Rescue You

by Elysia Whisler

  “No.” Rhett didn’t recognize her voice. “Didn’t you get the email?”

  She stopped when she reached the front door and peered up at him from beneath her beanie. “Oh, hi.” Her voice changed. “Rhett, right?”

  “Rhett Santos.” He extended his hand.

  Her big glove clasped his fingertips. “I don’t get the emails. I’m not a member.” Long lashes framed bright, clear blue eyes.

  Well, damn. Rhett knew that if she pulled off that cap, she’d reveal strawberry blond hair, done in the worst haircut imaginable.

  “How about this crazy weather, huh? When’s the last time we had ice before December?”

  Rhett watched her carefully. There was just something about her. An old-fashioned throwback who had grown up too quickly to give a crap about the little things. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but he did.

  “Yeah,” she said in the wake of his silence. “I don’t do mindless chitchat, either. Forget I said anything.”

  Rhett laughed, despite himself. We’re not open today. The roads are too slick. Everything’s canceled. Go home. “C’mon in.”

  Constance stamped her feet and brushed ice balls from her coat before she hung it on the hook beside the door. She removed her cap and gloves, stuffed them in the pocket of her coat and ran her hands through her hair. Full of electricity, the pale red hair stood up on end, making it look like she’d stuck her finger in a socket.

  “Am I the only one here?” She surveyed the empty gym, mostly in darkness. Rhett had only turned on the office lights.

  He eyed her outfit for today. The unicorn shirt was gone, replaced by a Marine Corps Marathon tee that seemed old and too big and a pair of black joggers. “It’s sleeting outside, My Pretty Pony. It’s just you and me.”

  Her pale cheeks flushed. Normally, he might not notice but she had that porcelain skin only redheads could pull off, perfectly clear without a freckle in sight. “Right,” she said. “I can go.”

  “You’re already here.” Rhett motioned toward the office. “Let’s have a talk. Get some info, discuss your goals.”

  She hesitated. For an instant, fear ran through those crystal clear eyes. She cleared her throat. “Okay,” she said. She took a seat inside the office without fuss. “I really don’t need to take up your time. I thought there’d be a group. A large group.” She twiddled her fingers together.

  “I’m your group today.” Rhett settled in his desk chair, went silent and waited for her attention.

  She turned her chin up to face him. She was silent, her eyes searching his, like she had questions for him, rather than the other way around.

  Rhett felt the look deep in his gut, which made him shift in his chair. He was hard to rattle; certainly didn’t happen when a harmless, awkward woman came in to see about a gym membership. The longer she stared at him, her lips working in micromovements, like she was searching for words, the more uncomfortable he got. There went that feeling again.

  Rhett cleared his throat abruptly. “So you were in here yesterday. How’d you like it?”

  “It was torture.” She didn’t crack a smile.

  “Yet you’re back.” Rhett kept his own smile suppressed.

  She bit back anything she might have to say, because no words came out.

  “Let’s start with your history.” Rhett decided to keep the ball rolling. “What kind of fitness background do you have?” He nodded at her shirt. “Runner?”

  Her hand went to her chest, like she’d forgotten what she was wearing. “Once upon a time. I used to run the Marine Corps Marathon every year. Back before it was a lottery.”

  “Nice. What’s your best time?”

  “Three twenty-two.”

  It came out memorized, as if from pride. “Not bad.” He let his eyebrows go up. Really decent time actually.

  “Thanks. You, um—” she bit down on her lower lip “—you a runner?” She eyed his sore leg.

  Rhett had thought she was paying close scrutiny to his limp, but he hadn’t been sure until now. “I run on Sundays to clear my head.” Running, for him, was more like meditation than exercise. Unless, of course, he was doing sprints. Those were a whole different story. “I’ve done the MCM once or twice. I think your time is better than mine. I’d have to look it up.” His best time was exactly twenty minutes better than hers, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “That was a couple of years ago.” A tiny smile crooked the corner of her mouth. “I was more into running then. I was...different then.” She pressed her lips together and crossed her arms over her chest, covering the anchor, eagle and globe that made up the official insignia and emblem of the marine corps.

  “You’ve still got the shirt.” Rhett nodded toward the old tee. “You’re proud of it. It’s still a part of who you are.”

  She uncrossed her arms. “This was my dad’s. None of mine fit. Well.” She cocked her head. “I don’t like how I look in them, anyway.”

  Only then did Rhett realize the shirt was from the Fifth Annual Marine Corps Marathon. Constance Morrigan, age thirty-three, wouldn’t have even been alive.

  She offered up that wry little smile. “The entry fee was two dollars.”

  Rhett laughed. “That’s awesome. Your dad a marine?”

  “Army. Vietnam vet.” She waited a heartbeat, then added, “My parents had kids later in life.”

  Rhett felt a twinge, deep in his gut. “Thank him for his service.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Ah, okay.” Rhett never said he was sorry when people were dead. Sometimes death was the way to go, especially if suffering was involved. Sometimes, the dead in question had been assholes in real life, and nobody was sorry they were gone. Why speak ignorantly about what you didn’t know?

  Constance got really quiet, sat there and blinked at him with lashes that were much darker than her hair.

  “So you’re here to get your groove back.” Rhett refocused his interview. Stay professional, find out her needs and do his best to meet those needs. “Used to be a runner. Maybe you’ve let things go, and now you want to get back into it. Maybe get a little stronger than you were before?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest again. “I’m...um...”

  “I’m listening.”

  Constance blew her breath out in a sharp exhale. “You know what? I’m not interested in running much anymore.” She glanced toward the interior of the gym, still in darkness. “One of the ladies told me you’re more into weight lifting than anything else. I’ve never actually touched weights. Not like you were doing yesterday. With the weights on your back? Maybe...” She paused and blew her bangs out of her face; they had lost some of their static and had started to dip into her lashes. “Maybe you can show me that.”

  Rhett thought for a moment. He’d done a lot of things yesterday. Right before class, though, he’d been doing back squats. Powerlifting. My Pretty Pony wanted to do powerlifting, which made her even more interesting than she seemed. He thought briefly on how he’d told Kitty to check in with Zoe, who was the Level 1 lifting coach, whether for powerlifting or weight lifting. Rhett didn’t typically mess with the beginners.

  “All right,” Rhett heard himself say. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  * * *

  Rhett Santos pointed to his phone, which he’d attached to the stereo equipment, and told her to pick some music she liked. He started to collect equipment. For just a moment, Constance hesitated. What the hell was she doing? She’d woken this morning, after a pretty sleepless night, to roads covered in ice. Despite that, she hadn’t been able to stop herself from driving here. She hadn’t eaten breakfast or made coffee. She just got in the car and drove to this insane gym, as if she weren’t even in control of her own body. She hadn’t really thought anyone would be here at this hour, in this weather, but the light that shone from one small window of the
gym had somehow seemed like a lighthouse beacon in the middle of a stormy sea. Now here she was, alone, with a very large, strong man.

  Rhett glanced up. “All good?”

  Constance jolted, unfreezing herself. “Sure.” She clicked on the Pandora icon, ignoring the voice in her head that told her she shouldn’t have listened to Sunny. She couldn’t blame Sunny. She’d have come here, no matter what, though she still had no idea why. She selected what Rhett had been listening to last—Reggaeton Radio. A song called “Pobre Diabla” woke the silent speakers with a Latin beat. She waited, the music livening her blood, as Rhett tossed a ginormous rubber band and a long plastic pipe into his pile.

  “You can change the station,” he offered.

  “I don’t want to.”

  He smiled a little bit. “I saw a bit of what you can do yesterday. You move pretty well. But let’s just run through the basics.” Rhett put his arms straight out in front of him, then settled into a squat, no bar on his back this time.

  Constance’s eyes were fixed on his quads. Those might be the strongest quads she’d ever seen in real life. He wasn’t bearing anything but body weight and she could still see the delineation of vastus medialis. Too bad men’s shorts were so long these days, affording her only a peek around the knee. She’d love to see those quads in all their glory, working together. Totally from a professional standpoint, of course. She’d been observing him for half an hour now, assessing him from an orthopedic standpoint, and had already figured out how she would go about helping him if he were her client. That sort of thing happened automatically in a variety of settings, but she wasn’t going to deny that assessing Rhett’s gait, posture and movement patterns was far more enjoyable than the average old lady with kyphosis.

  “Hip crease below the knee. Knees stacked over the ankles and in line with the toes,” Rhett was saying. He rose back up, towering over her. “Let’s see it.”

  Constance squatted.

  “Keep your weight in your heels.”

  She shifted.

  “Good. Give me ten of those.”

  Rhett ran her through a warm-up of squats, something called Good Mornings with that giant rubber band, sit-ups, push-ups on her knees and lunges. By the time she was finished, her sweat had doubled, despite the meager heat running inside the gym.

  “Are you sore from yesterday?”

  Constance nodded. “Biceps.” She squeezed her arms. “Hamstrings. Quads. Delts. Abs.” She touched all the places on her body.

  Rhett flashed a smile. So far, he had two different kinds. One was mostly in his eyes, with a tiny bit that escaped around the corners of his mouth. The other was a full smile that backed off at the very end, just enough to be genuine, but not enough to let you inside. “You know your muscles.”

  “Yeah. A little bit.”

  “Okay, Constance.” He grabbed the long white plastic pipe and slipped it on his shoulders. “I want you to do that same squat, with this PVC on your back.” He demonstrated. “Remember, keep your weight in your heels and your chest up.”

  Constance took the pipe and settled it on her shoulders.

  “Nope.” Rhett came behind her and moved it down a little. “I want the PVC right here, on the upper traps.” He touched his own. “See how they make a shelf? Right there. Not up on your neck.”

  “Sure, yours make a shelf.” Constance laughed, despite herself. “Mine are more of a slope.”

  Rhett adjusted her hands, his own large and warm over her cool fingers. “Right there.” Then his hands went to her hips. “And right there.”

  His touch was light and professional, but it still sent something oddly electric through her core.

  Rhett came alongside her to observe. She executed her squat, surprised at how much the addition of a featherweight pipe could challenge the movement. From an orthopedic standpoint, that shouldn’t have surprised her, but it did.

  “Hips down, back straight. Pretend you’re pushing a car door closed, Constance.” He shook his head. “This isn’t going to work.”

  Constance rose up and brushed the sweat from her eyes. “Is it really that bad? It feels a little awkward, but—”

  “Squat’s fine.” Rhett shrugged. “You’ll be able to use weight before you leave today. I’m talking about your name. I can’t keep calling you Constance.”

  Constance drew the PVC off her back and settled it between her feet, like a cane. “What?”

  “Do you have a nickname?”

  “No. Why?”

  “You’re lying.” Rhett scratched the back of his head, ruffling his dark hair. “Somebody calls you something other than Constance. And I can’t keep calling you My Pretty Pony. People will think we’re into some weird S and M. We need a new nickname.”

  Constance pointed her chin in the air as heat rushed her cheeks. She didn’t want to lie again so she blurted, “Don’t you dare call me Connie.”

  He wrinkled his nose. “No worries there.”

  She didn’t know whether to laugh or get pissed. She was kind of in between both. Maybe he lacked a filter. More likely, he just didn’t mince words.

  “Not Connie. You’re more of a...” Rhett paused, looked her up and down and said, “Stanzi. That’s who you are.”

  Stanzi. Nobody had ever called her that. She liked it. She liked it so much she felt that electrical sensation zip through her core again.

  “Come on over to the rig, Stanzi.” Rhett waved his hand as he strode to a racked barbell. “This is quite a bit heavier than your PVC. Let me see five.”

  Constance ducked beneath the bar and settled it on her meager upper traps, where it rested more on her C7 than her muscles. “What if I don’t like Stanzi?”

  Rhett fixed her hands. “Close grip,” he said, then tapped her heels with the PVC. “Widen your feet a little. There. Good. Go.”

  She visualized bumping that car door closed and sent her hips back as she settled into the bottom of the squat. She rolled forward a little on her toes, but listened to Rhett’s cue to keep her weight in her heels and chest up as she drove up out of the bottom.

  “Not horrible,” he said. As Constance made her way into her second, then third squat, he finally answered her question. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t like it. You don’t get to choose your nickname.”

  “Is that right?” Though she couldn’t argue with him. She’d been called Cici her whole life because that’s all Sunny could pronounce when she was a little girl. Constance had never liked nor disliked the name Cici. It’s just who she was. She swallowed down the ripple of excitement at the idea that this man was giving her an opportunity to be someone else altogether.

  Constance finished her five squats, the last one making her sweat beneath the armpits, then settled the barbell in the rack. “That’s a two-way street, though.” She faced Rhett, all bundled up in a hoodie, arms crossed over his chest. “What if I give you a nickname and you don’t like it?”

  He gave that barely there smile. “Good luck shortening my name. You deserve an award if you succeed.”

  “I could just call you Santos.”

  “You and the entire United States Marine Corps.”

  “Well...” Constance swallowed down the unusual tightness that had filled her throat and willed her heart to slow. She faced the rig and clasped the barbell. She didn’t understand this response. Lately, she had a hard time looking men in the eye without feeling some kind of aversion. That wasn’t happening with Rhett, despite his brusque manner. Josh had never been brusque. Even on the day Constance interrupted his run with that other woman, he’d been all sweet and syrupy, talking like, Oh, I had no idea you’d be coming. We haven’t run in so long. You’re just so tired all the time. Constance shook off the memory and focused. “I never back down from a challenge. I’ll find you a nickname.”

  “You do that, Stanzi.” Rhett’s voice came over her sho
ulder. “Now go grab two of those plates over there, the ones that have the number ten on them. Then come back here and put some weight on that bar.”

  * * *

  By the time an hour was up, Rhett had run Stanzi through back squats and dead lifts. She was a good mover. A little bit of time and practice would take her far, especially if she was as persistent as she seemed. Deep into their training, she hadn’t complained or wimped out; she’d just buckled down and tackled the work.

  Now, he would get in his own workout, then go home, wrap the heating pad around his leg and hope tomorrow was warmer.

  They reached the front door. Stanzi grabbed her giant winter coat, but paused, staring pointedly at his thigh. “Do you want me to look at that, before I go? It’s the least I can do, for taking up your time today when you were supposed to be closed.”

  Rarely did Rhett find himself speechless.

  “You’ve been limping all morning.” She took a step closer. “You were limping yesterday, too, but it’s worse today.”

  “Yeah.” Rhett found his voice. “When it’s cold it’s... Um, what...what exactly would you do?”

  A pretty smile hooked the corners of her mouth. It lit her face up in a way he hadn’t seen before. Her body seemed to relax. “Sit down.”

  Rhett settled onto the closest bench, without argument. He wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but the pain was so intense he didn’t really care.

  Stanzi kneeled down in front of him and pushed up his shorts, on the right side. “Oh.” The word came under her breath when she spied the scars. “I see.”

  Rhett waited for her to ask what happened to his leg. Everybody did. For a rotten second, he found himself formulating a lie. “No big deal,” he said.

  “No? Okay. Wait here.”

  Rhett wasn’t sure where she thought he would go, but she held up a finger as she rose, like she was telling a dog to stay. She put on that ridiculous coat and disappeared out the door. A few minutes later, Stanzi returned with a bottle of something in her hand. The coat came off again. “Lie down on the floor.”