“Very. Watch your form. Straighten that back, keep your head up, and pick those feet up.”
I glared at Asa. For the past two weeks, he’d pushed me to the brink of collapsing with my workouts.
He lured me in with a beginner’s walk on the treadmill. Thirty minutes at a steady pace. Then, he added on a strength circuit—two rounds, twenty minutes of torture. By the end of that session, my legs felt like Jell-O. Incline walking nearly took me out, but intervals were the devil.
“This. Is. Some. Bullshit,” I breathed, running for my life. “We should’ve just taken Ezra on a walk at the park.”
He smacked my ass. “And let you take the easy way out?”
I blew out a burst of air. “I’m not a paying client.”
“Oh, you’re going to pay me.”
Smirking, I continued my run. “How many minutes left again?”
“Eight.” He clapped his hands. “Come on, baby. You’re in the home stretch.”
“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You’re killing me.”
“You’re doing good.”
“My leg . . .”
“Push through it,” he said.
One, two, three. . .eight. . .twelve. I kept losing count. What made me think I could count each minute out? I shook my mind free of the shooting pain in my calf.
“I’m telling you,”—I shot him a sideways glance—“I think your watch is broken.”
Ignoring me, he announced, “Six minutes.”
Then that muthafucka increased the incline. Again. “Five percent. Are you crazy?”
“Rissa, you’re doing it. You got this.”
I wanted to believe him. Really, I did. But the way my leg hurt made it nearly impossible. “Don’t you ever let your clients stop early for good behavior?”
“Never.”
Rolling my eyes, I grumbled, “Whatever.”
“Two more rounds,” he informed me, increasing the speed.
“I thought we agreed that I couldn’t die on a treadmill.”
He chuckled. “You’re not going to die, baby.” He reduced the speed to two-point-five miles per hour. “Trust me.”
“I don’t think I do,” I whispered. “My throat hurts.”
“Because you talk too much.”
“When I get done, I’m gonna hurt you.”
“If you can catch me.”
Moaning, I muttered a string of curses when he, yet again, increased my speed. This time to four-point-two miles per hour. “Really?” He put me at a six percent incline. “You’re a demon.”
“Two more minutes.”
