by Witt, L. A.
“We’ll cross that bridge if we get there,” I went on. “I’m just saying, if we get there, can we just . . . take it slow? I mean, we’ve been colleagues for a while, but I know nothing about you and you know nothing about me. Then bam! We’re in bed together. If something is going to happen eventually, I’d really like to be friends first.”
She held my gaze, and I couldn’t tell if her eyes were narrow because she was mulling over what I’d said or because she was trying to formulate the best way to tell me to go fuck myself.
“Okay.” She shifted her weight. Quietly, not quite looking me in the eye, she said, “I suppose we could . . . maybe go to the gym together. It’s something we both like, yes?”
Cool relief shot through my veins. I hadn’t screwed this thing up beyond repair, thank God. “I should be done here around ten. Would eleven be too late for you?”
At that, Natalya finally offered a subdued smile, which was enough to send a shiver through me that had nothing to do with being friends.
She nodded. “Eleven. I’ll be there.”
Chapter 10
“You’re really getting serious about lifting, aren’t you?” Jeremy asked on the way into the gym parking lot that night.
“Of course.” I ignored the presence of Natalya’s car a few spaces away from the door. “How else am I going to blow off steam without going to jail?”
He shot me a side-eye. “From anyone else, I would take that as a joke.”
“Take it however you want as long as you take me to the gym.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
He parked, waited for me to grab my gym bag out of the trunk, and followed me inside.
The second we walked through the door, I homed in on Natalya. She was at the front desk, gym bag slung over her shoulder and water bottle dangling from her fingers, as she spoke with the ponytailed girl at the computer.
Okay. Here we go. Friends. Don’t fuck this up, Anna. Don’t. Fuck it. Up.
Behind me, Jeremy chuckled.
I glared at him, and he tried—I’d give him that much credit—to hide his amusement.
“Shut up,” I muttered.
At that, he burst out laughing.
To my horror, Natalya chose that moment to turn around, so she caught a full view of my bodyguard laughing his head off while I undoubtedly turned seven shades of red. Perfect.
She just smiled. “Ready?”
Jeremy, if you make a sound, I will choke you.
“Yep,” I said. “Let’s do this.” I probably imagined the quiet little snort from my antagonistic bodyguard—who was going to get dirty looks the whole fucking way home after this—but I didn’t so much as glance at him to confirm it. “After you?”
Natalya flashed me another smile before continuing toward the locker room.
“I’ll, um . . .” I gestured after her. “I should get changed.”
Jeremy smothered a laugh. “I’ll be here while you’re, um—”
“Shut up.”
This time, he didn’t try to smother it, and I couldn’t help laughing myself. Fortunately, Natalya had already stepped through the door and was—I hoped—out of earshot.
I shot Jeremy a quick glare, then went inside.
And thank the Lord my bodyguard wasn’t there to see me stop in my tracks and nearly fall on my ass. Natalya didn’t see me either, but that was because she had her back to me and was just peeling off her T-shirt to reveal that tight blue crop top. Jesus.
Friends, Anna. Friends.
I tore my gaze away a split second before she turned to put her T-shirt in her locker, and I pretended to be looking for something in my gym bag. I hesitated before picking a locker, though. Would it be weird to join her in the same alcove? Or would it be weird if I went to a different one? We were both women, after all. We were adults. And we certainly weren’t revealing anything the other hadn’t already seen.
I shook myself and took a locker across from hers—still in the same alcove, but with some elbow room. I’d never been self-conscious in the locker room. How the hell did having sex with a woman suddenly make me modest around her? By this point, we should’ve been able to talk about the weather while completely naked.
Right. Like I’d be able to talk to anyone about anything while Natalya was naked in my presence.
Workout. Focus on your workout.
On getting ready. And lifting.
And that amazing body—
I pulled the bottle of preworkout from my gym bag. I shook it to mix the powder with the water, and once the foul concoction was blended as well as it would ever be, I threw back a few gulps, swallowing it as quickly as I could so the “Banana Blast” didn’t linger on my tongue longer than it had to. The name of the flavor seemed oddly appropriate—it tasted about as appealing as anything else a “banana” might “blast” in my mouth.
Natalya glanced across the aisle at me and did a double take. Eyeing the bottle in my hand, she grimaced. “Ugh, how can you stand that stuff?”
I shrugged as I swallowed another gulp. “I try not to think about how horrible it tastes.”
“Does it even help that much? All it ever did for me was make me jittery.”
“After I’ve been working all day and have nothing left?” I brought it back up to my lips. “It pretty much means the difference between working out at all and just going home and collapsing.”
She furrowed her brow, then shrugged. “If it works, it works.”
“It does. But yeah, it’s gross.”
Natalya muttered something that sounded Russian, but when she met my gaze again, she laughed, so presumably it wasn’t anything nasty. Well, not about me. My drink, maybe. But she seemed pleasant enough toward me that I could actually believe she didn’t want to kill me with her mind.
So we were doing this. For real. The arguing and door slamming were behind us. Obviously dating was off the table, but I’d take this.
Especially since it meant I could once again watch Natalya work out. In fact, I could watch from close range.
But were things really okay? Had we put this thing far enough behind us that we could be civil and friendly to each other? Was I just worrying myself to death and overthinking it into the ground like I did with everything?
She glanced at me, and our eyes met briefly. My pulse ratcheted upward.
As casually as possible, I pressed my shoulder against a locker. “I, um . . . look, I’m really sorry again. The stuff I said, it—”
“Don’t.” She shook her head. “We’re friends. We’re working out. The rest is . . .” She shrugged tightly.
“I know, but I feel like an ass. I guess I didn’t think about what I was saying and how it would make you feel, and I . . .” Had no idea how to justify it beyond that.
“You’ve thought about it now, yes?”
“Nonstop since we argued.”
She smiled. She touched my arm. “Then it’s done. You’ve thought about it. It’s behind us.”
Is it that simple?
But she was smiling, and she was touching me without shoving me away. So, slowly, I released my breath. “Okay.” My guard remained up, but this was a start. As long as I didn’t put my foot in my mouth and screw this all up again, we were on the right path. Weren’t we? We could make this part work?
Please, please, let this work.
“Well.” I muffled a cough. “To the weight room?”
“In a minute.” Natalya took a rolled-up ACE bandage out of her bag, sat sideways on the bench, and put one foot up onto it. Carefully, she wound the bandage around her left foot and ankle. Then she pulled her sock over it and, grimacing, pushed her foot into her shoe.
As she laced up her shoe, I asked, “What happened to your ankle?”
“Landed wrong during a vault.” She scowled, jerking the laces as if for emphasis. “Still stuck the landing, but I knew as soon as I hit the mat that something wasn’t right.”
“Ouch . . .” I winced. “How bad
was it?”
“I guess I had some stress fractures, and that landing . . .” She shook her head. “It’s much better now, but there were other stress fractures, and none of them healed quite right. So sometimes it hurts.”
“And that was all from gymnastics?”
She laughed dryly. “I was lucky. Could’ve been much, much worse.”
“It’s funny how gymnasts make it look so easy. You wouldn’t know how taxing it really is on the body.”
Another laugh, quieter this time. “I know exactly how taxing it is.” She rose, rubbing her hip as she did. “Every morning, my body makes sure to remind me.”
“Mine reminds me of all my sins too, and I’ve never been a gymnast or a stunt double.”
She laughed, and I had to look away—picking a phantom strand of hair off my shirt—just to keep from drooling at her gorgeous smile. We were friends. Nothing more. To keep things simple. But God, the way she laughed . . .
She shoved her gym bag in her locker and snapped the combo lock into place. “Ready?”
I locked up my bag and gestured at the door. “After you.”
She smiled, then headed out of the locker room. I followed, telling myself my racing heart was a result of my preworkout, not the beautiful ass in front of me.
And damn him, my bodyguard busted me midogle. Our eyes met, and though he pressed his lips together, the amusement in his eyes was unmistakable.
Fuck you, I mouthed.
He just flashed a toothy grin—asshole—and followed us toward the weight room.
On the mats arranged alongside the weight area, opposite the mirrors where the meatheads checked themselves out, Natalya and I both took a few minutes to stretch. Despite our “just friends” agreement, not to mention my bodyguard looming beside us, I didn’t even bother to keep my gaze to myself. A fit woman in yoga pants and a “shirt” that barely qualified as a sports bra? God. She was killing me.
The worst part was the number of times I thought I caught her glancing at me. Wishful thinking. Had to be. Clearly, she was side-eying someone, or seeing which equipment was occupied, or . . . something. Not grabbing an eyeful of my butt while I touched my toes beside her.
Totally imagining it. Totally. Imagining. It.
At least she didn’t catch on to all the things I was imagining, or at least she didn’t mention anything. Once we’d limbered up, we continued into the weight room and took over a couple of benches by the dumbbells. Natalya was working on her back and shoulders today. I was working on biceps and triceps, so basically my arms would be useless tomorrow.
As we went through our various lifts, moving from the dumbbells to the barbells to the benches and back, I couldn’t help imagining what she’d looked like on the mat back in her competitive days. Gymnasts had always mesmerized me—the Summer Games when I was twelve were one of the first hints that perhaps I wasn’t straight after all—and she still carried herself like one. As she approached the weight bar, dusting a little excess chalk off her hands, she had the straight, shoulders-back stance of a gymnast approaching the mat.
She started on her deadlifts, and like she must’ve done in her gymnastics days, she made it look easy. Her muscles stood out, a sheen of sweat caught the overhead lights, and her lips tightened at the start of each rep, but none of that touched the surface of the effort it took to pull two hundred–plus pounds of iron up off the floor.
And I’d thought my hundred fifteen pound deadlifts were something to be proud of.
After she’d set the bar down again, she gingerly rubbed her lower back.
“You okay?” I asked.
“It’s nothing. An old injury.”
“Another one? How do any gymnasts stay alive?”
Natalya laughed. “This wasn’t from gymnastics. It was stunt work.”
“You really do like gentle professions, don’t you?”
She shrugged. “I’d be bored at a desk. I was a gymnast since I was a child, and I wanted to use that experience when I came to America. So I went into stunt work.” She twisted a little, rubbing her back again. “And then this fucking injury ended my career.”
“Damn. Did you at least go out on a good film?”
She nodded. “Dawning.”
“Oh, yeah.” I couldn’t help recalling the scene where the leather-clad protagonist took a swan dive off a sinking ship into debris-littered water. I’d nearly passed out in the theater during that scene. And it was Natalya. Not the actress, Gina Chanel. Natalya. The woman sitting across from me now who I’d slept with and—
I cleared my throat. “Some of those stunts looked dangerous as hell.”
“They were fun!” She grinned, but it quickly fell. “The shitty part is I didn’t get hurt doing one of the fun stunts. The scene didn’t even make it into the final film.”
“Really?”
Rolling her eyes, she nodded. “They wanted it to be an Oscar contender, so they toned down Gina’s character. Made her . . . not quite such a badass.” Natalya scowled. “It worked. That bitch got an Oscar. All I got was a prescription for painkillers and a new career.”
I grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I take it you didn’t like her?”
Natalya’s derisive snort answered me well enough. She put some more chalk on her hands and positioned herself behind the loaded weight bar again. I watched—hoping no one could tell I was ogling—as she leaned down, gripped the bar, and rose, lifting it off the floor until she was standing straight. She paused for a second, then lowered it to the floor again. After four reps, she set it down, released it, and rubbed her back again.
“Anyway.” She grimaced subtly. “After that film, I had to retire from stunt work. That’s why I’m just the stunt coordinator now.”
“‘Just the stunt coordinator’?” I smiled. “You keep my actors and stuntmen from getting killed, and you make the scenes look pretty damned good. I wouldn’t say you’re ‘just’ anything.”
She laughed quietly, as close to shyly as she was probably capable. “It isn’t the same, though. I miss performing stunts.” She sighed. “But if I want to be walking when I’m fifty, I can’t keep doing that. That’s actually why I lift weights now. If I get out of shape at all, the pain comes back.”
“Seems almost counterintuitive, doesn’t it?”
“It is if you talk to my old physical therapist.” She rolled her eyes. “He didn’t want me lifting more than twenty-five pounds, then fifteen pounds, then five pounds. And we were both shocked when the pain just kept getting worse.”
I nodded. “Levi went through the same thing. He’s been working out religiously since he recovered from his car wreck.”
“Smart man. No wonder he can still move as well as he does.”
“Oh come on. He’s not that old.”
“No, but when he does his own stunts? He’s stronger and more flexible than some of the guys half his age.” She grinned. “Carter’s a lucky man.”
I laughed and rolled my eyes, trying not to let my discomfort show at the reminder that she was into men as well as women. We were friends, so our differing sexuality didn’t matter.
If I did let it show, Natalya didn’t seem to notice. Chatting in between sets, we continued lifting. Every time I glanced at her, especially while she was midrep with something heavier than I could lift, I struggled to imagine her actually getting hurt. The odd grimace, or rubbing her back or a joint, didn’t seem like much—maybe an ache or a twinge. Natalya was tough as nails, though. The injuries that took her out of her last two careers must have been horrific—much worse than the aches and pains she had now—to hobble her.
I envied her that much. I’d never thought of myself as particularly wimpy, but Natalya was the kind of strong I aspired to be.
Maybe if we kept doing this together, some of it would rub off on me.
Chapter 11
After our workout, Natalya and I strolled back toward the locker room. It wasn’t leg day, so strolling was sti
ll possible. My upper body was on fire, though. Jesus. I really needed to get in here more often.
Especially if that meant working out with Natalya. I’d already decided just being in the same room with her counted as cardio.
“You lift heavy,” she said. “Most women I’ve worked out with don’t.”
“Only way to get results, isn’t it?”
She nodded.
“I just wish I had results like yours.” I gestured at her shoulders. “Maybe I need to lift heavier.”
She stopped, as did Jeremy and I. For a moment, she scrutinized my arms. Then she squeezed my biceps gently and grinned. “You look fine. You don’t want to move up in weight too fast, though.” She released my arm, leaving a cool invisible handprint. “You’ll get hurt.”
“I know. But I want your—” I bit my tongue before “body” slipped out of my mouth. “Results. I want your results.”
She gave me a quick down-up and winked. “You’re well on your way.”
Fresh heat rushed into my cheeks, and I didn’t dare look at my asshole bodyguard who was probably fighting to stop himself from erupting into giggles.
“Well, I’ll keep following your example.” Why was my mouth suddenly dry?
“You’re fine.” She waved a hand and kept walking. As I fell into step beside her, she added, “You’re not playing with those stupid Barbie weights”—she nodded sharply toward the light end of the weight racks—“so you’ll be just fine.”
At the locker-room door, Jeremy and I exchanged glances. He wisely kept his damned mouth shut and instead silently leaned against the wall outside the locker room while I headed back in to get changed.
Sometimes I wondered how he stayed sane in his line of work, considering he spent half his time waiting for me to come out of a private meeting, a private appointment, or a private locker room. Then again, he had someone to text with these days. I was pretty sure Scott kept him entertained through the monotony of protecting me from nonexistent threats. Well, that, and chuckling over my stupidity with Natalya. That seemed to amuse the bastard to no end.
