by Gina LaManna
My palms started to sweat as I open fist knocked on the crappy front door.
To my extreme relief, the lock clicked, and a shirtless, extraordinarily toned Blake stood before me. I shielded him from Andrey’s view as best I could. I definitely didn’t want Andrey to see him, not since we’d made a date seconds ago (for work, I reiterated to my brain).
“What are you, a sexy baby?” A slow smile spread across Blake’s face as he surveyed my matted, partially unzipped and thoroughly unattractive outfit.
I scowled. “There’s a man standing behind me, and if you don’t let me in he’ll kill us both.”
To my surprise, Blake let me right in. I turned and gave another tiny wave to Andrey. He blew me a kiss before roaring off in his spiffy little car.
“Wow, you believed me?” I tried to zip up the suit over my exposed chest, but the zipper snagged somewhere near my belly button.
“Well, as I don’t know anything about your life, why should I?” Blake stared at my chest. “Wouldn’t be the first time you lied to me.”
“Do you have a sweatshirt?” I refused to comment on his snarkiness. Blake and I had been compatible in every way: in bed, in the car, in the movie theater, in the tree in his backyard (that was once, and it’s a long story). We were also compatible outside of sex. He was cool on the outside but nerdy on the inside, just the way I liked my men. We’d had a wonderful two years and had even been talking engagement, but when he asked to meet my family, I couldn’t bring myself to introduce him.
Blake had met only one person from my family, and that was sweet ole’ Clay. I put my foot down anywhere past that. It wasn’t that I thought Blake would judge me or run away, it was just… my grandfather and caregiver was the head of the Mafia. Let’s just say I wasn’t quite sure how to make the introduction. And I really didn’t want to lose Blake.
Which, in retrospect, hadn’t worked out quite like I’d hoped. I’d been praying he’d be okay eloping and meeting my Family later, when he was stuck with me. It might have been a little sneaky, but I was certain I could’ve convinced him to understand my reasoning.
But then it’d all blown up in my face. Blake had broken up with me out of the blue after I refused to bring him with me to Nora’s birthday party. I’d told him I was going to my grandparent’s for lunch to celebrate her birthday, which was why I couldn’t do bottomless mimosas. And Blake – though a tough guy, was really sweet at heart – had shown up at my apartment at ten a.m. with a bouquet of flowers for my Grandma. I was just heading out the door.
He’d stared at me, and I remember the words he’d spoken. His eyes were firm but kind. He’d said, “Lacey, I love you. It’s been two years, but I can’t ask you to marry you if I don’t know your family. I’d love if I could meet them today. You know it won’t change how I feel about you, no matter how crazy they are.”
Just thinking of how I’d reacted made my stomach queasy with regret. If I could take it back, I would. I would say, “Of course, Blake. Come meet my family. Then you can see for yourself where I come from, and if you want to run after that, then I won’t blame you.”
What I did say, was nothing. Instead, I pushed passed him, the flowers scattering on the floor. I’d sprinted out to the crappy parking spot in front of the fire hydrant, back before the curb had been painted green by Clay, and I’d zipped off to Nora’s, tears streaming down my face.
I’d apologized later, but it was too late. By that time, Blake had already turned distant and unresponsive. We broke up the next day, and hadn’t spoken more than civil greetings (and the occasional that’s it, baby, post bar, drunken hookup). But I always left before the sun was up. And he didn’t ask about my Family anymore. And I didn’t tell.
Blake was still staring at my chest, as if lazily considering my request for a sweatshirt. “I have one. You can’t have it.”
“Fine. Bathroom?” I asked.
“You know where it is,” he said.
I walked down the hall glancing at the bachelor pad as I went. I would never admit it, but I was curious to see if there were signs of a new girlfriend; nail polish, tampons, mascara stained tissues (probably crying over how Blake loved his ex (me) more than them).
My search came to a halt as I reached the bathroom. A girl more naked than I stumbled from Blake’s bedroom directly across the hallway. Her shocking blue eyes tore scathing paths as she glanced at me from the bottom of my footies to the top of my stuck zipper.
“Oh, don’t worry about this,” I said, gesturing to myself. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” she said. She stood straight, her perfect body and perfect boobs displayed like she was modeling for portrait painting. “Are you one of his patients?”
“What? I thought Blake was unemployed.”
“No, he volunteers at a home for the mentally disabled. Some of them show up here once and awhile with a crush on him. It’s cute, if you ask me. All girls.” She touched my shoulder and smiled benignly.
“Uh, okay,” I said. “I just need to use the bathroom.”
“Do you need help?” Perky Boobs looked actually concerned.
“No. Gross.”
“Good girl,” she cooed. “Go on.”
I stared at her some more as I entered the bathroom. I did my business, washed up and refused to look in the mirror. I’m sure I looked like quite a sight after my debacle tonight. Oh well, Perky Tits, I thought. I got asked on a date tonight looking like this. Must mean I have a personality, also.
Then I realized Andrey and I hadn’t exactly had a deep heart to heart conversation. What was he after, anyway?
I rinsed my hands. Lacey - 0, Perky Boobs - 1.
And Blake – how many girls did he have coming over here that he had to make up some lame excuse about them being patients?
I emerged from the bathroom, pushing up my non-sexy bra and biting my lips a bit for some redness. I borrowed Blake’s phone while he made out with Perky Boobs, then waited awkwardly through a few phases of groping for Clay to arrive.
As I headed out the door, I thanked them both.
“I appreciate your services to the mentally handicapped,” I said as I shook Blake’s hand vigorously, while P.B. looked on curiously. “Excellent work, champ. This one you’ve got now…” I smacked my lips. “Winner.”
Blake’s face turned a brilliant shade of pink.
I smiled as I headed out to join Clay.
Lacey-1, Perky Boobs-1.
I’d settle for a tie.
Chapter 11
I stepped into Clay’s pimped out creeper-van and immediately covered my nose. He kept his eyes fixed on the road without looking in my direction.
“Why are you sweating so much?” I asked.
“No air conditioning,” he muttered, pulling away from the curb.
I turned towards the window, shielding my face from him and smiled. I felt a little bad I’d worried him so much, particularly when I hadn’t been especially terrified. And now I really didn’t know how to break the news to him that I’d accepted a date with our nemesis/my kidnapper.
“I’m going to the gym in the morning. For real,” I said thinking of Perky Boob’s nice body.
He glanced my way and the van swerved from the road, running smack into a curb.
“Whoa,” I said, rubbing my head where it’d knocked the window. “No bumper cars today, I’m not in the mood.”
At the silence, I looked at Clay. His face was turning a violent shade of purple and a vein pulsed dangerously in his forehead. He alternated between staring at my nearly destroyed footy pajamas, still ripped open to my bra, and my surprised face.
“Which one of them bastards did this to you?”
“What?” I’d never seen my cousin so irate. “Did what, this?” I gestured towards my torn pajamas. “Nobody.”
He let out a noise like a low growl, and I was reminded of a terribly hungry, mean bear.
“Well, I mean I did. My zipper got stuck while I was pee
ing outside the Russian’s place. So I pretended to be drunk and Andrey offered to give me a ride home, but I didn’t know where to go, so I went to my ex’s place. You remember Blake? Yeah, I used his bathroom, and Perky Boobs, this girl… never mind. It’s a long story. Actually, Andrey and Blake really were both sympathetic. Blake is still sexy, in case you were wondering, and I’m actually going out on a date with Andrey.” I finished speaking extremely quickly and looked outside, noting the stares we were getting from the few late night stragglers out and about.
What’s creepier than a large white van on the street? A large white van that’s run up on the curb and lodged itself on someone’s front lawn.
After an incredibly awkward pause, I sneaked a peek at Clay. His mouth was dangling open as if a hinge on his jaw had busted and all color had drained from his face, leaving streaks of red down his now deathly white cheeks.
“You accepted what?”
“It’s part of the mission,” I grumbled. “He asked me out, and I thought it would be a great way to get to know him and find out his story. Maybe he’ll even invite me over and I can check out what was in that suspicious backpack of his,” I said lamely.
Clay was shaking his head like a robot, a blank look in his eyes. I sensed the fury he’d felt towards the men who’d supposedly wronged me was slowly changing targets, and I wanted to get out of that van as fast as possible. “Should we, uh, get off this nice woman’s curb?”
An older woman in a bathroom and curlers had wandered outside. She was fast approaching and shaking her fist as if going for the Yahtzee win.
Clay’s jaw tensed and latched shut as firmly as if it were wired in place. He reversed and the van shuddered and bounced from the curb, the woman hobbling after us like a competitive speed walker who’d misplaced her helmet for curlers. We lost her as we zoomed around the next corner.
A loud crash sounded from the back, and I wondered which of the expensive equipment pieces had shattered into oblivion. When Clay neither flinched nor looked backwards, my leg started to jitter with nerves.
“You. Will. Not. Date. Him,” Clay said. “Dating suspects is not allowed, and certainly not fraternizing with other Families. Can you imagine what Carlos would say?”
“If I told Carlos it was for the job, he’d be proud of me,” I retorted, feeling a little stung. It was nice Clay cared about me, but honestly it wasn’t like I was going to marry the guy. I was just finding out a little information – except instead of torture, I would use a little wine and (hopefully) sushi.
We drove in silence until we neared home.
“While you were off gallivanting with your boyfriends, I actually learned something,” Clay said.
I raised my eyebrows. “How?”
Clay gestured to the gadgets on his car. “Your boy Vadim made a phone call. Apparently they’re worried about a mole in their organization. They think one of their own is working for the cops since a recent shipment of theirs – couldn’t tell of what – was intercepted, and they couldn’t retrieve it. They showed up at the drop site, but a bunch of cops were there and ruined everything. Vadim thinks one of the Russians wants out, and the rat is going to the police with information so the Feds will put him into the witness protection program.”
I mulled this over. “Great work, partner. See? All made possible by my distraction.”
Clay grumbled something along the lines of ‘would’ve found it out without you getting cozy with a Russian,’ but I ignored it and looked out the window as we pulled in front of our shared apartment complex.
“Damn you,” he said. “You parked like an asshole.”
He whipped past the Kia, which admittedly was taking up more than its fair share of parking spaces.
“You’re right, I parked like a huge asshole. Now, you know how I feel thanks to your new baby,” I said happily, thinking of the short walk I’d have in the morning – when I got up to go to the gym, of course.
** **
Morning came much earlier than I expected, like it does six out of seven days of the week. My alarm went off at six.
It went off again at seven twenty.
The third time it chirped was around nine forty.
The last time it rang was ten thirty two.
I got out of bed at eleven forty six.
I groaned and stretched my legs, thinking the gym could wait another day.
Slipping into my humongous, comfy yellow sweatshirt, I padded into the living room thinking that a nice, frothy sugar bomb cappuccino and a toaster strudel sounded much better than exercise. Except that as soon as I made it to the living room, I felt a set of eyes on me, and I looked over to see Clay’s smirk from behind an obnoxiously large pair of glasses. Based upon the lasers shooting from his eyes where normally his pupils would be, I guessed they did more than help him see things.
“Whoa, whoa. Trying to blind me?” I put my hands up to block the glaring beams of light.
He switched off his glasses with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Forgot.”
I shook my head and unearthed my toaster strudels from the depths of the freezer. I set the coffee pot to gurgling and pulled out some milk to froth, and I was just starting to feel human and even rather bubbly, when Clay had to speak up and ruin everything.
“Gym didn’t work out again, huh?”
He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but I could sense his smile, even with my back to him.
“Actually, it did. I have a very nice trainer. A girl, as a matter of fact. She’s buff just like Jillian Michaels and doesn’t even yell at me all that much.”
“Right. What’s the name of your gym?”
I wracked my brain for the name of the nearest gym. I’d sworn off the LA fitness around the corner. Actually, I’d been explicitly told not to come back when I complained that I hadn’t used my membership for three months, so why should I pay for that lost time?
I mumbled something illegible as the toaster barfed up my strudel. I iced it with the dinky package of sugar provided by the company before I reached into the underbelly of the fridge and uncovered a half-used jar of fluffy white frosting, which I lathered on generously. I filled my coffee mug with milk, added some creamer, a few spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of flavored syrup. I topped it off with a splash of coffee.
I carried my feast to the living room and sat down opposite of Clay, flicking the TV on in the background.
“So, you liked this girl?” he asked.
“Wha grrrll,” I asked, food taking up the majority of my mouth’s ability to speak.
“The trainer.”
“Yeah, why?”
“I was thinking. I just – do you think, do you think she’d take me on, too?”
I looked over, frosting gluing my teeth shut. “What? You want to work out? Since when?”
“I just thought…”
“That’s fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Of course she can take you on. I was going to go back tomorrow. I’ll tell her about you. She’d be perfect for you. Not too mean, not too nice, just right.”
Clay gave me an embarrassed smile. “‘ppreciate it.”
I finished the last of my strudel as Clay went back to furiously typing on one of his three keyboards. I licked my fingers with loud slurping noises – something normally reserved for times when I was home alone, and pounded the rest of my coffee. It was only as I was adding to the nice leaning tower of Pisa we had going in our sink that I froze. I realized my enthusiasm for Clay joining me at the gym to work out meant that I needed to actually find a trainer for him to meet. I headed to my room to look up some trainers, stat.
As I walked down the hall, Clay called out, “Why don’t I just come with you tomorrow?”
“Why?” I asked. “I mean, sure, but I don’t think there’s any rush, is there?”
Clay shrugged. “I just figured why not get started while I still want to go? You know, before I decide I’m too lazy again.”
The look on his face, a little bit helpless and a little bit sheepish, wre
nched my heart. “Of course you can come tomorrow. I think it’s great you want to get healthier, Clay. Really great.”
I finished the trek to my room and threw myself face first on the bed. I let myself bask in anxiety for a few moments. Then, I stood up, pulled on my sports bra and yoga pants (ugh, the tight kind), and faced myself in the mirror, pulling my hair into a slick ponytail.
Of course I could always just tell Clay that I’d over slept four alarms and skipped the gym, but that would be selfish. It’d discourage Clay from ever starting a gym membership, just when he’d worked up the courage to go. Also, it’d be admitting he was right and I was wrong, which was moderately annoying. So, the only obvious solution was to find a gym, hire a trainer that was female, resembled Jillian Michaels, was neither mean nor nice, and was looking for two out of shape clients to add to her roster.
I sighed. I just couldn’t catch a break these days.
I hustled out of the apartment, shouting something about running errands. I made the mercifully short walk to my Kia and roared off, typing in ‘gym’ to my GPS.
The first stop was a tiny hole in the wall Curves which boasted only women clientele, which wouldn’t work as Clay was quite obviously of the male flavor. The second, a 24-hour fitness featured male meatheads, with muscles larger than my skull and an air of obnoxious cockiness I could smell from the parking lot.
The third place and last place was the winner. A modest gym with equipment that looked semi-familiar, a mix of families, single people, old people, and nobody that looked like a professional weight lifter. These were the average joes I wanted to join ranks with; blending in here would be a cinch.
I walked happily up to the desk, satisfied with a successful phase one of my plan. A middle aged woman that looked like she belonged in the ‘senior citizens’ check box surveyed me at me as I approached. She resembled a frog with large blue eyes that bugged out from her head, hair more orange than a glass of Sunny Delight, and cheeks that flushed with the slightest effort of a smile.
“Hi there, you must be new,” she said in a thick Minnesotan accent, her vowel’s rounder than a hula hoop and longer than most people’s sentences. “I’m Marge. Marge Zelinski. What can I help you with today?”
