Grit and Grind

by Kat Addams

  Copyright © 2019 by Kat Addams

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.kataddams.com

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson, Lori Jackson Design, www.lorijacksondesign.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7331523-0-3

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kat Addams

  one

  Klara’s alarm buzzed at exactly 5:07 a.m. every morning. In the past, she’d set it for 5 a.m., but last summer, she’d read an article that changed her waking habits. It was from a study in one of those science magazines that sat, collecting dust, in the dentist’s waiting room. Some super-smart panel of super-smart people had conducted an experiment that showed the difference in getting just a few extra minutes of sleep each night. The research concluded that getting as little as seven extra minutes of sleep could be a person’s saving grace when that mid-afternoon lull kicked in right after lunchtime. Klara had taken the article’s advice and tried it for nearly two weeks before declaring it bullshit. However, the habit stuck, and her alarm continued to go off at 5:07 a.m. every morning. And, without fail, she’d just as quickly hit the snooze button. Twice. Never less, never more.

  When her alarm buzzed for the last time, Klara narrowed her eyes and stared at her phone, as if daring it to keep going. At twenty-six, she was still young enough to easily hop out of bed, but she didn’t always want to.

  She spent too many late nights staring at a blank computer screen with her feet propped up on her desk and nibbling one of those bland “guilt-free” snacks. Her thoughts not on the novel in front of her, but on writing the company who had marketed this glorified chunk of iceberg as some new innovative zero-calorie ice cream. And thus down the rabbit hole she would fall. Klara would go from reading ice cream reviews to clicking a link for funny cat videos. From there, she would follow a link to celebrity gossip, local news, and then finally end up on an online shopping spree. She had a habit of filling up her cart with all the things she wanted and never, ever checking out. Before she knew it, her evening was gone. It was after midnight, and she still had a blank page in front of her. The blinking cursor not so patiently tapping, waiting on her to move it along.

  Lazily, she propped herself up and rolled the hair tie from her wrist, securing her long, tangled curls in a messy bun atop her head. Still dazed and confused from her deep sleep, she sat on the side of the bed, rubbing her eyes the way her mother had told her not to unless she wanted to get crow’s-feet. Her mother was full of the good ole Southern gospel. When Klara had finally moved into her own place, her mother had told her, if she kept a dirty house, the men she dated might think she had a dirty twat, too. She thought of those pearls of wisdom while she made her bed. She wondered if any of her past lovers had noticed the thin layer of dust on her picture frames and become confused when they found out she had a perfectly manicured playground.

  Klara hurriedly tidied up her sheets and pillows. She couldn’t afford to be late to her first writers workshop. Finals were over, and she had been one of the first students to eagerly sign up for the summer writing series. The workshop was being led by Christopher Kaiser. The Christopher Kaiser. She had been devouring Christopher’s books since she first discovered them her freshman year. He was a well-known Southern writer who specialized in historical fiction with a touch of erotica. She hadn’t known she liked history until she picked up one of his books, and it ended up on the floor beside her bed. Right next to her vibrator. From then on, she’d had a sudden interest in historical fiction.

  Klara stumbled to the coffeemaker and quickly put on her running gear. She had just enough time to gulp down a cup of cheap, bitter coffee before she headed out the door and toward the river. If she timed it right, she might bump into the hot guy who worked making pasta at the farmers market on Saturdays. She had seen him running in the park at this time the last few days. His dirty-blond hair, tousled from the wind, hanging into his eyes. Sweat beading down his smooth chest and pooling at his shorts line. She didn’t know his name, but he looked like a John. Farmer John, she’d decided to call him. He looked like the marrying type. All warm smiles and good deeds. She hadn’t had much experience with that in her love life. All of her Farmer Johns had turned out to be Farmer Douche Bags.

  “They ain’t gonna buy the cow if you keep givin’ ’em the milk for free.”

  Klara’s mother’s voice echoed in her thoughts.

  She was always overprotective of Klara. Especially once Klara’s dad had left for a pack of cigarettes and a Michelob and never come back. No calls, no letters, nothing. He just disappeared and for the better, according to her mom.

  Klara shook her head as if to get her mom and ghost dad out and let Farmer John back in. She closed her eyes as she thought about what it must feel like to slowly run her hands along a tight body like that. It had been over a year since she even touched another man. Not counting that one-night stand with that guy, Miles, from the bookstore. That had been a complete disaster. She always fantasized about meeting someone at a bookstore. She thought only the interesting, smart guys would hang around there. But, yet again, she had been wrong. She still had no idea how Miles had talked her into bed. It definitely wasn’t the man bun … or the Clark Kent glasses. She shuddered as she tried to forget that night. Miles could not go miles. The only thing that ran miles with Miles was his ego.

  She sighed heavily, stepping outside and into the sultry morning air. Today was going to be hot and nasty. She could feel the gritty heat of the Memphis summer already, and the sun hadn’t even risen. Klara glanced again at her watch. She was going to have to make this quick. As she headed toward the river, she could see smoke billowing up into the sky. The scent of roasting meat hung heavy in the air around her. The barbeque championship festival was up and roaring downtown. Cars lined every street within a five-mile radius to cross the river, so revelers could party all day and night on Mud Island. Laughter and music drifted across the banks as Klara tucked her headphones in her ears and started her morning run.

  At six fifteen a.m., her phone buzzed again to let her know it was time to head back. Exhausted, she sat on the river landing to watch the sunrise and catch her breath. The park was starting to fill with other runners, yoga moms, bodyweight beasts, and the occasional panhandler. She always carried a few dollars tucked in her shorts for those she thought needed it most. One man in particular she was quite fond of helping out. His name was Steve, and he was a veteran. The war had left him permanently brain damaged, and no one would hire him or give him a chance. He was too much of a risk. That was when he picked up the bottle, and the rest was history. At least, that was the story he’d told her the first time he asked for money for booze. She liked his honesty and gave him a twenty-dollar bil
l. Shocked, he’d graciously bowed down to her and hurried off to the store.

  Now, anytime she ran by him, he always shouted, “You’re the Memphis queen!”

  She always laughed and circled around to give him a few dollars. He probably called all the girls Memphis queen.

  Steve wasn’t anywhere in sight today, but Farmer John was heading her way and fast. His attention was on the barges churning their way up river, not in front of him where she sat on the edge of the walk. If he didn’t look up, he was going to brush right by her, possibly tumble into her. She side-eyed him as he edged closer and closer toward her. Thinking quickly—but very, very stupidly—in the heat of the moment, Klara stood up. With her eyes pretending to watch the sunrise, she took a step backward. Right into the line of fire. Before she could think—because her brain had clearly been zapped by an oncoming six-pack—two hands grabbed her from behind and pulled her away. Farmer John looked up, startled, just nearly missing Klara. He stumbled on his own feet and hit the ground in front of her.

  “Are you all right?” he said, looking up at her and the man standing in her shadow.

  “Yeah, I think so,” she said, slowly turning to look at the person who’d ruined her scheme of building a magnificent life with Farmer John after he tripped, landed on top of her, and fell madly in love with her. She could already see their two twin boys fading in the distance.

  The intruder spoke up, “I’m really sorry. I saw you standing there, and neither of you were paying attention! You were off in la-la land, running toward her like a freight train, and she was distracted by your swaying cargo! I was just trying to prevent the train wreck.”

  Klara looked at the man, shocked. Her mouth hung open, her face flushed with embarrassment and rage, all at once. How dare he call her out like that! And right in front of her future husband!

  Farmer John looked visibly uncomfortable, too. He gave a passive laugh and was off and running again before she could apologize. He called over his shoulder that he was sorry and would pay more attention next time, but Klara didn’t hear it. She was ready to give Mr. Know-It-All an earful.

  “I was not checking out his swaying cargo!”

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Um, no … I wasn’t! I was trying to catch my breath from my run, and I was a bit dazed!”

  “Yes, dazed by his abs. I must admit, they’re really nice abs. Do you think he’d share his secret?”

  Klara pursed her lips, noticing for the first time the sexy grin on this man standing before her. She tried to look mad, but she couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

  “Kale chips, cauliflower rice, açai smoothies, and iceberg ice cream, I’m sure.”

  “That sounds terrible! What exactly does an iceberg taste like?”

  “Watery spit and dashed dreams.”

  The man peered down at her. He was at least six inches taller than she was, even when she was puffed up and had her feathers ruffled. His scruffy, unshaved face twitched as he tried to figure her out. An awkward silence hung in the air as she guessed she had gone too far with her sarcastic sense of humor. But, to Klara’s surprise, he laughed.

  “That is damn brilliant! I’m Chris, by the way,” he said as he stuck out his hand.

  “Nice to meet you, Chris. I’m Klara. And thank you for … saving me.”

  “For saving you from a hopeless-romantic love affair had he crashed into you?”

  Klara blushed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I didn’t need saving. I was completely aware he was coming too close. I was just slow from my workout. Not distracted,” she said, realizing her defensiveness was obvious. She quickly changed the subject. “What exactly were you doing, watching me, anyway?”

  “I was observing you actually,” he said as he noticed her tense up. “I mean, not just you. I wasn’t observing just you. Damn, I realize this is coming out kind of creepy.”

  “Mmhmm … ”

  “Look,” he continued, “part of my work is research, and this just so happens to be where my next project is based. I want to get a feel of the city and its people before I have to do the daily grind.”

  She cautiously stared at him while he spoke, losing her train of thought in his smile. He didn’t look like a creeper. Maybe he really was working, or maybe he was a serial killer. Her next and last bad decision. She started to ask more about his work, but her alarm buzzed and rudely interrupted her questioning. She glanced down at her phone. Crap! She was going to be late unless she ran fast all the way back to her apartment.

  “Well, I’m usually around at this hour for my run, if I can help you with any questions you have about the city. As a way of saying thanks for your chivalry, of course. I’ve got to run though. Thanks again!” she called as she jogged up the stairs. She could feel his eyes on her back.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around!”

  Klara hurried home and jumped in the shower. The water was cool on her flushed skin. Her eyes closed as she tucked herself under the showerhead and let the water run down her face. Her hands glided along her body, and she noticed the tightness in her core. She smiled, impressed with herself. She thought about Farmer John and what it would be like to peer over his shoulders while he crawled on top of her. Oh, how she would love to wrap her legs around that chiseled back and hang on for dear life.

  She reached up to turn the knob on hotter, filling the shower with steam. Klara unhooked the showerhead and let it pulsate between her legs. Moaning, she tossed her head back and rested on the cool tiles. She could see his smile as he thrust inside her harder and harder. Farmer John was now working up a sweat and starting to let out grunts as he reached his climax. She imagined herself smiling back at him, encouraging him—except, this time, it wasn’t him looking back at her. It was Chris grinning down at her, looking straight into her eyes as he gave that final deep thrust inside her. She gripped the showerhead tighter as her knees began to tremble. Waves of pleasure shook her whole body as she cried out.

  Exhausted and out of breath, Klara slid down the wall. She could feel her heartbeat throbbing in her chest, matching the throbbing between her legs. She did not have time for that.

  Where did that come from? she wondered.

  She sat on the floor of the shower, trying to think of Farmer John but only saw Chris’s face. Why am I thinking of him?

  He had saved her from getting hurt, but he’d also embarrassed her and made her look like a fool. She hadn’t known whether to slap him or thank him.

  Klara grabbed a towel and dried herself off. She was probably being too hard on him. She often wondered if having too high expectations was a flaw of hers. There was something wrong with every single man she dated, but then again, maybe there was just something wrong with her. She thought she was a good catch, but she was the one having issues with settling down, not any of her exes or her friends. Mostly, she was content to stay home alone with an order of hot wings and Netflix. Some nights, especially during the bleak winters, she did get lonely.

  But, even with her ex-boyfriends, nothing had set her on fire or been worth keeping. Brad had sold used cars, and because of this, he smelled like a cheap Christmas tree air freshener hung on a 1970 pimp Cadillac. The stench stuck in her nose, no matter what cologne she’d bought for him. When she started getting nauseated as soon as he came over, it was done. It didn’t help matters that he thought he was hilarious, but his sense of humor was cheesy car salesman. The type that made you cringe and feel embarrassed for him.

  “I’ve got a dil for you!” he’d once said as he pulled out her dildo from the nightstand.

  No … just no.

  David had been fun, but she’d lost her attraction to him early on when his hair started migrating from his head to his back. She still stayed because he was a nice guy and treated her well, but she wasn’t crazy about him. He was bland, boring, and they only had the predictable vanilla sex on Saturday nights. Missionary, of course. He kept up this charade of being a bore until he forgot to close his bro
wser window on his laptop he’d left open … in his bathroom. Klara thought it was odd he would use a laptop in there, so she glanced at his open tabs.

  “What the hell is … oh my God!”

  She had never left somewhere so fast in her life. He knew he was busted because he never attempted to call her after she left. He didn’t even ask her for his things back from her apartment. She hoped to never have to look into his face again. As soon as she got home, she slipped on a pair of disposable latex gloves, packed his few things up, put it all in a trash bag, and threw it out. She also sanitized her entire place. Klara had declared herself done with dating for a while after that. She didn’t have the time to enter the dating world these days anyway. She had to write and keep her head focused on her work.

  Klara had wanted to write since she could remember, but between her part-time job and the MFA program, she had been too busy. She found little downtime to write for pleasure and not for homework. Her professors’ writing assignments were never very interesting, and the more she typed on and on about boring details in small Southern towns, the more uninspired she became. She wanted to write about things out of the ordinary. Something shocking, toe-curling, spine-tingling, and all those other adjectives littered on the e-published Amazon blurbs. But also, something serious.

  Klara wanted her novel to be one of those stories that readers couldn’t get out of their heads until long after they finished reading. But something was holding her back, and she wasn’t sure what that was. What the hell am I afraid of? Lack of experience? Fear of commitment? She rolled these musings around in her head, realizing that her writing issues were beginning to sound like her dating issues. She tucked that thought into the back of her brain and made a mental note to schedule therapy sometime in the near future.

  Klara checked the time on her phone again. If she wasn’t out the door in thirty minutes, she would be late for sure. She quickly raided her closet for something mature but still very much bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She settled on linen shorts and a floral top. Her closet was full of floral prints. Klara had always been drawn to flowers. Roses in particular. Her parents owned a flower farm, and so she had always been surrounded by them. Her green thumb had helped her land her part-time job at the florist. She ran the outreach program, planting flowers in low-income neighborhoods. Her team also worked with the residents on building and cultivating their own gardens.