Page 32 of Legs

The girls and I didn’t normally do Sunday nights out, but keeping occupied was my prime directive. Bad Boy’s number had been burning a hole in my phone since he’d entered it three nights ago. That entire encounter had been a disaster. I’d stood there, useless, while his lips touched mine, his tongue teasing a seductive line, his ballsy predictions whispered in my ear. When I’d pulled up his number and saw what he’d written as his name, I unleashed my famous cackle.

Six. The guy had some nerve.

I’d scheduled every minute since then—bird watching, buying M&Ms and separating them by color, framing and hanging a new quote.

“The question isn’t who’s going to let me; it’s who is going to stop me.” ~ Ayn Rand.

All endeavors helped force that phone number to the back of my mind. Briefly. I was on the treadmill now, vision hazy, once again fantasizing about Jimmy.

Us on the floor.

My mouth around his cock.

His scruff dragging across my thighs.

I upped my treadmill speed, but I couldn’t chase away the sexual desire Jimmy had awakened. To my right, a guy—Matt, I think—hopped on the treadmill. He nodded my way, and I forced an answering smile. He was blond and fit, his suctioned tank top accentuating the work he’d put into his body. His clean-cut image and golden boy smile should have had my pulse buzzing. Except his skin was too plain, his hair too coiffed.

He wasn’t Six. I ran harder.

As I neared my last five minutes, an older man stepped on the treadmill to my left. I’d met him recently, the grumbly sort who was forced to exercise for his health. When I’d asked him to fill out a new member questionnaire, he’d scanned the sheet, mustache twitching. His bushy eyebrows had framed his scowl.

“Emergency contact,” he’d muttered, his words thick with disdain. “A ridiculous question.” He’d scrawled his answers and shoved the page back to me, nothing on it legible.

Except for his emergency contact person: 911.

911 scowled at his treadmill, jabbing at buttons, curses garbled under his breath. My father had run marathons, trained indoors and out. He’d worked his heart like a maestro. It wasn’t enough, but his time at the gym had prolonged his life, and any extra days with him were a bonus. At this man’s age, it was even more important.

I slowed my treadmill to a fast walk, grabbing my towel to swipe at my chest and neck. Breathing easier, I hit stop and faced 911. “Can I help you, sir?”

He ground his teeth, as though chewing leather. “The machine is broken.”

I may not have been an electrical engineer (although I had sold lamps during my interior decorator phase), but the light displays were working fine, all necessary buttons aglow. Broken, the machine was not. The man reminded me of my grandfather, though, preferring to drive in circles rather than ask for directions. Tact would be needed.

I slung my towel over my shoulder. “Let me see what I can do.”

I jumped to the floor, followed the mess of wires, found his, unplugged it, then plugged it back in. Electrical engineer genius. I stood and dusted my hands together. “Let’s give it a shot now.”

Leaning over him, I hit the Start button…and the platform moved, of course. He grumbled, lifting his feet like the time I’d forced my mother’s schnoodle Stanley into doggy boots. The man was uncomfortable. Gyms, with their electronic equipment, weren’t exactly senior friendly. But heart health was important. If I’d waltzed over and pressed the one button he couldn’t find, 911 could have gotten frustrated and left.

I leaned over his dashboard. “These arrows control speed. Click up to go faster and down to go slower. These arrows”—I dragged my index finger to the incline—“tilt the base up, like walking up a hill. I’m Rachel, by the way.”

His reply: “I am not a child.”

That he was not. His sour expression had been excavated with age, the creases around his mouth sinking underground, his nose and chin pushed prominent. A face that had endured. “Just trying to explain the treadmill,” I said.

“As though I am a child.”

A child in need of a time out. “Anyway, I suggest you stick to a flat incline and speed up gradually. Next time, I can show you the programs.”

“I can do it myself.”

A time out and no dessert. “Don’t push me, old man. An attitude like that will land you in detention.”

With a harrumph, he ignored my teasing, and I patted his frail shoulder.

I hurried home and showered, in a daze the whole while. Because Six, Six, Six. I nearly dialed him three times, until I pulled up my father’s message and let his soothing tone tamp the urge. It also heightened my confusion. Hopefully drinks with Ainsley and Gwen would offer more distraction.

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