I walk toward the bridge, heading to my car at Excalibur. My legs pick up speed the farther I get from MGM while past memories beg to be released, sweat running down my back when I reach my car. Once inside, once the silence consumes me, memories burst through my walls as I grip the steering wheel.
“Don’t you want to know what I’m wearing underneath?” She cocked an eyebrow suggestively. “Or what I’m not wearing…”
I groaned and raked my hands through my hair as she ran her pointer finger down my bare chest. Her deep red nails against my dark body made me groan even harder—fucking sexy, that’s what this woman was.
Sexy and confident—a winning combination.
She flipped her long black hair over her shoulder and smiled, her teeth perfectly straight and white. She looked like a beauty queen, like she was on the stage at a Miss USA pageant with her flashy smile and full makeup. Especially when she waved to her friends, a small wave with her delicate wrist casually moving from side to side.
But she wasn’t delicate in bed.
She wasn’t delicate the morning after, when she put her number in my phone and told me to call her.
She wasn’t delicate when she broke my heart a year later.
I claw at my shirt collar, thinking about Kendall’s shadow in the moonlight when she sat by the window. When she told me her fear. When she moved above me with ease.
Kendall wasn’t delicate, either, but she had a different kind of confidence, one that allowed her to still be vulnerable with me.
I shake my head, forcing myself to accept that it was a one-night thing. Better to think of it as a dream.
A sweet, wet dream.
Pulling out my phone, I see new texts from Ty.
Ty: On my way to the gym. You coming or what?
Ty: Dude, I chugged pre-workout like a frat boy on New Year’s Eve.
Ty: Already have two sets of bench presses down. Where are you?!
I run a hand through my hair and decide a workout is just what I need to rid my mind of all thoughts Kendall. Her smooth skin, the way she moaned my name, the way she tasted.
It’s going to take a lot of heavy lifting to get her out of my fucking head.
When I walk into the gym, the banging of barbells and weights consumes my senses. I can feel the adrenaline rush already, and I didn’t even need pre-workout.
The gym is the only thing that ever turns my mood to a more positive one. Dancing in front of a room full of appreciative women doesn’t even compare to the natural high I get from lifting. The best part of my day is walking into this rusty-ass gym with fifty-year-old machines that squeak with each minor movement.
Ty and some of the other guys we work with are already taking up one corner of the gym, alternating between the bench press and tricep pull-downs. As a veteran dancer and gym buff, Ty is leading the new guys, coaching them through their sets. I’m just about to settle in with my headphones and continue pumping myself up, but I should’ve known I wouldn’t get off that easily.
“There he is,” Ty starts in. “Look, guys, the product of a good fucking! This dude hooked up last night! With an atomic blond, no less.” He grins from ear to ear, resembling Terry Crews with that crazed look in his eyes—probably from all that pre-workout he tends to inhale.
I take a deep breath, trying not to cough at the stench of sweaty gym socks and armpits. There’s no air conditioner in this gym, just large fans in every corner and garage-style doors that are open. The Las Vegas heat is inescapable, trapping us with the stench.
I drop my bag by the rack. “Are you ready to do some work, or are we just going to gossip like a bunch of pussies?”
“Dude, you hooked up. We have to talk about it!”
I glare at him in warning. He knows the hell I went through with the last girl I hooked up with after a show. A one-night stand that lasted for a year until it blew up in my face, leaving me with nothing but a frail heart.
Ty and I have been friends for almost ten years and started at Naked Heat around the same time, so he knows me all too well, taking my hint to back off.
Too bad the newbies don’t know shit.
Rafael picks up where Ty left off, gyrating his hips. “You give her a private show?” He rolls his r’s with his Spanish accent, making his question sound even dirtier.
Jordan chimes in. “I’m sure I could’ve given her a better one. Five stars. Do you even remember how to use your dick?”
He and Rafael high-five each other while I grind my teeth, blood boiling.
They don’t know my exact history, but they know I don’t go out much or take girls home. That’s what my younger self used to do. The self that got me mixed up with a minx who ripped me to pieces.
I’ve been working for over a year to put them back together. Last night, I was stupid to get a room with Kendall. To revisit my past head-on. To let myself get attached in any capacity.
But it was a onetime thing. I can get back to my life now. To my rules and routine. Work out, dance, sleep. The occasional bus or flight for an out-of-town show. A few laughs with the guys in between.
Simple.
Instead of beating their asses, I chuckle sadistically while I put my wrist straps on. I widen my eyes to match Ty’s and grind my teeth together in a forced smile. “Not only do I remember how to fuck, but I also remember how to bench way more than you. Let’s go.”
Rafael is the first to whine. “But we’ve already done two sets before you got your lazy dick out of blondie.”
“You think you’re a real badass, don’t you?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Let’s fucking go.”
“You heard the man.” Ty claps and gets the bar ready, loading up the plates like we’re training for the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding contest. I put my headphones on and turn it to my Tech N9ne playlist, ready to make these assholes throw up.
They don’t know what’s coming.
After three sets of heavy bench presses, doing as many reps as we possibly can and then some, we’re all panting, our faces red. Rafael’s curly hair sticks to his forehead. He pours water down his throat like we’re in the desert. Which we technically are.
The thought reminds me of Kendall’s cactus tattoo. Her smooth skin against mine. Her nails digging into my back. I made sure to wear a short-sleeve T-shirt here instead of going sleeveless even though it’s hot as balls out. I wanted to cover the marks she left on my back and shoulders, not because I’m embarrassed that the guys would give me shit, but because I want to keep them for myself.
I shake the thoughts away and grin at Rafael’s obvious defeat. “You done already?” I taunt him and Jordan, who’s pacing with his hands on his head. I carefully take a small sip of water so I don’t choke before I continue, “What’s next? Some burpees? You like to jump around? Up and down, your stomach flipping upside down?” I watch their faces turn from pale to green and back to pale, then smirk.
Don’t mess with me again, fuckers.
Ty waves them off. “Get out of here, pussies. I can’t have you throwing up on my new Jordans.” Ty flashes his new red sneakers like they’re his most prized possession.
Once they’re gone, Ty and I finish our chest workout in peace, aside from each of us yelling obscenities at the other for motivation.
“Don’t you fucking quit, you sorry ass. Give me three more!” Ty yells at me.
My muscles burn by the end, worrying me that I won’t be able to lift my arms later. The workout is more intense than it’s been in a while, but it accomplished the main thing I was hoping for. I didn’t think about Kendall but for two fleeting moments, the illusion of her vanilla scent more welcoming than the BO that surrounds me.
As we walk out of the gym, Ty nudges me. “I know you didn’t want to talk about it before, but I just want to say I’m happy for you, for getting back out there. It’s been over a year since Joelle.”
I laugh it off. “Last night was a onetime deal, man. I won’t ever see her again. No reason to have this conversation.”
“Never say never and all that shit.” He raises an eyebrow like he knows something I don’t. Like he’s communicating with the universe to send Kendall back to me.
The confident look in Ty’s eyes unsettles me as I drive home.
But not in a bad way. In a way that gives me hope that I will see her again. That the universe is not out to get me after all. Joelle was a strange twist of fate sent to torture me for past sins. Maybe for sleeping around in college, and for years after that, without ever calling girls back.
Lesson learned—that’s for damn sure.
Walking into my apartment, I shake my head at the living room, at the hole in the wall that I have yet to cover up. It welcomes me home every day, which is why I spend as little time here as possible. Too many reminders of what I lost… and why.
I shake my head at myself for letting Kendall get to me like this. To give me hope. I’ve never been one for wishful thinking.
Never had a reason to be.
Chapter 15
Kendall
My heart beats loudly in my chest, echoing in my head above the music blaring from my headphones.
Sweat runs down my face, my muscles screaming, but I don’t stop.
One more rep.
When I do one more, I push myself to do another three before I drop the dumbbells by my feet.
Rubbing my shoulders while I take a break, I notice the room is empty, other than a guy doing rows in the corner with his back to me. This is rare, but when it happens, I take advantage. I grab my phone and stand up, twisting to the side and holding my arm out so it’s not flexed but not completely relaxed, then snap a picture.
I sit back down on the worn bench and study my selfie as a small group of guys walks in laughing.
It’s a good picture, Instagrammable even, if it weren’t for the shadow over half my face and the love handle hanging over my high-waisted leggings.
Emma says I should post these pictures, especially if I want to become a fitness influencer on Instagram like many of the women we follow—the main one being Samantha Ray, my idol. I’ve been toying around with the idea for several months, but I just can’t make the leap.
Drop out of college? Move to LA on a whim? Those leaps I had no problem making, but posting about my fitness journey is where I draw the line, apparently.
Shaking my head, I add the picture to the growing collection on my phone of others just like it, a graveyard of my progress pictures. But at least they’re safe on my phone where no one can see or judge me.
As I push the dumbbells up for my last set of shoulder presses, one of the guys who walked in earlier watches me. He’s laughing with another guy, but his eyes wander to me. I catch his gaze long enough to intrigue him, then turn back to my set.
With a deep breath, I push one knee up to get the dumbbell into position out to my side, then the other. Watching myself in the mirror, I count down the reps. I’m at eight when I see someone standing beside me, but I still don’t stop.
Four more reps.
Calvin Harris continues blaring in my headphones as I finish. Since Vegas last weekend, I’ve been listening to his music on repeat. I’ve also reinstated my flirting game full force, and now is no different. I turn my attention to the guy next to me, ready to turn on the charm.
Sebastian is the only guy to ever throw me for a loop, but now I’m back.
Well, my game is, but I’m not.
Just as it has in the past, my game has worked every time I’ve used it in the last week, but I haven’t gotten any dates. They’ve all asked, but I can’t bring myself to follow through. I did actually say yes to one, then ended up canceling at the last minute because thoughts of Sebastian wouldn’t allow me to function properly enough to even comb my own hair.
I pull one headphone to the side and meet this guy’s gaze. “Oh, hey. You need this bench?” I ask innocently, like I can’t read his smoldering look. Like I don’t know what he needs is me.
My assumptions are confirmed when his gaze lingers on my lips.
He looks back up at my eyes then, giving me his full attention. He’s tan with dark brown eyes, almost as dark as what I imagine his hair would be if he had any. There’s a light shadow across his bare head instead. His tank top is unable to contain his muscles, his traps coming up high and tickling his ears. “I’ve seen you in here a lot. Never did get your name.”
I raise my eyebrows, not impressed by his opener. If I’m going to get Sebastian out of my head, I need something better than this lame pickup line.
My eyes never leave his as I take a sip of my BCAAs—a godsend formula that Samantha Ray swears by for faster muscle recovery post-workout. “I’ll do you one better and give you my number.” I tear out a sheet of paper from the notebook in my bag that I keep for personal records and workout ideas. After I scribble my name and number for him, I hesitate, while he stands with his mouth open. His social skills are subpar, but his large eyes and sexy grin tell me he’s got potential.
Sebastian’s smile again clouds my memory. Shaking my head, knowing I’ll never see Sebastian again, I hand over the piece of paper. The thin sheet leaves my hand like it’s a contract, agreeing to a boring dating life until the end of time.
The guy closes his mouth as he accepts my paper, folding it and stuffing it into his pocket like it’s no big deal. Pulling my bag over my shoulder, I take off with a small wave, all the while I can see him watching me in the mirror. This gym is full of mirrors, plenty of selfie opportunities for the newbies. And the Instagram athletes trying to get noticed, to make it to enough followers for a sponsorship or apparel modeling opportunities.
When I first started training after I moved to LA, I considered doing this myself. I posted a few pictures and videos of me working out in the beginning. It went well, but then the nasty comments started rolling in about my double chin and back fat. Some even called me fluffy. I mean, who the fuck openly calls a person fluffy? That’s what I said to Emma. I acted tough, reassuring her that it didn’t bother me, but then I shed a tear over it while in the shower.
I became convinced afterward that all kinds of cameras add ten pounds.
I got messages from my high school “friends” judging me too, saying I’m fake and mean, all the things people from my hometown used to whisper behind my back like I couldn’t hear.
A couple more similar comments in the following weeks made the decision for me, that it’s just not for me.
Although I still follow many Instagram athletes and wonder what it’d be like to do the same, I always shut down the urge. I take a few selfies but never end up posting them. I can never get the angle right, the proper lighting to show my abs, or my hair to fall to the side.
I can never make the whole picture effortless yet sexy, like the pros can.
On the drive home, I almost forget about the guy I gave my number to, my thoughts plagued by my insecurities.
I sip on a protein shake and turn the radio up as I continue driving through back roads to get to our apartment. The song ends, and the hosts start a game for people to call in with their funny, hopefully even painful, dating stories. I snort as I sort through all the possible ones I could tell, not that I’d ever call in.
I laugh in silence now, from the clichés I’ve experienced to the truly unique, ranging from a guy wanting to take me “home” to his parents’ basement to going down on a guy whose dick tasted like Cheetos. After deciding it wasn’t worth it, I made an excuse and ran out of there like Chester Cheetah himself was chasing me.
To this day, I can’t eat Cheetos.
And now I can add “slept with a stripper” to my little black book. I could call in and tell them it was my best experience yet, but I’ll never see him again. And my chest has been aching ever since. How’s that for a story?
I roll my eyes at what my mother would call “my dramatics.” It’s what Adam used to call me too, saying I was too dramatic and why didn’t I just “chill”—which usually meant get naked for him.
Which then meant me doing all the work. I cringe thinking about how selfish he was in bed.
The first few times we had sex, I faked my orgasms. I felt like I had to, not that he paid attention. He didn’t know the difference, anyway—he never knew.
And I kept it that way for fear he’d think me dead inside. That he’d have one more flaw to harp on to emphasize my inadequacy. My urge to prove him wrong yet please him in any way overshadowed everything that I once was.
But all that did was kill the light inside me further.
Until Sebastian.
Until Sebastian said and did all the right things to breathe life back into me. To make me feel more alive than ever. One night with him is all it took.
He even made me believe there’s nothing wrong with me at all—that I’m beautiful and funny. Fiery, even, but in a good way. He actually liked my spunk.
I blush as I turn onto our street, thinking about the way he touched me, gripped me, owned me.
The radio host’s voice booms through the speakers with laughter at a caller’s story. I was too lost in thought to have heard it.
It wouldn’t matter, anyway. Cheeto dick is worse than any of them.
I rub my eye with one hand while the other blends my protein pancake mix, courtesy of the fabulous Samantha Ray. I’m slightly dreading the cardboard taste of the ground oats, but after having eaten them for the better part of the last year and surviving, I think I can make it through one more.
Which is what I say every morning.
“What’re you still doing here?” Emma says behind me.
“Well, I do still live here, unless you kicked me out and didn’t tell me?” I say, flipping the tasteless mixture in the skillet.
She bumps into me as she shuffles around the small kitchen we share for what I assume to be a quick and healthy snack. She’s fully dressed with enough makeup for a lunch date, even though it’s only eight thirty on a Saturday morning. Once she finds her granola bar, she turns to me and rolls her eyes. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work in an hour? You’re not dressed.” She looks me up and down. “Unless you’re planning on going in your sweaty spandex.” She cringes like that is, in fact, what I was planning, then walks over to the table.
Strip for Me Page 7
