Page 10 of Stud

A spark of mirth lit his dusky eyes. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or call security.”

“No need,” I said. “I’ll be revoking their memberships and putting hair-remover in their shampoo.” If I weren’t red-faced and drenched, he might have noticed my blush.

“Good luck with that,” he said, laughing as he left.

I shrugged Gwen off and hefted my equipment into the corner, never to be used again. More often than not, my gym time was spent doing light weights and short stretches of cardio. I also loved leisurely hikes that allowed me to enjoy the scenery as opposed to intense climbs. Just enough exercise to allow me to eat Aazam’s chocolate without worrying about my weight.

I wasn’t toned like Gwen or tall and thin like Rachel. I was curvy and buxom—my mother’s term of choice. I liked it, though. Enjoyed feeling womanly with curves to flaunt and hips to sway. I also loved spending this hour with my girlfriends, today notwithstanding.

Once my step and risers were away, I ended my silent treatment. “I hereby remove you both from my will. Gwen, you will not receive my shoes if I die in step class. Rachel, you will no longer be the proud owner of my Coach purse collection.”

Gwen mimed a knife wound to the heart. “How am I supposed to go on?”

I pushed past her and grabbed my towel from the floor. The crowd had mostly filed out, the three of us lingering in the humid room. Even the walls were dripping.

Rachel dabbed her freckled brow. “It was kind of funny.”

“Because you weren’t the butt of that particular joke.” I stuck my towel down my cleavage, needing a squeegee not a swathe of cotton to deal with this deluge.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen said, “but I couldn’t resist. I mean, lusting after one gay man happens. But two? Next you’ll be hitting gay bars, wondering why no one’s buying you drinks.”

Rachel’s hilarious addition: “Maybe she’ll join gaydar-dot-net to cruise for uninterested men.”

“You should both write for Comedy Central.” My tone was all aspartame as I pulled my towel from my boobs and tossed it at Rachel’s face. “They were honest mistakes. Now, thanks to you two jokers, Emmett knows how pathetic I am. I really need new friends,” I mumbled.

It was an empty threat. The three of us couldn’t have been closer. We were there for Rachel when she’d lost her father, her struggles to keep her mother’s spirits up, and through each of her ten thousand jobs. Gwen didn’t bungee jump or skydive without messaging us first. When she had a tough day at the adoption agency, unable to place a child with a deserving family, we’d rally.

We lifted one another up, and made sure to keep one another grounded, but I’d wear a velour sweat suit before sharing my next crush with them. I’d keep a lid on things until I was sure of mutual attraction.

Rachel cringed, looking sheepish. Or maybe deerish. With her big brown eyes, sun-kissed skin, and spray of freckles, she was more innocent doe than bleating sheep. “Now I feel bad.”

“As you should, but you’re forgiven. I expect a lifetime’s supply of Chardonnay once you open your own winery.”

She raised her right heel toward her bum and grabbed her ankle for a quad stretch. “Like that will ever happen. Maybe when I graduate, if I work up to head winemaker somewhere, I’ll name a vintage after us.”

Gwen ran a towel under her bobbed hair. “You’d have to call it The Ram.”

Our shared zodiac sign.

We all grinned as we headed to the change room, but the horoscope comment was a reminder of our birthday resolutions. The resolution I’d start working on as of zero-eight-hundred hours tomorrow.

If this change could kick start other positive shifts in my life, like it had for Rachel, I needed to make it work. It might lead to an epiphany on ways to continue earning money while shedding my sleazy clients. Maybe I’d meet a contact, someone who could hire my father.

As long as I didn’t encounter any supervillains along the way.

Nausea, familiar in its viscosity, coated my gut, thoughts of my teenage employment reducing me to a puddle of nerves. If I could have a magic do-over, I’d expunge those mortifying years. But there was no ctrl-alt-delete that could erase the ridicule I’d endured at the hands of Anton Bickley.

Light-headed from the workout and remembering my teen hell, I slogged into a bathroom stall but struggled with the lock. Gritting my teeth, I used my remaining energy to crank it in place. After barely holding my toilet-seat hover (yoga’s chair pose should be dubbed the Public Bathroom Pose), my legs neared jelly status.

With my white camo Lululemon tights snapped in place, I twisted the lock to leave, but it didn’t budge. I tried again, and nothing.

My lungs constricted. Fresh sweat dotted my temples.

Nothing to worry about. This is just a glitch.

I used both hands and tugged until my thumbs were ready to snap.

No. No. Nononono.