jennings. It won’t happen again.”

  “Damn right it won’t. Don’t get me wrong, Ms. Cole. I find the scene fascinating. Do you remember that exposé two years ago on street-racing gang culture, drugs, and prostitu-”

  “Drifts, Drags, and Drugs by James Verhoven,” Circe interrupted, recalling the groundbreaking article’s title and the man who penned it.

  “Yes. Well, that was me.”

  Circe’s mouth fell open. “Really? That was you? You used a pseudonym?”

  “Yes. So it’s not that I’m not interested. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Circe echoed, and she returned her gaze to the ground, expecting to be dismissed. Her respect for this woman had just doubled.

  But when she wasn’t told to get back to work, an intense wave of awkwardness and dread washed over her. She wasn’t about to be fired, was she? Was that what her boss had meant by ‘damn right it won’t’?

  “Ms. Cole.”

  “Yes, Ms. Jennings.”

  “As you know, the Formula One season starts next week.”

  Circe nodded. Stephanie Lee Jennings was always at the opening Grand Prix in Melbourne, Australia. Her editorial coverage at the start of each season was ever incisive and pertinent, and her predictions were downright Nostradamic. Of course, picking the winner year after year wasn’t entirely difficult, considering the same man had won the drivers’ championship seven years running. But who she pegged for positions two through ten were often scarily accurate.

  “I usually go alone.”

  Circe nodded. “Yes, Ms. Jennings.”

  “But I’m getting old now, as you can see.” The woman sighed, and gestured at her silver hair. Circe actually thought it gave her a look of authority, command, and confidence, rather than that of the fragility that comes with age, but she didn’t say anything. “I’m in my late fifties, but I look and feel like I’m twenty years older.”

  When she didn’t say anything further, Circe realized that she was waiting for a reply. “Well, you work hard,” she offered a little pathetically.

  “Indeed. Something has come up this year.”

  “Oh?” Circe sounded, wondering why one of the most successful and important female journalists on the planet seemed to be confiding in her. The woman before her was not just professionally acclaimed, but came from old money, too. To her, Circe must have seemed… entirely insignificant.

  “Cheat has granted me a no-holds-barred one-on-one interview after he wins the Grand Prix.”

  Circe thought for a moment. She wasn’t all that keen on racing. Actually, she wasn’t keen on racing at all, and had only applied for an internship at Speed fresh out of her journalism degree out of reverence for the magazine’s esteemed editor-in-chief. The woman had once given a speech, and Circe had pretty much fallen in professional-love at that point, and had made it her mission to work beneath Ms. Jennings.
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  “You don’t mean Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen, do you?” Circe asked, referring to the driver who had won the previous seven championships consecutively.

  Her boss nodded gravely, but in her eyes was a spark of amusement.

  Circe put a hand to her mouth in shock. “But he’s never given an interview before!” Everything she knew about the enigmatic and devilishly handsome man was flooding back into her memory banks. “He’s pretty much a total recluse.”

  “Indeed, Ms. Cole. You are correct.”

  “Well, then that’s great!” Circe said, clapping her hands together once. “Wow! Talk about flying off the shelves, then.”

  “Exactly,” her boss said, staring at her with an eyebrow raised. “So, let’s just cut right down to it. Do you want to come with me to Melbourne?”

  Circe inhaled so quickly that a glob of saliva went down the wrong way, and she coughed and spluttered through embarrassed, watering eyes. “Yes!” she gasped, nearly shouting it, nodding her head furiously in between coughs. Her boss seemed entirely unphased by her sudden bodily clumsiness.

  “Good,” she said, nodding at Circe. “Go get a glass of water. We leave on Wednesday night. I’ll have the details forwarded to you, and make sure you’re on time at the airport for our flight.”

  When Circe had fully recovered from her fit and was confident that she could once again speak without making a fool of herself, she asked her boss, “Why me?”

  “Because, Ms. Cole,” the woman responded, her mouth curling into a grin. “I sort of like you. It’s a well-worn-in cliché, but I see a lot of a younger me in you.”

  Circe blushed and beamed, quietly whispering, “Thank you.”

  “Now go. Get out of my office. No more street racers. I don’t want to have to call you into my office again, Circe. Don’t screw up again. Make sure of that.”

  “Yes, yes!” Circe blurted, and she spun around and made her way to the door. She pushed at it, heard the glass rattle loudly in its hinges. Pull! As smoothly as she could manage, she pulled the door open instead, not daring to look back at her boss.

  Weaving through the cubicles, Circe went straight to the disabled bathroom, locked the door, and screamed with excitement. The calm came after a few moments, her heart rate slowed, and she stopped both sweating and smiling.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered to herself. She had to call her mother! And her friends! Oh, and this one was better: she had to call her classmates! No, she thought after entertaining that idea for a moment. She wasn’t going to brag about this. That would be petty behavior.

  Putting the lid down, Circe sat on the toilet, and rested her head in her hands. She had just been given the opportunity to shadow Stephanie Lee fucking Jennings while she gave the world’s first and exclusive interview to Miles ‘Cheat’ Cohen, widely known as the best race-car driver to have ever lived.

  She was going to be shadowing her professional hero!

  “Holy cow!” Dizziness took hold of her mind momentarily. The implications were immense. This could be a massive boost to her career. Scratch that, this could make her career! If she could get involved in some way, no matter how miniscule… if she could somehow earn a byline, then it would mean she got her pick of the lot in terms of where she wanted to work!

  Imagine that! The world’s first interview with Cheat Cohen, by Stephanie Lee Jennings and Circe Cole!

  No, no, no, no! That was ridiculous. She’d never earn a byline. That was out of the question.

  But was it?

  The urge to scream was welling within her again, and she covered her mouth with her hand.

  “Be quiet!” she hissed. “Stop making strange noises!”

  Because what if somebody was walking by the lavatory outside and heard the noises? They might think something was wrong!

  They might call an ambulance!

  And Circe wasn’t about to let a concerned and well-meaning coworker ruin her chances at going to Melbourne with her boss.

  No bloody way!

  *

  Faster!

  He was a cheetah, sprinting at full speed, legs criss-crossing, each bound clearing nearly four meters at a time.

  The ground melted away behind him. He kicked up dust, sprayed out sand and small rocks. His prey, a zebra, turned. He followed, slowing down just a fraction to pivot on his left front paw before leaping off after the majestic black-and-white beauty.

  The zebra’s nostrils flared. Steam poured out of the two gigantic holes.

  Hills in the distance floated by, while plants in the foreground were snatched backward by his speed.

  Another turn, another pivot.

  He was getting closer. He could smell the zebra’s sweat. Pungent, sour, it aroused his senses, awoke his appetite.

  The sun was setting, an orange lantern falling back down to earth.

  The winds were damp, and there was static in the air.

  Clouds collected in the distance, rumbling, rolling, and tumultuous.

  A storm was coming.

  Another turn, another pivot.

  He was a cheetah. The zebra wasn’t far.

  He wanted to run this fast forever.

  He wanted to stay this way forever.

  Another turn, another pivot.

  He was within striking distance. He leapt, claws out, paws poised to latch on to the thick muscles of his prey’s posterior.

  But the zebra vanished.

  He landed, rolled, and tumbled, hind legs flailing and flipping over fore legs. He growled angrily, before getting back to his feet and looking around. In the distance he saw the beast running away. How had the zebra gotten there? Running up a ridge, clearing the ridge, disappearing behind the ridge.

  The cheetah licked his wounds, just small scratches, but irritating, scars of his failure. His prey had gotten away. His food had gotten away.

  He looked back at the cloud of dust his fall had created. It was shaped like a zebra.

  It, too, ran away.

  Angry now, he yawned, sharp canines bared. He rubbed his cheek against the ground, scratching an itch, and then returned his small face and black eyes back to the ridge.

  There was a child there! A cub of the creatures that walked on two feet. His brown hair flapped in the wind. His bright eyes stared.

  The cheetah stared back at the boy.

  Their eyes locked.

  A channel was opened.

  Their minds merged.

  Miles Cohen woke, sweat-soaked, and panting. “Fuck,” he groaned, touching his forehead before pulling his hand across his face. He sat up, lean body slick, hair matted to his head, and his muscles tense and stressed.

  “Fuck,” he repeated, shaking his head. He knew who the boy was. The boy was him. Yet he was the cheetah. He had looked upon himself as the cheetah.

  This dream came way too often.

  Miles got up, and the sheets fell away from his naked body. He towered. The width of his back stole center stage. His ass was tight and hairless.

  Standing in the open doorway to his balcony, silhouetted against a large moon, he glanced at his digital clock, blinking red-pip numbers telling him it was not yet four in the morning.

  There was still time. It was still late enough – or early enough – that nobody would be up. He walked out onto the balcony, and looked down over the edge. It was only two floors up.

  He hoisted himself over the railing, and dropped to the ground below, landing softly in a crouch, muscular thighs absorbing the shock.

  He became the cheetah then. Not the one from his dreams, but the cheetah from his reality.

  Endorphins flooded into his system.

  A great wave of excitement and happiness took ahold of him, imbued him with energy.

  He was a cheetah. There was no prey, but he was running, sprinting at top speed down the long, neatly trimmed lawn that stretched out toward the stream.

  Instead of kicking up dust and sand, he kicked up dirt and grass. Instead of chasing down prey, he chased his elation. In
stead of seeing a boy, he was that boy, all grown up, a hundred years hence from the day that changed his life.

  He stopped at the stream, and turned around. He would not go in.

  Miles and water did not mix well.

  *

  Tomorrow I board a plane with Ms. Jennings to go to Melbourne. It’s a long way from London, and we’ll need to stop off in Hong Kong for four hours. As I sit here, writing in my diary, I feel a little sick with nerves. My head feels light, and my knees wobbly. I’ve been trying to prepare as best I can, to make sure I don’t in any way disappoint Ms. Jennings. She seems to like me – she said as much – and could very well be my ticket to a career. Imagine that… a career. Fresh out of school. It seems crazy just to think about it.

  But I am fearful that I’ll fuck everything up. That I’ll out myself to be far less intelligent than she seems to think I am. Since being given this opportunity just two days ago, my confidence has taken a repeated bashing by none other than myself.

  Mum was pleased, of course, but she is always pleased. Dad said he was proud, but behind the words I heard the lingering question, the one he didn’t ask this time because it was my time to shine: when are you coming home to visit?

  I feel like they were less supportive, less congratulatory, than they should have been.

  But then I second-guess myself. Why do I need that so much? Why do I seek it? Why can’t I simply be happy for myself, and be satisfied with that internal validation?

  Look at me… writing the word ‘validation’. I feel like an idiot using buzzwords.

  We’re flying business class. I’m actually more excited than I probably should be about that. I mean… a large seat in no way compares to the comfort of my bed, but I’m excited to try it out nonetheless. I don’t imagine the food will be much better than in economy, and that I’ll be with my boss means I won’t be able to take advantage of free-flowing expensive drinks, either.

  Which is a bit of a shame!

  I’ve never been to Australia before. I like the accent, though. It’s going to be nice going somewhere warmer than here. It’s the tail-end of summer over there, so a bit of sun will be very welcome. I don’t think I’ll have the chance to get a tan, but from what I’ve read, Melbourne’s beaches aren’t great for that, anyway.