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Cade
The girl on the elliptical wasn’t hard to miss. She didn’t dress to impress, usually wearing a baggy t-shirt, loose sweats and funky sneakers but somehow her clothes still managed to show off her soft and delicious curves. I liked her heart-shaped face and her wild eyes, and the way she held herself, as if she had bravery waiting to bust a seam but she didn’t even know she was holding it in. At the same time, she was adorably awkward and easily embarrassed, which I found endearing.
I was attracted to everything about her, and all modesty aside, I knew she was attracted to me, too.
Usually, she’d grab a treadmill or elliptical, but either way, she always chose a machine that gave her a clear view of my yoga studio. It was hard to miss how intently she watched me. I’d catch her every once in a while, and every time, she’d quickly look away, usually to check a convenient text on her phone. She was authentic, sweet, and interesting, but as much as she watched me during my classes, she was always gone when they were over.
I’d been determined to find a way to catch up with her—employees couldn’t ask out the gym members, but we could chat with them, and hope they’d ask us out. Today, I’d caught one of the front desk attendants, Alfred, walking toward her and I’d totally lost track of what I was doing with a new student, a pretty girl wearing way too much perfume, asking me about private classes. What was Alfred talking to her about? Was he flirting? He had women crawling all over him, but maybe like me he saw everything the girl on the elliptical had to offer too.
Jealousy had flared inside of me and considering I’d never even talked to her, it surprised me, the intensity of those feelings.
When she went flying off the elliptical, I’d almost run out to check on her, but by then I’d been surrounded by several women in my class. I’d kept an eye on her though. Saw Alfred pointing to the front desk, and the girl get to her feet. She’d clearly been embarrassed, and not just because of the spill she’d taken. In that moment, I wanted so bad to comfort her. To tell her everything was going to be okay, but how could I do that? I didn’t even know her or what her situation was. I wanted to, though, and I started to excuse myself from my class, but it was too late.
She gathered her things, moved toward the exit, and then, to my utter frustration, she was gone.
Again.
Chapter 2
Tessa
My gym membership card was gone.
My credit card was maxed out.
My bus card was empty.
But hallelujah, praise the fettuccini gods, my loyalty card at the little Italian bistro around the corner from my apartment building was ready to be cashed in.
To-go bowl of steaming, stomach-growl-inducing pasta in hand, I entered my apartment building in time to see my next door neighbor, Jamie, the same one I’d recently been fantasizing about having sex with me, Cade and Ellis, a grouchy, moody, asshole Irish drummer, step inside the elevator. I called out for him to hold said elevator, but the man clearly ignored me.
After watching the doors close behind his tight ass and giving him a mental middle finger (I was afraid to drop the pasta if I did the real thing), I figured I’d do better to take the stairs, anyway. The rickety old elevator would have taken forever to return to the lobby and I didn’t want my pasta to get cold. Walking the five flights of stairs to my apartment would take less time, believe it or not. That’s how bad the elevator is.
I concentrated on each step, trying to ignore the screaming pain in my elliptical-weary thighs by imagining the swirling of the fork around the pasta, the smell wafting to my nose, the bliss of that first bite, all of which were better than any orgasm any guy had ever given me.
I was five steps away from the fifth floor when a sudden explosion of drums down the hallway startled me. The fright was just enough to make me lose my balance mid-step, and as I fell forward I reached out for the railing to keep myself upright. But in doing so, I sealed the fate of my only remaining happiness in the world.
I watched in slow motion horror as the to-go bowl flipped over, bounced down two stairs, and popped open, spilling the entire contents of pasta.
“No, no, no!” I cried, running to it as if I was playing the part of a soldier in a movie running to his fallen comrade.
I thought perhaps I could salvage some of it, save even just half, a couple bites, a single noodle. But the strange stain on the carpet coupled with the hair on one side and the empty cigarette carton on the other quickly revealed the truth: my pasta was gone and it was never coming back.
The drumming continued in the fifth floor hallway. I shouldn’t be so mad given the drumming was a condition of my low rent. When I was looking for a new apartment a few years back, I’d heard about a great deal on a studio. Turned out the great deal was because it was the only other apartment on the fifth floor, right next to a musician who practiced day and night. I’d signed the contract well-forewarned, and usually dealt with the noise coming from the wall I shared with Irish Neanderthal Drummer Boy. But losing my pasta because of Jamie’s cacophony? Yeah, no.
I stormed up the remaining stairs and pounded on the door that shook from the noise of the drums inside.
“Hey!” I shouted. The racket continued without pause, so I slammed my palm against the door again. “Open up! Come and face me like a man, you coward,” I shouted, pounding as hard as I could.
Finally, the drumming stopped and the snare stilled and I heard footsteps moving toward the door. Jamie O’Connell, resident asshole and professional do-not-give-a-fuck-if-it’s-3-am-I’m-going-to-practice-anyway drummer opened the door and glared down at me. Tattoos covered his wide chest and muscular arms: tattoos of mermaids and goddesses from Irish mythology and a lot of different band names, each struck through with a tattooed black line.
Jamie assessed me with dark green eyes as with one hand he shoved his fingers through his wiry, fiery red beard and with his other hand, held a cymbal over his crotch. Besides the cymbal, my neighbor was buck-naked. Deliciously, “Washboard-abs and that hot v-thingy-at-his-hips” naked.
I sucked in my breath and nearly swallowed my tongue. Fire washed over me and I blinked several times and stared. And stared. Until he spoke, making me jerk.
“Whaddya want?” His deep voice with its thick brogue somehow always managed to convey ‘fuck you’ no matter what he said. It also always sounded sexier than fuck.
Somehow, Imanaged to take my eyes off his body, look him in the face, and speak. “Why didn’t you hold the elevator for me?” I asked.
