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Looking at the creamy white dressing I have used a thousand times before, my mind chooses that moment to remind me of Pixie and her lemon juice dressing. Spritz, she called it. Paired with perfectly infused water that somehow completely naturally tasted like some delicacy. I didn’t want to admit to her that it wasn’t that bad to eat because, at the time, I thought she was a little fruity. Now I find myself wishing the ranch was gone and I had Pixie’s lemon juice instead.
Fuck, but that woman is going to drive me to distraction!
As if in an attempt to rebel against my wayward thoughts about the woman who practically stalks me, I dump the ranch dressing on my salad then dig in.
While eating, I take the time to watch my surroundings, keeping a pulse point on every person who walks in or out of the kitchen. I don’t exactly see anyone who screams serial killer to me, but if he is here, Cook probably stays in the kitchen, a place I can’t go or see because of the way the restaurant is set up.
I finish my salad, pay for my meal, and get the fuck out of there because, honestly, it gives me the creeps.
My mom has always believed in trusting your instincts. My gut, my instincts, scream this place isn’t on the up and up. Whether it is the home of a hitman or a serial killer … Well, I have yet to determine.
I decide to head back to the club, check in with Ice, and then grab a beer to wash today away. If I can get one persistent, little woman off my mind, I might call up one of the girls I use and fuck my day away, too. I just have this feeling that Pixie isn’t going to let me forget her.
~Paisley~
Drop.
Lock.
I mentally talk myself through a firm squat session.
My hands sweat inside my gloves as I hold the weights.
Training. This is what I do. I focus on the task at hand. I can’t drown in thoughts if I think through each movement of my muscle groups. Moving my energies toward health and fitness, I take a negative time and balance myself until I can find the positive again.
By the time I finish up my cardio routine, I’m a sweaty mess as I make my way to the spin classroom to see how Des is doing. She is filling in for the instructor today.
She has sweat pouring down her face and is splotchy red.
“That shit is no joke,” she says before gulping down water.
I smile. “Intense. I like it. Maybe I’ll fill in next time.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I sense him before I see him.
When Des smiles her biggest smile and stands up taller, I know before he makes it to her that Hammer is here, too.
I feel so stupid. I haven’t seen Coal since the dinner fiasco.
What is the proper etiquette to reach out?
I am sure he thinks I’m a crazy stalker, and I wish he could see that I’m not. Regardless, I can’t shake the feelings. It has been almost ten days since the failed attempt at dinner. I don’t know how nutso it is for me to try to invite him out to a restaurant or do something else..
The urge to apologize keeps crawling inside of me. Things are just getting worse with each passing day. I know that my energy is off. I also know that none of it matters to him.
“Fuckin’ love when you’re all hot, Des,” Hammer says before devouring Desirae in a kiss.
Coal just looks at me while we awkwardly wait for our friends to come up for air.
“Hey, Trevor.” I raise my hand up in a wave. My skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and I’m only wearing a sports bra and the booty shorts that I work out in. My hair is braided back, and I’m sure I look a hot mess with no makeup and the bags under my eyes from my nightmares lately.
“Pixie.” He smiles. “Glad to see you’re not digging into me anymore.”
I can only nod because it was really stupid of me to do that. Then. energies be damned, I decide to walk away.
Des will call or text later. Coal isn’t here for me, anyway, so why stand around like I’m waiting for something?
“See ya around, Trevor,” I tell him, stepping away while Hammer and Des finally break apart.
I round the corner when Scotty reaches out and brazenly grabs my ass.
“No!” I scream reactively.
In a whoosh, Coal slams Scotty against the wall with his forearm pressed into Scotty’s neck and a knee to his junk, holding him in place.
“Pixie didn’t ask to be touched.”
“Call your boyfriend off, Paisley,” Scott pleads with me, refusing to acknowledge Coal.
