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Holy crap!
‘I told you I preferred your body,’ Dream Jake says.
Wake up! Right the hell now!
* * *
I sit up in bed, my face screwed tight with disgust.
‘What on earth?’ My whispered words are lost in the empty bedroom. The alarm on my bedside table tells me it is 3.57a.m. ‘Christ.’
I flop back against my pillows and rub my face. There’s no way in this freakin’ millennium I am going back to sleep and risking being in a lip-lock with Jake.
I reach under my bed and pull out my Mac. Maybe I’ll look over the franchise stuff Drew sent to me.
After twelve minutes of reading his high-level review points, I realize I don’t have the energy for it.
Instead, I write an e-mail to the guys, asking them if they want to get an ice hockey game going soon.
5
BROOKS
‘That’s twenty. Nice job.’ As I take the weight of the bar my client is using for bench presses and lift it onto the rack, Rick brings himself upright and wipes his forehead. I note for my record the increase in his weights this session. ‘How are you feeling?’
He drinks from his sports bottle. ‘I’ve never felt in better shape in my life.’
I drop a hand to his shoulder. ‘Let’s move on to dead lifts in that case.’
We’re on the mezzanine floor of the gym, looking down over the cardio machines, as I set up Rick’s weights and get him started on his reps, always keeping one eye on his form.
‘Brooks, you got a second?’
I turn to see Charlie, my floor manager, coming toward me in chinos and a blazer. It’s her day for dealing with corporate membership renewals so she isn’t in her usual sports gear.
I tell Rick to keep going, then say to Charlie, ‘Sure, what’s up?’
She leans closer and lowers her voice to little more than a whisper.
‘I’ve got a crazy-ass publicist and a mini-celeb in reception. They’re kicking up a stink because I’ve said they can’t come into the gym without a membership. They demanded to see you. Said they tried calling before they turned up. I wouldn’t bother you with it, but they’re causing a scene in front of the bistro and it’s full down there.’
I can’t help my sigh. It’s always the wannabe celebs who think they have some kind of God-given right to work out here.
‘You’ve told them we don’t do special treatment?’
‘Only ten times. I could shoot for the eleventh.’
‘Tell them to take a seat and calm the hell down. I’m not cutting my session short but we’ll be done here in five. I’ll come down then.’
‘Thanks, Brooks.’
As she walks away, I tell my client to rest between sets. Then I call back to Charlie. ‘Who is this person, anyway?’
She stops and glances down at the clipboard in her hand. ‘Izzy Coulthard. ThatSalsa Yourself Slimwoman from the TV commercials.’
* * *
Despite the liveliness of the bistro, as soon as I walk through the double doors to the reception area, my attention is drawn to two women wearing stubborn pouts and sitting on the leather sofas next to the front desk.
