by Lisa Moreau
Sydney burst through the swinging doors like a torpedo, gritting her teeth. “My stuff is off-limits, you hear? Did you…see anything?”
“No,” Emily lied.
“Good.” Sydney’s shoulders visibly relaxed.
Obviously, she didn’t want Emily to know what was in those boxes, which made her even more curious. Emily swept her gaze down Sydney’s body―her perfectly toned, scantily clad body. A fitted tank top clung to a trim, hard stomach, and shorts displayed muscular, long legs. Come to think of it, were those even shorts? They were high enough up her thigh to be considered underwear. Sydney showed more skin than Emily did when she showered. Maybe a slight exaggeration, but not by much.
“What?” Sydney looked down at her shirt. She’d obviously caught Emily staring.
“Could you put some clothes on, please?”
“What do you call this?” Sydney pointed at her tank top.
“They’re unmentionables!”
Sydney snorted. “Unmentionables? Are you sixty?”
Emily busied herself unpacking groceries and tried not to notice the way Sydney’s shirt hugged perfectly rounded, uplifted breasts. Inwardly, Emily groaned when she pulled out two cantaloupes. She wouldn’t be eating those any time soon.
Sydney sat on a stool and glared at Emily with sparkling blue eyes. “Did you find a place to stay in Ojai?”
“I told you I’m not going anywhere. I’m the one who paid for the cabin, remember?”
Guilt instantly clenched Emily’s insides when she appreciatively eyed Sydney’s tan, toned arms resting on the counter. Ogling hot, hard-bodied women when she was engaged wasn’t allowed. She forced her eyes upward to see Sydney practically drooling over the cantaloupe.
“Are you hungry?” Emily asked.
Sydney’s eyes shot upward. “No.”
“You can have one.” Emily used a celery stalk like a pool cue to roll a melon toward Sydney.
“I said I wasn’t hungry.” Sydney jumped off the stool.
They both looked at the phone when it rang.
“No!” Emily yelled when Sydney reached for it. “It might be Gretchen. My cell died so I gave her this number.”
“You didn’t tell your fiancée you’re shacking up with me?” Sydney grinned.
“We’re not shacking up.”
“Let’s make a deal. You leave tonight and I’ll let you answer it.”
“That isn’t a deal. It’s a bribe, you intruder.”
They both lurched for the phone, arms and legs pushing and kicking. Sydney pinned Emily’s left wrist down. She was so strong, Emily couldn’t budge. When Sydney placed her free hand on the receiver, Emily pinched her thigh hard.
“Ow.” Sydney released her hold and rubbed a red spot on her leg.
Emily grabbed the phone. “Hello? Gretchen?”
“Uh, no. This is Monica. I’m looking for Sydney.”
“It’s for you. Someone named Monica.”
Sydney gripped the phone when Emily thrust it at her. “Hey, Monica.” Pause. “No one. Just an annoying creature.” Sydney shot Emily a dirty look.
Emily opened the freezer and filled it with frozen dinners. Maybe Monica was Sydney’s girlfriend. She was probably a wafer-thin runway model. Sydney probably didn’t date chubby girls. Emily sucked in her gut and pulled on the waistband of her jeans. Maybe her mom was right. Maybe she did need to go on a diet.
“Addressed to me?” Sydney asked. “What’s it say?” Pause. “Well, open it.”
After a few seconds, Sydney turned ghostly white, closed her eyes, and rubbed her temple. “Seriously? Jesus Christ. I can’t catch a break.”
Emily quickly looked down when Sydney caught her staring.
“I gotta go.” Pause. “I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I’ll figure something out. Bye.” Sydney stood motionless and stared at a blank wall for several seconds.
“Problem?” Emily asked.
“No.” Sydney responded without even looking at her and walked out of the kitchen.
* * *
Sydney lifted the biggest box in the living room and dragged it upstairs, glad to have something physical to do to take her mind off her problems. She made several more trips until all the items were in the bedroom before she collapsed on the bed. How could she owe nine hundred dollars to the state? She should have never let Monica open that envelope. This wouldn’t have happened if Sydney hadn’t been so stubborn. She’d been sure she could do her own income taxes without any help. Boy, had she been wrong. How was she supposed to come up with that kind of money?
Sydney had always prided herself on being independent. She’d been able to get herself out of any jam, but she’d certainly done a bang-up job this time. Unemployed, broke, in debt, and let’s face it—she was a squatter. Maybe she should just head back to LA, look for a waitress job, and forget about the PowerBar audition. Who was she kidding anyway? They’d never hire someone who lived on the other side of the tracks.
Sydney sat up and put her hand on her growling stomach. She hadn’t eaten anything all day. She should have accepted that cantaloupe, especially since Emily was the one who’d ruined her energy drink.
“Damn pride,” Sydney uttered.
“What?”
Sydney jerked her head up to see Emily standing in the doorway.
“Are you eavesdropping?”
“No. Just passing by. Why do you get the bedroom?” Emily eyeballed the surroundings. “Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“How do I know?”
“You don’t have to be so snippy,” Emily said. “You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
“Worried about missing a weekend sale on Rodeo Drive?”
Emily puffed out her chest. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t shop there. What makes you think you know me?”
“Gargantuan diamond ring, BMW, and you said you own a fashion magazine.”
“It’s birds. As in, you know…” Emily wildly flapped her arms.
Sydney stifled a giggle. Emily looked pretty cute when she got riled up. Feet firmly planted on the ground, big brown eyes glaring, and a sweet-looking face that attempted to pull off ferocious without much success.
“And it’s a magazine that’s quickly going down the tubes, particularly when a very large, not-so-nice, burrito-eating farmer is standing in my way. So don’t you dare think you know me.” Emily turned and disappeared down the hall.
Sydney couldn’t help but grin. Emily was annoying but awfully cute and had loads of chutzpah. She closed the bedroom door, locked it, and stuffed the books in the closet—in a back corner so Emily wouldn’t find them. Next, she opened the long box and ran her hand down a smooth silver rod. If anything could make her feel better, it was pole dancing.
Thirty minutes later, Sydney had erected and secured a portable pole in the middle of the room. After doing a series of stretches, she clicked on some music, grabbed the rod just above her head, and pranced around it several times. She put her back against it, circled her hips, and slid down. As Sydney moved to the music, thoughts filled her mind.
I’m not smart enough. I can’t hold down a job. I’ll always be broke. I’m such a loser.
Sydney froze mid-turn. How many times had she told a student to pay attention to their thoughts the moment they stepped onto the dance floor? Something about moving one’s body always brings up insecurities and fears. Sydney would never forget her first lesson with Monica. Her mind had been filled with nonstop babble the entire time. She’d told herself she couldn’t possibly twist around the pole and hold herself up, at least not without landing hard on her ass. And forget about mastering more difficult moves like gracefully climbing. She’d been sure her arms and legs couldn’t hold her up.
Somewhere in the middle of the lesson, Sydney had become conscious of the negative self-talk. At first, she tried to ignore it, but when that didn’t work, she acknowledged the thoughts, let them go, and focused on the joy of the dance, and surprisingly it
was joyful. After some practice, Sydney had even conquered a move she never thought possible. She’d never felt so proud and empowered before.
Sydney grabbed the pole with both hands, so hard her knuckles turned white. She refused to let cynical thinking dissuade her from going after her dream. She’d go to that PowerBar audition and blow them away.
Chapter Seven
A Rat in Ojai
Emily hypnotically stared at the bloodred numbers on the digital clock. Three-fucking-fifteen a.m. She flipped her pillow, brutally punched it, and turned onto her side.
“Ow! What the hell is that?”
Something hard had poked her in the ribs. Luckily it hadn’t punctured a lung. The pull-out sofa bed in Jill’s office sucked. It was like sleeping on a wooden plank topped with a layer of nails. She bolted upright and winced when a sharp something-or-another pinched her ass. Emily hated confrontation more than anything, but enough already. Any sane person would have challenged Sydney hours ago.
She bolted out of the medieval torture device, stomped down the hall, and banged on Sydney’s door. What the hell was going on in there? Thunderous thuds and music blared at ear-deafening volumes. Was she doing jumping jacks to Rihanna or whoever the hell was straining her vocal cords? When she had no response, Emily tried to turn the knob, but it didn’t budge. Had Sydney locked the door? Did she think Emily would break into the room in the middle of the night and strangle her? Actually, considering everything, that wasn’t such a bad idea.
Emily was usually an even-tempered person, except when it came to Owen, but this really burned her up. She’d paid a lot of money for the cabin and was stuck sharing it with an annoying, disrespectful woman who was in her bedroom. After knocking until her fists were numb, Emily gave up and went downstairs. Maybe she’d have better luck sleeping on the couch…or not. It was certainly more comfortable, but she couldn’t escape the noise.
Emily looked at the clock. Three thirty a.m. She’d wanted to be up by eight to figure out her Fran problem. If she fell asleep right this second, she’d get four and a half hours, and if she nodded off at four a.m. she’d get only four hours. Emily spent the next ten minutes calculating how much sleep she’d get, dependent on when she dozed, each scenario worse than the last. She covered her ears with two throw pillows and grumbled four-letter obscenities normally not in her vocabulary.
* * *
Emily’s eyelids fluttered open as the sun streamed in through the curtains. The clock slowly came into focus after she rubbed itchy, swollen eyes. She’d slept approximately three point four hours, which was just enough to make her cranky as hell. She swung her legs off the couch and sat upright, head spinning. It would serve Sydney right if Emily banged on her door right now when she was probably asleep. She’d knocked at least three separate times last night, with no response. Anyone with even an ounce of human decency knows that you open a door when someone knocks. Instead, Emily opted for a long, hot shower, but not without making as much noise as possible, hoping she’d disturb Sydney.
After dressing, Emily headed into the kitchen for some breakfast. She rummaged through cabinets, aware that Sydney hadn’t bought any groceries. As thin as she was, she probably ate twigs. Emily grabbed a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts, paused, but then ripped open a package. She could diet later. Today she needed a carb boost. While the pastry was in the toaster, she chewed on her lower lip and surveyed what might be a coffeemaker…or part of a NASA rocket. Emily pressed a few buttons and tapped it with her palm, but nothing happened. Even though she desperately needed a java jolt, she lost interest when the Pop-Tart ejected. Sugar trumped caffeine every time.
Perched on a stool at the counter, Emily opened her laptop. She broke off a piece of pastry and shoved it into her mouth, burning her tongue. You’d think she would have learned that lesson as a kid. Obviously, she still didn’t have much patience, at least not when it came to Pop-Tarts. Emily clicked on her Google mail, hoping to see an email from Jill, but found nothing. Hopefully, she’d reply soon, and Emily could kick Sydney to the curb. She was sure she’d made up the story about Jill inviting her to stay in the cabin.
Emily groaned when she saw ten emails from her mother, all with subject lines about fitness. For laughs, Emily opened one titled Lose 10 lbs in One Week!
Hey Sweetie,
Boy, do I have the solution for you. It’s the Baby Food Diet! Everyone at the fitness center is doing it. You eat jars of baby food and lose a ton of weight. You have a wedding coming up, you know. Check into some Pilates classes in Ojai, too. Remember: you’re not going to get the butt you want by sitting on it.
Love, Mom
Emily shifted on the stool. What was wrong with her butt? Okay, so it wasn’t as perfect as Sydney’s, but she was probably a carbon copy of her mother, all about eating healthy and exercising. As though on cue, Sydney shuffled into the kitchen wearing the scanty outfit from the night before. Christ, she even looked sexy with her hair in disarray and half asleep. All the more reason to hate her.
Sydney went directly to the space-age-looking machine and fiddled with it. Within minutes, the mouthwatering aroma of coffee filled the air. She poured a cup, closed her eyes, and took a sip. Emily watched, impatiently waiting for Sydney to open her eyes. Bitching someone out required their full attention. Sydney took another drink and released a deep, guttural moan, which sounded terribly sensual. Emily let her gaze drift downward to the worse place possible: Sydney’s breasts. Could they look any more perfect? They probably weren’t even real.
Finally, Sydney opened her bloodshot eyes, and Emily was ready to pounce.
“Do you have any idea how many hours I slept last night because of you?”
Sydney stared for what seemed like an hour. Finally she said, “Don’t talk to me until after I’ve had my coffee.” She spoke slowly, with a voice that sounded like she was in the early stages of laryngitis.
“You wouldn’t be so tired if you hadn’t stayed up all night making so much noise. Just what were you doing in my bedroom?”
“Do you hear that sound coming out of your mouth? That’s talking.”
“You kept me up all night! I slept three point four hours. Did you not even consider that someone else was in the cabin? And why didn’t you answer your door?”
Sydney pressed two fingers against her temple. “I can’t handle this many words in the morning. Seriously. You’re giving me a migraine.”
Emily shook her head. Trying to reason with someone like Sydney was impossible.
“You have no regard for anyone else. Just like my mother. I bet you even eat baby food for breakfast.” Emily grabbed her mouse and clicked hard on the x to close out her email.
“Why do I feel like that isn’t a compliment?”
“Have you ever done the baby-food diet?”
Sydney placed her cup on the counter, looking suddenly awake. “I can afford to buy adult food, you know.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I meant to lose weight.”
“Oh.” Sydney rubbed her eyes. “God, no. Who would do that?”
“My mom. She’s a fitness freak. Her biggest regret in life was having an overweight daughter.”
Ugh. Why did Emily just say that? Especially to someone as sublime as Sydney. Being the size of a Hefty trash bag wasn’t one of her finest accomplishments.
Sydney pointed. “You?”
“Yeah…well…I lost it in college.”
“How much did you lose?”
“Let’s drop it.”
“Come on. Tell me.”
“You’re suddenly chatty for someone who doesn’t like words in the morning.”
“Please?”
Surprisingly, Sydney actually sounded sincere, and her blue eyes filled with what looked like compassion.
“Fine,” Emily said. She lowered her chin and practically whispered. “Fifty pounds.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. You should be proud of yourself.”
Proud? Try ashamed.
“I shou
ldn’t have allowed myself to get that big.” Emily stared at her computer, hoping Sydney would drop the subject.
“Maybe you were rebelling.”
Emily looked at Sydney. “What do you mean?”
Sydney moved closer and rested her elbows on the counter. “It sounds like your mom was strict with eating and fitness, right? Well, it would only be natural for a kid to want to do the opposite of what they’re told.”
“I do remember feeling empowered when I’d sneak candy bars behind her back. I felt in control, even though I was doing something that wasn’t good for me.”
“You were a little rebel.”
Emily was surprised when Sydney smiled. She really should do that more often. It made her look even prettier…and a hell of a lot nicer.
Emily grunted. “Hardly. I’ve always followed the rules, except when it came to starting my magazine.”
“The fashion…I mean, bird one?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t exactly the plan, according to Gretchen and our parents. So what do you do aside from waitressing? I get the feeling that isn’t your passion.”
“It’s so not. I’m a pole-dancing instructor. Well, I will be soon.” Sydney’s eyes sparkled and she beamed.
Emily couldn’t have possibly heard correctly. “You mean…you’re a stripper?”
Sydney looked like Emily had just kicked her in the shin. She hadn’t meant it to be mean, but seriously? Sydney was an exotic dancer?
“You’re just like everyone else.” Sydney crossed her arms over her flimsy cotton shirt. “We’re not all strippers, nor do we take our clothes off.”
“Sorry, but…pole dancing sounds so…so…”
“So what?” Sydney put her hands on her hips.
“Well…you know. Is that what you were doing last night with all the loud music?”
“If you don’t like it you can just move out. In fact, right now would be an excellent time to do just that.” Sydney rushed out of the kitchen.
