No Paine No Gain
Copyright © 2020 McKinley May
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the above copyright owner.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Names, characters, places, brands, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
1
Yep.
It's official.
Pink is totally my color.
I gaze into the bathroom mirror and twist my head in multiple directions, observing the result of my latest hair color experiment from all angles. The thick strips of vibrant pink framing my face look better than expected against my straw-colored locks.
In fact, they look pretty damn cute.
Normally I'm all about the mermaid tones—cerulean blues, jade greens, and amethyst purples—but I might need to incorporate this particular hue into my color palette more often.
I grin at my reflection and give my hair an exaggerated fluff. That grin quickly transforms into a grimace as my eyes travel lower, registering the disastrous state of my sink and the surrounding counter space.
It's an absolute war-zone in here. I'm talking Peppa Pig and My Little Pony took part in an epic battle and nobody lived to tell the tale in this not-so-kid-friendly crossover episode.
Splotches and streaks of bright bubblegum hair dye are everywhere: caked on the wall, splattered on the mirror Jackson-Pollock style, and—shit.
Looks like I'm gonna need to pick up a new toothbrush ASAP.
I'm usually much cleaner with my hair coloring, but I was way too excited to bother with the petty task of laying down paper towels.
After an excruciatingly long Christmas break back home with my family, I'm finally back at Windhaven University for the start of Spring Semester.
And that means I'm free to do whatever the hell I want with my appearance.
When I'm at home?
Forget about it.
It's like having a damn high school dress code at my house...but worse.
Way worse.
T-shirts are not allowed.
Tennis shoes are forbidden.
And anything with an elastic waist-band is an absolute no-go.
Sounds like hyperbole, but I can assure you it's not.
I once tried to press my luck by coming down to breakfast in a pair of sweatpants. And these weren't your run-of-the-mill, faded gray sweats with a few holes in them, either.
Nope.
These were nice ones. Made with expensive cashmere fabric and soft as a baby's bottom, I spent a decent chunk of my tutoring gig cash on those bad boys. They were fancypants sweats.
Unfortunately, that distinction went unnoticed by my family who immediately reacted as if I was parading around the house in my freaking birthday suit.
Those sweats have been MIA ever since.
You want to dress casual at my house? Better throw a "business" in front of it because that's about as casual as it gets around there.
My parents and two older sisters are the epitome of professionalism—clean-cut looks, serious and stoic personalities, and creepily good posture clad in pressed designer suits. Sunday dinners could be mistaken for executive meetings, and our home is one of those so-clean-I-don't-think-anybody-lives-here type of places.
A friend once described my family as robotic and I honestly can't think of a better word to sum it all up than that.
They're robots.
Incredibly intelligent and academically accomplished robots.
All four of them are doctors and absolute brilliant ones at that. There's no denying they're good at what they do.
But each of them is the type of physician that leaves you feeling like a nameless case-study instead of a patient. Their bedside manners are as cold and clinical as the sterile rooms in which they operate.
I may be following in their footsteps career-wise, but that's about the only thing we have in common. It's no secret I'm the black sheep of the family.
Wait...scratch that.
The blonde sheep.
With my mom's Italian lineage and my dad's Greek roots, it's not surprising my entire bloodline resembles the quintessential olive-skinned, dark-haired beauties of the Mediterranean coast. Aunts, uncles, cousins twice removed...doesn't matter who it is. If they're related to us, they've got that Greek God/Goddess look down pat.
So when I popped out twenty-one years ago with shockingly white wisps of hair, it was quite the scandal.
If it weren't for my sea-green eyes that match my dad's, and the fact that I'm pushing 5'11'' like the unusually tall women on my mom's side, there could've been a strong case for a soap opera worthy mix-up at the hospital.
The mysterious blonde was blamed on some long-lost Scandinavian genes that finally decided to make an appearance, and of course my mom refused to let me touch it.
No highlights.
No dyes.
Nothing but the occasional trim to keep the ends blunt and neat and professional.
Yep...she kinda Rapunzel'd me.
Any child psychologist could've predicted what came next: me, an escape to college, and a newfangled affinity for putting funky colors in my no-longer-virgin locks.
What began as a rebellion against my overbearing mother quickly turned into something I did for myself—my own little form of creative expression.
Usually I remember to strip the color before going back home, but this past December I completely forgot about the lilac portion on the lower layer of my hair. Unfortunately, I was rocking a high ponytail when I walked into the house, and my mom spotted the abomination before I could even utter a 'hello'. She immediately whisked me to the hair salon, all the while muttering how inappropriate this was for a future M.D..
It took a lot to keep my mouth shut, but I knew better than to argue.
Been there, done that...definitely not worth it.
So I obeyed, went back to bland-and-boring Lexie to please her, and spent the remainder of the break studying for the MCAT and counting down the days until the new semester.
And that is why I'm standing here in my tiny apartment bathroom, putting some much-needed oomph back into my look.
I give the counter a quick wipe-down with a tissue. The pink stains are resilient, but I don't want to whip out the bleach just yet. I have a date in an hour, and reeking of cleaning supplies is a major dating faux pas.
The next thirty minutes are spent prepping for the night ahead—a few coats of mascara, a pair of killer knee-high boots, and a flattering gray sweater dress that hits mid-thigh. To finish off the ensemble, I grab a bottle of scented hair mist and spritz it all over my head.
Here's another pro-tip for the dating game: smelling like hair dye is also a big no-no. You don't want the dude going in for a hug and subsequently passing out from toxic fumes. Doesn't exactly set the tone for a pleasant evening.
After a few more final touches, I walk out into the living room. Instantly, I spot my BFF/roommate, Rayne, and her boyfriend, Vaughn—a sight I've gotten quite used to over the past few months.
These two have been attached at the freaking hip since getting together last semester.
They're kind of a funny match.
Rayne's Miss Good Girl 101: perfectionist and rule-follower to the extreme. When she fell for the soccer team captain and blue-eyed bad boy, Vaughn Steel, no one was more surprised than me.
But they're seriously perfect together, each balancing out the other in a yin-yang fashion. Anyone within a fifty-mile radius can see they're head over heels in love.
I lean against the wall, trying not to laugh as I notice what they're up
to.
Rayne's standing in front of the sofa, caramel hair big and bouncy as she holds a cinnamon-dusted churro up to her mouth like a microphone. Vaughn's sitting on the edge of the coffee table, phone set to video mode as he prepares to record his girlfriend.
If I wasn't aware of what this was for, I'd probably be really weirded out right now. What looks like the beginning of a dessert-inspired porno is actually just Rayne practicing for her new internship at a sports media corporation.
She smooths her hand down her blue button-up and cocks her head. "What do you think? Sideline ready?"
"What do I think?" Vaughn shoots her one of his signature goofy smirks. "I think you look like the hottest sports reporter in the whole damn country, that's what I think."
She gives him an appreciative grin as he zooms in on her face.
He lets out a long, low whistle. "The camera fucking loves you, baby."
See?
I told you.
They're gag-inducing adorable.
My roommate chuckles before straightening her shoulders. "Okay, let's do a 'during the game' practice piece."
"Okay." Vaughn adjusts the camera and clears his throat, putting on his best TV voice. "And now down to the sideline with Rayne Everett for a quick update."
Rayne puts on a dazzling smile and raises the "microphone" higher.
"Thank you, Bartholomew. I spoke with Windhaven's Coach before the game, and he let me know—"
"Wait...Bartholomew?" Vaughn interrupts with a boisterous laugh. "Who the fuck is Bartholomew?"
Rayne huffs and puts her hands on her hips. "The make-believe broadcaster, obviously!"
"And his name's Bartholomew?"
"What? It's the first name that popped into my head," she responds in a serious tone. But when Vaughn starts cracking up laughing, she can't help but join in. "Okay, okay. Fine. Bartholomew's a little out there."
"A lot out there," Vaughn corrects.
"How about Dave?"
"Better," he says with a nod. "Much more this century."
"Then Dave it is," she agrees. "Now zip it, Cameraman, and let me do my thing."
"Yeah, Cameraman," I interject as I walk up behind Vaughn and give him a playful nudge to the back. "Zip those lips and let the reporter do her thing!"
Both of them turn my way, surprise etched on their faces as they notice me for the first time.
I've been standing literally two feet away for the past couple of minutes, but apparently love makes you oblivious to your surroundings. I swear I could start this apartment on fire and they'd go up in flames staring into one another's eyes.
"Digging the pink, Lex." Vaughn tips his chin towards my head. "Looks cool."
Rayne nods in agreement. "Very cute!"
"Thanks." I raise a quizzical brow. "What's with the churro?"
Leaning forward, I open my mouth and she holds it out so I can take a bite. Cinnamon-sugar coats my lips as the delicious pastry practically melts in my mouth.
"You remember Diego?" she questions.
"I think so." I swivel around to face Vaughn. "He's one of your roommates, right?"
He lives with so many of the Windhaven soccer players, it's hard to keep them all straight.
"Yup," Vaughn confirms. "His grandma came to visit a few days ago. She owns a bakery in San Antonio and she's been making us the best desserts I've ever had. Seriously, this shit is bomb. She left this afternoon and her parting gift was a huge batch of churros."
"They are super good," I say as I bend down to get another taste.
"Hey!" Rayne yanks it from my reach and shoos me away. "Mouth off the merchandise. You can eat the microphone when I'm finished."
"You suck." I give her an exaggerated pout and collapse onto the couch.
Her eyes graze over my attire. "Already back at it with the dates, Lex?"
Relaxing my head into the cushions, I smile. "You know me."
"You think he'll be the one this time?" she teases.
I give a slow, sardonic nod. "Oh, for sureee. There's definitely strong soulmate potential with this guy." I cup a hand to my ear and widen my eyes dramatically. "Do you hear that?"
"What?"
"Wedding bells."
Rayne rolls her amber eyes and lets out a snort.
She and I are both well aware soulmate isn't in my vocabulary.
Neither is the laughable term 'the one'.
Even the word boyfriend doesn't mesh well with me.
It's not as if I don't want someone to fill those roles in my life—I'm not anti-relationship of anything of that nature.
And to say I don't put myself out there would be a lie. They don't call me the "Queen of First Dates" for nothing.
But it's just not happening for me.
Majority of my dates are fine. I have a nice time, the guy is usually decent looking, but there's nothing more. It's always missing that extra something.
A spark of electricity.
Tingles in my toes.
Some type of cosmic connection.
Maybe I'm too picky.
Or maybe those things don't even exist. Whatever the reason, I made the decision to forgo any expectations and just be content with the casual dating scene I've got going on right now.
"What are you guys doing tonight?" Vaughn's deep voice pulls me from my thoughts.
"Just grabbing some pizza at Patty's," I answer. "What about you two?"
He shrugs. "Not sure yet. Might go downtown with some of the team."
Rayne crosses her arms and clears her throat. "After we finish practicing, right?"
"Damn, babe." Vaughn lets out a low groan. "I thought we were done?"
She shakes her head adamantly. "We haven't even started!"
"We've been practicing for a month straight. And you don't even need to practice. You're already ready for your close-up, Raynie."
"He's right, R," I add. "We could throw you on National television tomorrow and you'd absolutely kill it."
And even though she knows we're correct, her stubborn nature prevails.
"Doesn't matter. My internship starts on Monday and I need to be fully prepared. There's no such thing as too much practice, so let's get back to it," she demands. She playfully narrows her eyes at Vaughn. "No more interruptions, Steel."
"Don't blame me." He raises his hands in innocence. "That was 100% your fault with the Bartholomew shit."
"Do you guys want me to film?" I hold up my phone in offering. "That way you can interview Vaughn and pretend it's after a game or match or whatever. They do that, right?"
My sports knowledge is pathetic with a capital P, but when your best friend is pursuing a career reporting on people and their sports balls, you manage to pick up on some basics.
"Good idea!" Rayne exclaims before grabbing Vaughn by the elbow and yanking him up next to her. "We'll pretend it's after the championship game last month." She raises a brow at her boyfriend. "Will that work?"
"Hell yeah that'll work." He grins. "I could relive that win as many times as you ask me to."
I position them in the screen, finger poised above the Record button. "Ready?"
Rayne's head bobs in confirmation as Vaughn glances over at me.
"Make sure you get my good side," he insists. "It's all about the angles, Lex."
"Good side. Angles. Right."
My eyes roll at the ridiculous notion that someone with a face like his would be worried about unflattering angles. He's one of the few people on this planet who can accidentally open the front camera on their phone and look like a freaking supermodel while the rest of us mere mortals resemble thumbs.
"Lights. Camera. Action!" I hit the red button and Rayne begins her spiel.
"Thank you, Dave. I'm here with Vaughn Steel, Windhaven Warrior's MVP and leading scorer on the men's soccer team." She turns her body towards him. "How would you sum up your National Championship winning season?"
"Well, it was long. And it was hard." His lips curl into a mischievous smile. "Oh, sor
ry. You were asking about the season? Yeah, that was long and hard, too."
Rayne bites on the inside of her cheek, ignoring his remark as she continues. "I'm sure there are dozens of moments that stand out from the past four months, but if you had to narrow it down to just one highlight, what would it be?"
He rubs his chin, baby blues smoldering as he thinks it over. "There was this one game when a smoking hot girl came to visit me at halftime and things got a little...heated in the locker room." His eyes meet the camera and he winks like the charming bastard he is. "I'd elaborate, but it's not exactly live-TV appropriate."
He turns to Rayne with a smirk and sneaks a hand behind her. "I think that was the highlight for you, too."
She emits a high-pitched yelp as he squeezes her ass.
"Groping the sideline reporters is usually frowned upon, Vaughn!" I comment with a shake of my head.
I'm expecting Rayne to start scolding Mr. Handsy for his inability to take her practice seriously, but no words of disapproval leave her lips.
Instead, she's just standing there, cheeks flushed and eyes wild as she struggles to find her voice.
Oh God.
I know exactly where this is going.
My suspicions are confirmed when a moment later she wraps her arms around his neck and a feverish make-out session commences.
I don't know what little locker room fiasco they were referring to—nor do I want to know—but it must've been really damn hot to get Rayne to lose focus.
Her legs snake around his waist, his hands tangle in her voluminous hair, and why the hell am I still recording this?!
"Uhhh." I lower my phone, astonished how quickly this transitioned from mock interview to sex tape. "This is definitely not gonna fly with the network."
I'm speaking out loud, but there's no point.
I'm completely invisible to them again.
I check the time. Still don't need to leave for another ten minutes, but I'll show up unfashionably early just to avoid this PDA.
Before I go, I tiptoe over to the entangled duo and gingerly sneak the churro out of Rayne's closed fist.
They don't even break stride.
I back away and take a huge bite as I fish around the coffee table for my keys.
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