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seven
It sounded like bullets were raining down on the roof of the Humvee. Thousands and thousands of bullets. How were that many bullets even possible? He waited for the roar of the rockets, but they stayed just inside the ghost of his memory, taunting him.
Rhett woke in a cold sweat, well ahead of his alarm, to a black, sleeting sky. He held his head between his knees for a second, drawing air steadily in and out of his lungs, before he threw back the covers and stepped onto the cold floor. He peeked out the window. The side streets that led to his town house looked dicey, but the main roads had probably been sanded. Still, with schools closed and miniature hail hitting the windows, attendance at the gym would be minimal. He sent out a mass email, canceling classes for the day, and followed that up with notifications on social media.
Then he fixed himself a protein shake and limped his way to the front door. The colder it got, the worse his leg felt. Going in was probably a stupid move; no amount of warming up was going to get his muscles functioning today. He opened the door and faced the dark sky. His breath turned to steam. At 5:30 a.m., the moon still hung like a yellow beacon. Ice pelted him gently in the face. Nobody else was stirring.
Go back to bed, his body screamed.
Fat chance, his mind responded.
Rhett unlocked his Jeep with his remote, sprinkled the stairs with salt, took his steps gingerly, slid once, reflected briefly on the stupidity of his journey and got in the car, anyway.
He put the Jeep in low gear and drove slow. The ten-minute drive took twenty, but he got there in one piece. He spent some time salting the perimeter of the building, but then settled in the office and turned on the computer.
Rhett kept telling himself he didn’t have anything better to do, and that the roads weren’t so bad. He pulled up yesterday’s waivers and dug through them. Once he found hers, he admitted, for a brief second, this was one of the reasons he’d come into work today.
There were three forms, but only one was for a woman. Specifically, the redhead who had the balls to come in here wearing a unicorn T-shirt. It wasn’t the standard—not like one of the “special unicorns” that were in fashion right now, the tight tank tops meant to suggest how unique its wearer was, despite the fact that a dozen other women were wearing the same damn unicorns.
No. My Pretty Pony had come in here wearing some kind of early nineties throwback that reminded Rhett of the dolls Mel favored when she was a little kid. Mama used to say, “Go on, Rhett. Play with your little sister. Brush the ponies’ hair.”
And he’d been forced to scrape miniature plastic brushes through the rainbow-colored manes of the little horses that gave Mel so much delight.
Constance Morrigan.
That was her name. She was thirty-three years old, and she’d come in here wearing a fucking My Pretty Pony T-shirt.
Rhett laughed to himself. He pictured her again as the sleet pattered a relaxing tune on the tin roof. The ragged short hair—not classic red and not blond, but both; what did they call that? Strawberry?—looked like a little kid had taken scissors to it. Ironically, her hair had looked much like what Rhett had once done to one of Mel’s ponies in revenge for losing his cap gun in Andy Simmons’s backyard. Mama had grounded him for a week over that. Mel, forever a kind and forgiving soul, had begged Mama to shorten his sentence and declared she liked her “punk pony’s” new do.
The luxurious hair on My Pretty Pony’s unicorn shirt hinted at what Constance Morrigan’s hair might look like if she weren’t determined to have the ugliest haircut on the planet, which is what Rhett had sensed. She was trying to hide anything about her that might be attractive, including that oversize shirt that draped her soft, curvy hips. Everything about her had been soft and curvy, though Rhett had sensed a harder, firmer woman buried beneath it all. The ghost of an athlete was in her face, her concentration, her determination to finish that stupid workout Hobbs had programmed. Any other newbie would have run from it.
Rhett was certain he didn’t know Constance Morrigan. Who could forget a name like that? But there was something familiar about her. Something about her eyes, which were the impossible blue color of an arctic glacier. Not cold, but vivid. Which could be good or bad. They were the kind of eyes that told it like it was, but also made it hard to hide anything.
A set of headlights washed through the gloom, over the front of the building, temporarily blinding Rhett through the window he faced. Who the hell would be out in this weather? Besides himself.
The headlights disappeared around the corner. Maybe it was a salt truck, or somebody from the strip mall across the way. After a moment, Rhett heard somebody try the front door.
Seriously? Somebody had shown up for the 7:30 class? He shouldn’t be surprised. His gym attracted a lot of diehards and addicts, even if their poison was fitness instead of a much less healthy drug. It was probably Tatiana, with her overworked body and bullish personality. No way in hell was Rhett giving her a one-on-one. She could do some open gym since she’d dragged her ass here in the sleet, but he’d have her out in an hour, tops.
By the time Rhett got to the front door, the figure was already moving away, taking steps gingerly along the sidewalk. He didn’t recognize the person from behind, clad in a large blue jacket and stocking cap. Despite his better judgment, Rhett poked his head out.
The figure stopped and peeked over her shoulder. She turned and headed back his way, her boots crunching over the salt he’d put down. “Are you open?”
“No.” Rhett didn’t recognize her voice. “Didn’t you get the email?”
She stopped when she reached the front door and peered up at him from beneath her beanie. “Oh, hi.” Her voice changed. “Rhett, right?”
“Rhett Santos.” He extended his hand.
Her big glove clasped his fingertips. “I don’t get the emails. I’m not a member.” Long lashes framed bright, clear blue eyes.
Well, damn. Rhett knew that if she pulled off that cap, she’d reveal strawberry blond hair, done in the worst haircut imaginable.
“How about this crazy weather, huh? When’s the last time we had ice before December?”
Rhett watched her carefully. There was just something about her. An old-fashioned throwback who had grown up too quickly to give a crap about the little things. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did.
“Yeah,” she said in the wake of his silence. “I don’t do mindless chitchat, either. Forget I said anything.”
