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It wakes up every single muscle in my body. It’s a hell of a lot more effective than squats or deadlifts. Nothing gets my blood pumping like she does.
I finish my last set and wipe off the squat rack. This is a nice place. The kind of place my mom would have gone. If it had been here when she was.
She spent half her time staying beautiful or keeping the house beautiful. It worked. Everyone mentioned her looks. Jo, the beautiful, perfect homemaker. She had the same dark hair as me and Em. The same dark eyes.
The same good looks, I guess. Dad was tall, but he wasn’t typically handsome.
She always talked about the importance of fitness. Always tried to get me to sign up for some sport. Soccer. Little League. Jr. Lifeguards. Surf Camp. Summer league swim team. Then the high school one. I did it freshman year. Right before I hit that team sports are bullshit; all organizations are bullshit phase.
That was the moment she gave up on me—the day I quit swim team. I still remember all the disappointment in her eyes. The way her knife slapped across the cutting board as she diced chicken. She’d never say she was pissed off. She’d just look at me like I was a failure and recite something about my future.
Would she be proud of my fixation of getting bigger and stronger?
Maybe.
It’s hard to imagine Mom proud. Even if it’s easy to imagine her on the stationary bike in some two-hundred-dollar outfit.
I toss my towel in the hamper on the way out the door. Yeah, it’s that kind of gym. It costs a fortune. But it’s the only thing that clears my head, besides work and sex.
Besides premium coffee beans and good whiskey, it’s my only indulgence.
It’s bright outside. Traffic is already clogging the roads. Damn, it’s early for both. And I’m without my sunglasses.
I shield my eyes as I jog home. It’s only half a mile. But tons of the drivers I pass shoot me a what’s his problem look. This is Los Angeles. We all drive twenty minutes to spend an hour on the treadmill.
My head clears as my feet pound the pavement. Today is the day. We’re meeting our lawyer to talk about buying the shop. To get everything sorted out.
That’s what I’m focusing on.
Not Kay.
Not those tiny shorts or that tight tank top or the way her eyes went wide when I ordered her to leave her glass on the table.
She wants to be under my command.
And, somehow, she knows I want that too.
How the fuck does she know that?
I stop at a red light. Bend over to stretch my hamstrings. I’m not going there. I’m not thinking about her sitting on my bed, naked, desperate, waiting for my command.
The light turns green. I take off. Run as fast as I fucking can. Until all my thoughts are dedicated to dodging pedestrians and turning cars.
By the time I get home, I’m back to clarity. And I’m sticking with that.
Emma is at the kitchen table with a bowl of cereal and an oversized mug of coffee.
I nod hello as I toss my keys on the table. Move into the kitchen. Fuck, that coffee smells good. Nutty. Rich. Strong.
I force myself to grab a glass and fill it with water.
“Why did I spend half of yesterday interrogating Kaylee about you having the opportunity to buy Inked Hearts?” Emma’s voice is as curious as it’s accusatory. It’s mild, for her.
I down half my water in three gulps. “Ryan must have mentioned it.”
Emma folds her arms. “I called Dean.”
My shoulders tense. I don’t like Emma talking to Dean. He’s my friend, yeah, but he’s a pig. He wouldn’t think anything of fucking her and throwing her away.
“He explained.” She takes a long sip of her coffee. “The four of you are going to buy it together.”
“Yeah.” I finish the water and fill it again. The last thing I need today is a headache.
Emma’s dark eyes get intense. She has something up her sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t want you to worry.”
“Is that how it’s going to be—you keep me out of all your decisions because you don’t want me to worry?”
Pretty much, yeah. “This is my decision.”
“No. I did some digging. With Kaylee’s help. You don’t have enough cash on hand to buy a quarter of the business. Not with the numbers Dean quoted.”
“None of the guys do. We’re getting a loan.”
“With a shitty interest rate. If you refinance the mortgage—it would only add a few years to it.”
“Kay put you up to this?”
“No.” She taps the table with her purple nails—they match the violet tint to her hair. “But why did you tell her and not me? You trust her more?”
“I’m not sacrificing your future, Em.”
“I thought we were a team. That it was ‘our future.’ It’s our house, isn’t it?”
