by Laura Carter
I push out from my desk and start pacing as Kit slips into my seat.
“Oh, here’s one from Simon Etching. I think I know who this guy is. He says he’s trained with you for years and your advice has been tailored and exceptional.”
I exhale heavily. “It’s good, in theory. But it means my clients are reading this shit.”
“Good point,” Kit admits. “Yikes, there’s a woman here slamming Izzy for trying to use you to leverage her own interests.”
“Whoever she is, I like her!”
“Whoa, whoa, back up there.” I look over to see Drew taking control of the mouse and scrolling the screen. “Anna Coulthard is saying you guys should train together. You and Izzy, she means. She’s saying she challenges you to follow Izzy’s advice and Izzy to follow yours.”
“Coulthard?” I move over to the screen and start reading. “It’s her sister. She wants to write about it in some British newspaper. No way. Not ever. Izzy Coulthard is not training in my gym.”
I stand upright and find two sets of eyes on me. Drew speaks first. “It might not be a terrible idea, Brooks. It would mean publicity for the gym. A chance to set the record straight.”
“Clearly, you haven’t been in the same room as Izzy and me. We’d kill each other. Throw a diet of greens and pent-up frustration into the mix and I really will be the Hulk.”
“Or Popeye,” Kit says, mimicking Popeye swallowing down cans of spinach.
“No. Not happening.”
“Jokes aside, you could speak to Madge and get her advice. She looks after the kids now but you know she was a publicist, right?”
I rub my chin. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll give her a call.”
* * * *
Whatever you do, take the moral high ground. Be nice. Be the bigger person.
Madge’s words play over and over in my mind as I sit on my sofa with my laptop on my knee, trying to watch baseball on my flat-screen and ignore the ever-growing number of comments on Izzy’s blog post.
It’s like they’re taunting me, forcing me to read them. I set the laptop to one side and grab my guitar. I strum a Tim McGraw track in an attempt to distract myself. This is not what I need on a Saturday night.
It’s no good. I pick the laptop back up and start reading the latest comments.
Green Pixie: You tell him, Izzy. We’re proud of you, girl. We don’t think you’re fame hungry. Love, your London Salsa Ladies.
Alvin Dawson: Brooks is dead on. You can’t build core strength and muscle if you eat like a bird.
Melissa Z: I love the idea of Izzy and Brooks trying out each other’s advice. That would be hilarious.
FitnessFanatic: Melissa Z, it wouldn’t just be entertainment, it would actually be useful. All these trainers say their method is the best. Let’s have a chance to put them to the test.
Diane16x: This post is disgusting. Izzy Coulthard is trying to tarnish Brooks’s good name for her own benefit. I’ve been a client of Brooks for five years and I’ve never looked or felt better. He doesn’t adopt a one-size-fits-all approach like this Izzy woman tries to do. I say you should go back to England, Ms. Coulthard, and spout your poisonous BS there.
“Wow, you go, Diane!” Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. “Don’t respond, Brooks, come on buddy. Don’t respond,” I tell myself.
The devil on my shoulder wins. I click to open a new comment box and begin to type. At first, I follow Madge’s advice. Dear Izzy, I apologize if you feel threatened by my methods and put out because I didn’t allow you to train in my gym. I did, of course, give you access to a studio to film your new DVD. As I have previously explained, I have a wait list of clients. Some names have been on that list for months. I do not operate on a system of preferential treatment; therefore, I could not allow you to take a slot in my gym, thereby favoring you over others. I hope you can understand this. I am sure your classes and fitness advice work for many people. I wish you success with your new book and the upcoming DVD.
As I hit Submit and complete the CAPTCHA—God, those things are annoying—I’m more riled than I started out. Why should I be nice to her when she’s nothing short of awful in return?
Before I can add another comment, she replies: Dear Brooks, I only wanted to try out your gym as a fellow instructor for one hour. You were rude and obnoxious. Good luck to anyone who decides to go to your gym and train with you!
I can’t help myself.
Please. You are so celebrity hungry you think you are better than others. You strutted into my gym, upset my staff and clients, and tried to instruct my kitchen staff as to what they should be doing. Who the hell do you think you are?
I know I shouldn’t have sent it as soon as I hit Submit.
She replies in seconds. Who do I think I am? Mr. My Way or the Highway!
Angry, I thump out my next response. You have no idea how I advise clients. Everything is tailored to their needs. Unlike your methods!
Izzy: Ha. As I said in my post, Mr. Adams, put your money where your big, rude, ogling mouth is. You didn’t want me in your gym because you were worried your clients would see a better alternative to your methods.
My knuckles are showing white as I type. I did not ogle you. Nor do I scrutinize my clients in any way other than professionally, when they invite my assessment. You are so up your own “arse” that you think every woman wants to be you and every man wants to nail you.
I’ve completely lost my dignity. Madge will be sitting at home screaming at me.
Izzy: You are so far off the mark, you can’t even see the mark. If you think your training is more effective than mine, Brooks, prove it. Follow my plan and see how much better you feel. It might even curb some of those tantrums you keep having.
I start writing a reply and stop. I have no intention of following her plan. How would that even work? But she has boxed me into a corner. Acknowledging that I have already stooped to her level and made myself look like a petulant child rather than a thirty-five-year-old businessman with an adult daughter, I slam the lid shut on my laptop.
* * * *
Sitting in my truck with the windows down and the wind in my face as I cross the Brooklyn Bridge, I feel better about this whole Izzy situation. I heard nothing more about it on Sunday and refused to look at any more comments. It was a blog post. One silly little blog. It’s done. She’ll go back to England and I’ll forget she ever existed.
Out of nowhere, a yellow cab slams on its brakes in front of me. I hit my hazard lights as I come to an abrupt halt behind it. Next thing I know, a police vehicle comes tearing across the bridge with its lights flashing.
Looks like I’ll be late for my meeting with my main merchandise printer.
Not sure what lies ahead or how long I’ll be stuck here, I turn on the radio and shuffle in my seat to take my iPhone from the ass pocket of my jeans.
“Folks, that was Dobie Gray with ‘Drift Away.’ Now we’re back with Izzy Coulthard.”
I’m about to connect my iTunes to the car when her familiar voice comes through the speakers.
“Hi.”
“Izzy, we’ve talked about your new book, Be Green. Be Clean, which releases tomorrow. We’ve discussed your presence online with your Salsa Yourself Slim classes.”
“Yes.”
“But there’s another element of your online marketing that viewers have been texting in about. You have a blog.”
She clears her throat. I set my iPhone down on the passenger seat before turning up the radio. “I do, Steve. I use the blog to give my followers new recipe ideas and fitness tips.”
“Except, in the last few days, you seem to have used the blog to…how should we put it? Criticize a fellow fitness instructor. For our listeners, we’re talking about Brooks Adams, owner of the Brooks Adams gym. What’s the story there, Izzy?”
“Well, Mr. Adams and I don’t exactly see eye
to eye. Our fitness advice differs and our manners certainly do.”
“Meaning?”
She scoffs. “Meaning I have them and he doesn’t.”
Ha! Pot calling the kettle black there, Coulthard.
“Although some might say the tone of your blog lacked manners yesterday.”
Yes! You tell her, Steve Sitwell.
“Arguably, it was not my most professional moment. That said, I stand by my comments. Mr. Adams has been very rude to me. He has also made derogatory statements about my methods.”
“Oh, interesting. I just received a tweet from a listener who wonders whether this is a love-hate relationship?”
What?
“Ha! Between Brooks and me? No way in hell. Sorry, am I allowed to say hell on air?”
“Sounds like you just did. So, you wouldn’t want to see Brooks again?”
“I. Ah. No. I wouldn’t. Where are you going with this, Steve?”
Something I’d like to know.
“It has been pointed out to me that in your last comment on your blog on Saturday night you invited Brooks to try out your fitness regime. Now, I have a number of listeners saying they would love to see that.”
No. Screw them. Let her get on a plane and fly out of my life.
“I did write that but I did so knowing that Brooks is too chicken to take me up on the challenge.”
Chicken? I reach over to the passenger side for my iPhone and search for the station’s number. Before I put thought behind my actions, I’m calling Steve Sitwell.
Someone from the studio answers. “This is Brooks Adams,” I tell him. “Steve Sitwell is currently talking about—”
“Hold on, I’m going to put you through.”
“Through where?”
“Brooks Adams. The man himself. You’re live on air, buddy.” Fuuuuuuuuck! “Do me a favor and turn your radio down in the background.”
For some reason, I turn down the radio in my car, just as Steve Sitwell instructs.
“Do you have something you would like to say to Izzy Coulthard, Brooks?”
I really have no idea. “Ah, I, ah…” She laughs in the background. Hearing her is like a red rag to a bull. “Yeah, I do. If you want to trade fitness plans, Izzy, let’s do it. Come into my gym for two weeks and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
“I don’t need your advice, Brooks.”
“Ah, that’s right, now who’s chicken?”
“I’m no chicken. I’ll come to your gym and I’ll do your stupid routines and eat your protein. And you can follow my plan. You can eat greens and see how good it feels to detox. And…you can salsa!”
“Hold up! There’ll be no—”
“We follow each other’s plans to the letter or we don’t do it at all. Are you afraid you’ll harm your precious reputation with a few hip sways, Brooksie?”
“Don’t call me fu—”
The line goes dead. He cut me off to stop me swearing. I quickly turn up the radio. “You heard it here first, folks, Izzy Coulthard and Brooks Adams are going head-to-head. Boy, I think this is going to be good. Will you let us stay up to date with your progress, Izzy?”
“I. I don’t know. But. Ah. I guess.”
What in God’s name have I done?
Chapter 11
Izzy
“You have got to be kidding me!” My voice is shrill, painful even to my own ears.
The fact that I’m sitting next to Brooks in Kerry’s office is bad enough. Now, she’s saying I have to live with him for two weeks to make this thing work. It will be good for PR and we need to keep an eye on each other, she argues. She’s lost her mind.
Argh, why didn’t I just tell them I couldn’t extend my trip? Or say my grandmother died? Or that my dog ate my gym kit?
Kerry turns her laptop on the conference room table so the screen faces Brooks, Madge—his PR manager—and me. “See for yourself. Your blog hits skyrocketed. You had more comments on your little blogging war than you’ve had in the previous year.”
Brooks sniggers and I swear my palm is twitching to slap his face. But Kerry is right. My presales were low. In the last couple of days, preorders, YouTube views, and new visitors to the blog are all up. Today, my release seems to be going reasonably well. I’m climbing the Amazon charts, at least.
Madge leans in to speak to Brooks, but she’s still loud enough that I catch her words. “Your membership requests are up too, Brooks. If you are going to franchise and you want to fill out a new gym before it has even opened, this could be good for you.”
He rubs a hand across his short beard. I’ve never found beards attractive but on Brooks, not only does it work, it makes me want to test the theory about beards and sensations. Ahem, you know the one. I like his rugged look. Tats, beard, muscles. It’s so far from the suited, pompous Londoners I’m used to—the type my parents want me to marry. I like the way one prominent vein shows in his biceps, whether he’s flexing or not. I wonder whether he’s so ripped the veins of his pelvis will show me a trail down to his— I shudder involuntarily. This is Brooks Adams I’m focusing on here. Scum of the earth. Well, except that one thing in the bookstore. No! No buts.
I blink three times in quick succession when I realize Brooks is watching me stare at him. Shit.
“Look, it sounds like this could be good for both of us,” he says, surprising me. “I’ll do it. But the defamatory blog posts have got to stop. It’s childish and pathetic.”
I feel my jaw drop. Now I’m childish and pathetic?
“And you are absolutely not staying in my apartment for two weeks. There’s a place on the same floor, two doors down the hall. It’s available for short-term rental. Maybe Kerry can fix that for you.”
That does sound better. “I don’t like you.” I know I’ve said that aloud when Brooks replies.
“Yeah, ditto, baby.”
I hold up a finger as a sound of pure contempt leaves my mouth. “First, never call me baby. Secondly, each of us has to follow these plans to the letter. No cheating in between. Part of my plan is detoxifying your body, so don’t go putting any beer or shitty protein in there. And you have to do the exercises I give you. None of that grunting meathead weight-lifting crap.”
He stands up and shakes his head like a headmaster might at a pupil. “The same goes for you, Coulthard. If I give you steak, you’ll eat steak. If I tell you to lift weights, you’ll lift weights. And you can’t go fitting in dance sessions and messing up my plan.”
I stand and mirror his hostile posture. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
As we stare at each other, I notice for the first time the flecks of gold around his green eyes. They’re like a fine chain holding a bright emerald. I’ve never seen irises quite like them before. He holds my stare until his eyes slip down to my mouth. The move makes me suddenly need to wet my lips with my tongue.
“Are we all set, then?” Madge rises from her seat, breaking our standoff. I remember that, gorgeous eyes, rugged, and muscular or not, I am looking at Brooks “Big Head” Adams.
Madge places a hand on Brooks’s shoulder and they exchange an unspoken communication.
“We’re all set,” Kerry says, narrowing her eyes at me, as if to ask why I was just lost in all things Brooks. I would also like to know the answer to that question.
* * * *
I drag my Louis Vuitton suitcase up another flight of stairs, then stop on the landing before tackling the next. I remove the elastic tie from my hair and retie a higher ponytail, lifting my hair off my clammy neck.
“You’re telling me that of all the days and times the elevator could break, it’s now? When I am moving into your building?”
Brooks’s mouth curves at one side in a sick and twisted kind of smile; then he continues with ease up another floor, carrying a significantly smaller case than the one I
’m lugging.
“Looks that way now, doesn’t it?”
“You planned this, didn’t you? You had the concierge do something. I bet if I were to stand in that elevator shaft right now, the lift would be there and it would take me up to your floor.”
He pauses midflight and smirks down at me. “You want to try it, be my guest. Don’t expect me to pick you up when you plummet to the basement.”
“You’re sick, Brooks Adams.”
“No sicker than you. Carting this much luggage around is a sadistic thing to do. How much stuff can you really need, anyway?”
“You’d be surprised,” I puff, recommencing the struggle upward.
He moves around another stair wall and out of view. “At least those greens keep you nice and strong, huh?”
I have never wanted to harpoon someone through the head so much in my life.
We finally make it to the twelfth floor. I’m pleased I decided to wear gym kit for the move but I’m still sweating from all the ugly places. I can feel sweat trickling between my boobs. I try to subtly dip my fingers into my sports bra to wipe it away but Brooks turns right as my fingers are wedged in my cleavage.
He has stopped outside an apartment door and raises one brow. “I know you said you wanted a ride but playing with your breasts in the communal areas is a little desperate, Izzy.”
“Would you just bugger off?”
“Sure thing. I’ll leave your ridiculously oversized luggage here, shall I?”
“Look, this constant fighting has got to stop. We’re working together now.”
He tilts his head to one side in such a bloody supercilious way, I want to slap his chiseled face. “I’m sorry, Izzy, you’re right, fighting in public places is a little uncouth. Not like arguing via a blog post available to the world, for example.”
Stomping my feet as I pull my case, I move to his side. “You really need to get over that.” I eye the blue door and the gold numbers 124 nailed to the center. “Is this my apartment?”
“No, this is my apartment. You’re two doors that way. I just want to show you this door and let you know that you are not welcome here. If you run out of milk or sugar or you watch a scary movie and need a buff man to put an arm around you, there are around one hundred sixty other options in this building. Consider one-two-four off limits.”
