by Mia Sosa
He says this as though he’s done nothing upsetting, the past few minutes set aside and forgotten. It’s like I’m dealing with two different men. One of them yanks the rug out from under me; the other one drapes a soft blanket over my body and tells me to get some rest.
“Of course. Talk to you soon.”
I end the call and shove my phone into my fire-engine-red gym bag, a welcome gift from Tori. Rolling my shoulders to ease the tension in them, I scan the living area of my freshly painted one-bedroom apartment and try to recapture the excitement I felt about the its features: a cozy window seat straight out of a Hallmark movie; the tiny wrought-iron terrace overlooking the quaint courtyard; my very first granite countertops. But now I’m questioning if any of it matters, if I’ve moved across the country only to remain in the same place.
No, I’m not going to let my father steal my joy, and more important than that, I’ll prove him wrong. I refuse to return to Philly with my tail between my legs, no matter how much my father wants me to.
Inspecting my reflection in the mirror, I set aside my parental woes and focus on the positives: I’m an unattached, employed woman with a nice apartment who’s embarking on an adventure in a new city. Also, my ass looks amazing in these yoga pants.
Satan can shove it.
When I arrive at Every Body in West Hollywood, Tori waves at me from behind the reception desk. The studio’s general manager, Valeria, stands at her side, a bright smile revealing the sexy gap between her two front teeth.
Tori drums on her chest as I approach. “You can’t begin to understand how happy I am to see you walk through that door. My heart can’t take it.”
I’m just as thrilled as she is, honestly. After Tori moved to California last year, Philly wasn’t the same without her. When she brought me in to tour the space a few months ago, I could easily picture myself working here. “We’re stuck with each other, chica—for better or better.”
She rounds the desk, hands me a manila envelope, and tackle-hugs me. “This is going to be great.”
My arms hang loosely at my sides, and my cheek is smashed against her chest. “Tori, honey, I need air.”
“Oh, sorry about that.” She draws back, scans me from head to toe, and points at the envelope. “Your ID, access card, locker combo, and staff room codes are all in there. Valeria will give you the necessary employment forms. You know your way around, right? Because my class starts in a few minutes.”
I roll my eyes at her. “You have four exercise studios in a seventy-five-hundred-square-foot space, woman. I think I can figure this place out on my own.”
She bumps my hip with hers, a familiar move that brings a smile to my face. “Fine, my lovely crab apple. I’ll introduce you in Advanced Zumba at five. The people who signed up for that class can’t wait to get started. I’ve been talking you up for weeks.”
A wave of jitters hits me. Advanced Zumba has always been one of my most popular classes, but what if the regulars here don’t like it? What if the music doesn’t suit their tastes? We did a few trial runs while I was considering Tori’s job offer, but maybe the students were just being polite when they said they enjoyed themselves. More than anything, I don’t want Tori to regret her decision to bring me on staff. This gym is her new venture, too, and I’d hate to hold her back in any way.
Goodness, Satan’s working overtime today. I rub my temples, inwardly chastising myself for overthinking the class and undervaluing my skills. This isn’t me. This is my father throwing me off balance—and it’s up to me to regain my equilibrium.
After placing my belongings in a locker in the staff room, I stroll through the fitness center, familiarizing myself with the layout. Water fountain. Got it. Emergency exits. Check, check. Gender-neutral, accessible restrooms with signs that say, “Everyone. If you can’t deal, hold it.” Yes, Tori, yes. My BFF never fails to make me proud.
Because it’s midafternoon, the place isn’t packed yet, so I duck into the empty studio where I’ll be teaching and walk along the perimeter. Twice the size of my exercise room in Philly, it’s bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors along the front and back, a light blue wall to the right of the stage, and a clear glass wall and door to the left. It’s perfect, and according to Tori, mostly mine once I complete my six-month probation.
I step onto the platform, its suspended wood floor easy on my joints, and bend at the waist to stretch my lower back. Not long after, a whoosh of cool air brushes over my shoulders, so I straighten and turn to the door, my mouth falling open when I see Anthony—the man formerly known as my one-night stand—watching me, a black canvas gym bag in his hand and a dazed expression on his face.
Images of our night together flash in my head, each one brighter and more blinding than the one before it. Tangled limbs, his ridiculously soft lips trailing a path from my belly button to my breasts, the uninhibited way I shouted his name, his large hands kneading my ass like he was trying to make the finest pizza crust in all the land. I don’t know much about this man, but I know that when we were together that evening, he wanted nothing more than to give and receive as much pleasure as our bodies could handle. And I was right: The eggplant emoji is accurate as hell.
For a moment, it’s a stand-off, both of us eyeing each other warily, gauging our respective reactions to this unplanned reunion. But then he shakes life into his limbs and strides into the room like he owns it, the outline of his thick thighs visible through his navy-blue dress slacks. If he were wearing black-rimmed glasses and cleaned up that five o’clock shadow, I’d wonder if he were cosplaying as Clark Kent.
“If you wanted to get my attention, all you had to do was say hello,” he says, dropping his bag on a chair near the stage.
Okay, so we’re pretending we didn’t spend several hours in each other’s arms a few months ago. Understood. And now that I think about it, a mutually agreed-upon memory loss is the perfect approach, allowing us both the freedom to do what we do best: needle each other. I cross my arms over my chest and smirk at him. “This might be hard for you to grasp, but not every person lives and breathes for your attention.”
He grins at me as he removes his jacket. “But is anyone really living without my attention?”
Oh, gross. He’s messing up the fantasy, making my decision to sleep with him back then more ill-advised with each passing moment. “Do you ever think about what you’re saying? Like, try it out in your head first and revise when it’s clear that what you’re about to say makes you sound like an asshat?”
His eyes crinkle at the corners as he widens his smile, but a flush stains his cheeks, and I hope with all my heart it’s a sign of his embarrassment, because if it isn’t, he’s hopeless.
“It’s a skill I’m working on, I promise,” he says. “But yeah, sometimes the edit feature in my head malfunctions.”
I’ll grant him some latitude, because Lord knows I’ve said some jaw-dropping nonsense in my lifetime, but I need him gone so I can regroup. It’s then that I first notice the stark differences in our attire. I’m dressed to get my heart pumping; he’s dressed to get my clit thumping. Argh. Why is he even here? Today of all days? “So, are you planning to take Advanced Zumba at five?”
He snorts. “Never in a million years.” When he spots the eye daggers flying his way, he realizes his edit button’s jammed again. “I mean, I’m sure it’s a great class, but I’m not down with embarrassing myself in public spaces.”
“Your loss,” I say, shrugging. “Well, if you’re looking for Tori, she’s in Studio A.”
“I’m not looking for Tori,” he says. “I’m teaching a free self-defense class for women at four. As part of Tori’s goal to incorporate community service into her business plan.”
“Here?”
“Here.”
“In this room?”
He nods, a mischievous grin dancing across his rugged face. “Yes, in this studio. Been doing it once a week for about a month.”
Right. How convenient that the cla
ss is geared to women. Very Anthony, indeed. “And sharing your many gifts with the ladies, I assume.”
He doesn’t bother to deny it. Instead, he gives me a blank stare, as though my dig wasn’t surprising at all. “That, too, of course.” For a few seconds, he appears thoughtful, biting into his bottom lip as he considers me. “So, how long will you be visiting? I’d offer to show you around during your stay, but I’m guessing you wouldn’t be interested. Que pena.”
I know what that means, and it’s not a pity at all. “Tori didn’t tell you? I moved to LA this week, and I’m working as an instructor here. But yes, you’re right, I’ll pass on the guided tour.”
Brows knitted in confusion—a state I’m thrilled to have caused—he stares at me and says nothing. I don’t think I spoke those words in another language, but he sure is looking at me as though I did.
“I’m sorry?” he asks with a jerk of his head. “What did you say?”
“I said I’m here to stay. Well, if LA is nice to me, that is.”
“You’re moving here?”
“I’ve already moved, Anthony.”
The brightness in his brown eyes dims, and his maddeningly broad shoulders tense. The change in his demeanor reminds me of a rose dying in a time-lapse video. Despite this, he says, “Well, good for you. Welcome.” Then he tugs on his tie as he clears his throat. “So uh . . . listen . . . about that night. It was great, and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, but we’re on the same page about this, right? That was a one-off.”
Oh. My. God. I want him to stop talking. He’s going off script, and I’m terrible at improvising when a conversation enters the awkward zone. In times like these, my bravado fails me. I wish I were wearing wood-paneling camouflage pants so I could drop to the floor and make myself invisible. “A one-off?”
I inwardly cringe at the strangled tinge to my voice.
He blows out a breath. “Yeah, you know. A one-time thing. Like you didn’t move to LA expecting that we’d pick up where we left off.”
Oh, wait a minute now. He’s suggesting that I packed up all my belongings and uprooted my life to chase after a guy I hooked up with once? That punts me out of the awkward zone and drops me squarely—and comfortably—within pissed-off territory. Heat suffuses my face and the pounding at my temples resumes as I line up for the tackle. There’s so much I could say, but I go with an essential truth, a maxim every self-respecting person knows. “Anthony, sweetie, no dick’s that special.”
I gather from his silence and the gray tint to his skin that my answer’s a direct hit. Hopefully that’ll teach him to use his edit function more often. And I still can’t get over his presumptuous question. I’m moved to scream mindlessly into the void for the second time today.
Well played, Satan. Well played.
Chapter Four
Anthony
¡Coño! I’m fucking up big time.
I want to apologize to Eva, but I don’t know where to begin or how to explain myself without sounding like an asshole.
Sorry, although it was cool to hook up with you in another state, now that we’re living in the same city, I don’t want you to get the misimpression that I’m interested in you.
Shit. Maybe I am an asshole. No, that can’t be right. Papi would disown me if that were the case. Let me try this again.
Sorry, although it was cool to hook up with you in another state, now that we’re living in the same city, I don’t want to send you mixed signals. You see, my policy is simple: No repeats. Ever. No matter how much I want to. Side note: I want to. Badly. Which is reason alone to stick to the policy.
That’s a little better, I guess. Shows it’s not about her specifically. I still sound like an asshole, but if it ensures neither one of us gets hurt by a rash decision we made months ago, I’ll live with it. I raise a fist to my mouth and blow out a forceful breath, prepping myself to clarify what I meant, and then I make the mistake of looking at her, and this tumbles out instead: “I was just kidding, Eva. Foot-in-mouth disease is running rampant in LA. Let’s just forget I said anything.”
She regards me with a tilt of her head and a squiggly line between her brows, as though I’m a painting that just sold at auction for millions of dollars and she isn’t sure why. “Fine.”
I need to fix this somehow, but I can’t focus on that problem now, not when twenty-five women are waiting for me to teach them how to split a man’s balls in half. So I grab my bag and take several backward steps until my butt hits the door. “Class is going to start soon, and I need to get ready. Maybe we can catch up some other time.” I slip through the door, unable to tear my eyes from the pretty picture she makes standing there, a hand on her hip and her curls piled on top of her head in that knot thingy she does with it.
After changing into athletic shorts and a T-shirt, I leave the restroom and peek inside the studio. Eva’s gone, but the memory of how poorly I handled seeing her again remains. I don’t have the luxury of wallowing in a puddle of shame, though, so I pace the length of the hall and try to get into the right mindset to teach the class.
A few of the students arrive and wave at me, reminding me that Kurt should be here, too. I glance at my sports watch and confirm he’s late. How am I supposed to demonstrate today’s self-defense moves without an experienced opponent? Grumbling, I whip out my phone and bang out a quick text.
Me: Class starts at 4. Where r you?
He responds within seconds.
Kurt: Traffic. Be there in 20.
Which really means he’ll be here in 30. Damn. I shove the phone in my pocket and growl at no one in particular. This is LA. What the fuck is new about traffic? At this point, it’s like saying your dog ate your homework. Lightly pounding my fists together as I continue to pace, I try to come up with a solution while cursing Kurt’s notoriously late ass. Think, Anthony. Think. Asking for a volunteer isn’t out of the question, but it’s risky. The person might be cool with it at first but feel awkward when they’re asked to execute a move. And part of my technique is to demonstrate the sense of power you gain when doing it correctly. I won’t feel comfortable unleashing my full strength on a student.
“Hello? Everything okay?”
I halt midstride and find Eva waving a hand in front of my face.
She takes a small step back now that she has my attention. “You look out of sorts. Just being a good neighbor and checking in.”
I don’t miss the way she emphasizes neighbor as though it’s a filthy word. Letting out a quick breath, I grab the back of my neck and try something groundbreaking, like having a normal conversation with her. “We’re about to start,” I say, pointing my chin at the women in the class who are mingling and chatting in the corridor. “My boss promised to show up for the first half of the class—to help me demo a few defensive moves—but he’s running late.” Another glance at my watch still puts Kurt twenty-five minutes away.
“Maybe I could help?” she asks.
My head snaps up, and her big brown-eyed gaze meets mine. For a second, I’m taken aback by how pretty she is—her skin is glowing and she’s wearing this deep burgundy lipstick that highlights her sensual mouth—but I force myself to concentrate, for everyone’s sake. It’s not a bad idea. I’ll never forget when she schooled me about her tae kwon do experience when we first met. “Seriously? You’d do that for me?”
“Sure, you’re in a jam, and it wouldn’t be neighborly to leave you hanging. What’s today’s lesson?”
“We’ve been working on defense moves from a distance, and next up is the groin strike.”
Her face screws up in a way I’m 99 percent positive means she’s trying to hold in a grin. She manages to suppress it, though, and I’m glad to see my earlier comments didn’t alter her sense of humor around me.
“I think I can handle that,” she says, rubbing her hands as though she’s excited about the prospect of jumping into the demo. “Let’s do it.”
She trails behind me as I jog to the door. Seconds later, I c
ringe at the ear-splitting squeak of sneakers coming from a small stampede of women to our right. Eva gets to the door before them. Over her shoulder, she says, “I see you have an avid following.”
I lean close to her ear, a misstep that forces me to breathe in her sweet, vanilla scent. Christ, she smells good. “I’m an excellent teacher,” I manage to say. “Are you suggesting there’s some other reason for my popularity?”
She shrugs, her eyes twinkling again. “It’s a mystery, I’m sure.”
I’d like to press the issue further, but we have an audience. Holding the door open as everyone else rushes in, I tell them, “Please choose a partner and for each pairing decide who’s on offense and defense.”
Once we’re all inside, Eva asks, “Where do you want me?”
She’s messing with me, I guarantee it. There’s no way Eva doesn’t understand the implications of an open-ended question like that. Besides, the answers are obvious. In my bed. On the floor. Against a wall. Draped over the couch. In a closet if it has room enough for two people—and maybe even if it doesn’t.
“I mean, where do you want me to stand?” she clarifies, a lopsided grin revealing what’s going on in that head of hers.
This is a good development. She’s being open and friendly, no evidence of a grudge in sight. Makes me hopeful that we can still be friends. “Let’s do the demo at the front of the room,” I say with a grin. “I’ll introduce you and say a few words. Last name’s Montgomery, right?”
She lifts her eyebrows in surprise. “You remember.”
I could never forget it, but I’m not confessing to that. “It stuck with me. I think Tori mentioned it recently.” All true.
“Huh,” she says, her lips pursed as though she’s deep in thought. “I don’t think I ever caught yours.”
“It’s Castillo.”
“Anthony Castillo. I like it. Rolls off the tongue quite nicely.”
Yeah, not touching that one, either. I know I don’t have the stamina to discuss tongues with Eva. “Okay, everyone, listen up. This is Eva Montgomery. Some of you may know her as one of the new instructors here, but what you probably don’t know is that she’s a black belt in tae kwon do.”
