Goddamn, his profile picture was fine even in sunglasses and a baseball cap. That smile was dangerous.
Okay. I’d harmlessly stalked him all night, but it only made things worse.
Way worse.
It was his fault. He had nearly no privacy on his account. Rookie.
I was able to see all his pictures. Most were of him at grand openings. A few where he was tagged by friends at events. Two of him were with a woman a couple months prior. Lucky bitch. Some with Reuben and a couple other guys.
It didn’t take me long to find and stare—for longer than I cared to admit—at one of him at the gym. Which, given the ribbon cutting picture I’d already passed, I assumed he owned as well.
According to Facebook, he had quite a few local businesses. For some reason, I really liked that.
Despite his numerous photogenic snap-shots, they were all trumped by one, solitary, shirtless gym selfie on his wall.
You know the kind. It’s one we’ve all seen.
Some are good, some aren’t. His was … whoa. Backward ball cap. All the abs you’d expect from someone who was confident enough to post such a photo. All the blood-pumping arm veins a pervert like me salivated over—why were veins so damn hot? Add to that a massive shoulder tattoo and a pair of grey sweatpants that left very little to the imagination.
Trust me, my imagination was already on overdrive—don’t ask where my hand was.
Moreover, it was the middle of the night, and I was home alone, on my fourth rum and Coke, and scouring Facebook for a guy who was clearly all wrong for me.
Not just mildly wrong for me, but epically wrong.
Cord Taylor appeared to be the embodiment of every man I should steer clear of. Beyond the typical handsome bachelor stats, I easily gathered from his page, he was even more.
Well off.
Well hung—don’t blame me, he posted the picture.
Well liked around town.
And the way he wore a suit was … well … fucking perfect.
I wanted him badly, but the days of me getting what I wanted were over. I’d made up my mind that I needed what was good for me more.
To be honest, our first interaction was weird as hell, but there was something about him, something I couldn’t get out of my head.
Wasn’t that always how it started? Attraction.
My downfall was that I was attracted to assholes. Tall, masculine, sexy assholes.
None of that was new information; it had always been that way.
In high school, it was the jock I dated. He’d been dreamy and hot, and I’d basically ignored how he’d treated all his previous girlfriends because of that one thing.
Attraction.
Then in college, I dated frat guy after frat guy. The athletes. The socialites. The rich dudes who looked like they’d walked right out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Again, they were the kind I’d always felt drawn to.
Trust me, gravitating to those types wasn’t easy for many reasons. I had to keep myself up. It was hair appointments. Shopping with money I could have much more wisely saved for trips or other things. Yet, there I was, still living in an apartment just off campus. If I had all that money back, I’d probably have a healthy down payment for a house.
Or the shrink I probably needed.
Emotionally, in the beginning, I think I just got used to the heartbreak of it all, then even that stopped. It had been a long, long time since a guy actually hurt me.
At first, when they’d break up with me, or I’d dump them for some embarrassing offense, it would sting. I’d lick my wounds, get drunk, and cry on Jodi and Becca’s shoulders. Then, I’d move on to the next one.
Only, I’d aim even higher.
I’m not going to try to self-psychoanalyze the why of it all. I’m sure it had something to do with being a late-blooming, ugly duckling. I’d been a really awkward preteen. Braces. Petite. No boobs. No curves to speak of at all until my junior year. Therefore, little attention from guys.
Thing is, most of the women I knew tried to lock a guy down. Get him under their thumb and hold on, never wanting to let go.
That wasn’t my approach. I was used to letting go. My way was more like: get yours while you can, and then cut your losses.
The only thing that made it any amount of fun was the rush at the very beginning. The fleeting possibility that this hot, out-of-my-league guy, might be different. Sometimes he’d be attentive at first, but I knew it was only a matter of time until his true colors would show. They always did.
I lived for the beginnings and had plenty of them under my belt.
So after I’d dug around under my bed, past the old college text books to the box with my—ahem—things inside, I lay there doing something only I knew how to do properly with one hand, holding up my phone with Cord Taylor’s naked top-half photo with the other.
That was as far as it would go. I wasn’t going down another self-destructive road.
It was time for me to grow up. Becca was getting married. Jodi already was, and she had a baby. I was older than both of them and, frankly, tired of the game. Tired of the endless cycle.
I wanted something that meant more to me, with someone who I meant more to in return. For the first time in my life, I had the desire for a real relationship. The kind where you get butterflies from their words, one with kindness. I wanted to wait impatiently for I Love You. The type of situation where you miss the other person and get excited when they walk into the room. I wanted someone to share holidays and special occasions with. Someone who wanted me to meet their family.
I was tired of being the girl who dated around. The one who everyone assumed slept around. Eternally single forever because she never looked for anything more meaningful than six-pack abs and free drinks.
Okay, I wasn’t that bad, but the path I was on was beginning to feel like a slippery slope. Let’s be honest; I loved free drinks too.
I wasn’t so cynical that I didn’t believe there wasn’t someone out there who I could have fun and build a foundation with—who was also someone I found attractive enough. But I’d heard, on more than one occasion, that women find themselves more and more attractive to men when they love them.
That’s one thing I had never done. Loved a man. Not really.
It’s kind of hard to let yourself fall in love with a guy when you’re always waiting for things to end.
Sad, huh?
Well, boohoo for Old Dana.
I was done with that.
As I rolled over in my blankets, I figured it probably wouldn’t hurt anything to join the new gym in town. I needed to look good for myself and for the potential love of my life—should he make an appearance. Plus, I was in a wedding coming up and my old treadmill was about to crap out.
I pretended it wasn’t to run into Mr. Just the Tip, but old habits die hard.
The place was nice. Clean. The lighting was flattering. The mirrors were hung up high and tilted at angles that made you look almost good even before you started.
The Fit Club even had a juice bar and a small retail area to buy apparel and other things one might need to get their fitness on. Supplements, weight belts, earbuds. You know? The stuff.
Like every other gym I’d ever joined, it only took a few minutes of strolling around before someone approached me.
“Hi, welcome to Fit Club. Are you a member?” asked a guy wearing a Fit Club shirt and a pair of gym shorts as he flipped a page on his clipboard.
Hard to imagine, right?
He wasn’t bad looking, but he was a shorter guy, standing only a few inches taller than me. A neatly trimmed beard covered his face, and he had brown hair that was starting to gray at his temples. Then, he looked up. “Oh, hey. You’re Dana, right?”
That was weird. Unless they strictly monitored all their new Facebook page likes, I was at a disadvantage.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
“I apologize. I’m Reuben’s friend. Nolan. I think you were with Becca the night they met. I was with him.” Now that he’d mentioned it, he was probably right. However, I only vaguely recalled that night.
If I remember correctly, I was distracted by a sexy bartender, who I only saw a few times before I ditched. His most erroneous offense was eating pussy like it was an ice-cream cone. One, long, front to back lick after another.
You can’t come back from that shit.
Okay, you probably can, but I didn’t have the balls to tell him. The magic was lost when I had to give sexual instructions.
Fun fact: a lot of too-hot guys are not all that good in bed. It shocks the hell out of me every time. Coincidentally, a lot of the ones who are good in bed will cheat on you—the shock factor of that wears off fast. Trust me.
“That’s right,” I said in my friendly, professional voice that I usually reserve for prospective students I’m trying to sway toward our school. “I remember. Can you believe they’re already getting married?”
“Actually, I can. I’ve never seen him like this with someone.” He chuckled. “It’s kind of pathetic, but Bec’s a cool chick. So I don’t give him too much shit about it.”
I smiled thinking the same thing about Becca. Instantly, we shared a bond two people have over poking fun at mutual friends. Nolan was all right.
“Yeah, she’s got it pretty bad, too. Suckers,” I added.
“Are you interested in joining? We have a promotion going right now for new memberships.” He propped the clipboard against his hip and gave me a quick, albeit appropriate in that setting, once over. “Are you a runner?”
Ha. I’d worn long yoga pants, a tank top, and a light jacket into the place. The people who design work out clothing know what they’re doing. I’ll give them that. There’s something about the way it holds you together, all tight and sequestered, that makes you nearly feel active, just by wearing it alone.
“Yeah, I have a treadmill, but it’s ancient. So I figured before I replace it I might try a gym for a while instead.”
“I know what you mean. I have stuff at home, and I barely use it. When I first started going to the gym to work out in college, that’s where it kind of changed for me. I liked going.” He leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “the views were nice—you know what I mean? And I noticed, that the more I went, the more I would do in each workout because I was already there and shit.”
I wondered if it was because we had mutual friends that he was talking to me like we’d known each other for years, or if he talked to all prospective members like that. Whatever the reason, it was entertaining, and I could see where he was coming from.
“Okay, give me your Fit Club promotional spiel. Make it good,” I challenged.
He pointed his pen at me and started walking off toward the counter. “Oh, I’ll make it good,” he fired back. “I’m just kidding. I got carried away.”
I giggled and followed.
After he ran down basic membership stuff and talked my ear off about the benefits of this gym over the others in town, I was already worn out, and I hadn’t even broken my first sweat.
“Okay, okay, okay. You got me. I’m in.” I slapped the top of the counter. “Just get me something to sign and take my money. Just, please, stop talking.”
“Ah,” he sighed and held up his pointer finger. “Words all men love to hear. My work here is done.”
I unzipped the pocket on my jacket where I’d stashed my debit card and my cell, in the event I decided to join.
The phone behind the counter rang, and he looked at me briefly, asking permission to answer it. “Go ahead. I don’t mind.” I understood what it was like to be busy.
Shifting down the counter a few feet, I pulled a rack card off the display. It had a schedule of classes they offered.
“Good morning, Fit Club. This is Nolan.”
It’s not eavesdropping if you can’t help it, but, out of politeness, I gave him some space to take the call.
“I felt just fine, Dickface. I was here before anyone else. Thank you very much.” He chuckled, then added, “Eat shit.”
So it wasn’t just me who he spoke to like that.
“You know, I have to let you go. I just sold a membership to a very nice lady, and she’s waiting on me to finish up her paperwork. I’ll talk to you later.” He made some sarcastic mmmm hmmm sounds and then said quickly. “Actually, you might know her. She’s friends with Becca.”
That’s when my ears perked up, but I continued fake-reading the pamphlet.
He said in a hushed voice, probably hoping I couldn’t hear, “Yes, red indeed. I have to go, Cord.” He slammed the phone down.
After Nolan cleared his throat, he said, “Sorry about that. Damn telemarketers.”
I tried not to laugh because I knew better, but knowing it was Cord made behind my ears tingle, and my stomach tighten.
Nolan showed me around and walked me through the back rooms where the classes were held; they even had aerial yoga. He pointed out the shower and locker rooms, which I didn’t plan to use much. I only lived about five minutes away.
After answering a few questions about some of the machines I’d never used before, he told me that there would always be someone here between six in the morning and eight at night. Although, with my key card, I could use the facility twenty-four hours a day, if I liked.
Since it was still early in the day, and the place wasn’t all that busy, I stayed and climbed onto one of the stair stepper machines. I put in my ear buds, which I’d retrieved from my car, and took out my phone to find some music.
Then, I opened Facebook first because I’m a fucking slave to it just like everyone else.
A red dot over the private messages caught my eye. I got a few messages, every once in a while, but not many. About half of them were friends or family, the other half are those weird fuckers from God only knows where wanting to send me pictures of their dicks in exchange for pictures of my boobs.
No thank you, sir. Buy me a drink, and I’ll think about it.
I tapped on the chat bubble, almost automatically, to see who it was and what the hell they wanted.
Cord Taylor had sent me a message at nine a.m. on the dot. I nearly fell off the machine.
Fuck.
My.
Life.
Dana,
I’d like to introduce myself, like I should have before this morning at The Bean Bag. Sorry, if I was preoccupied and possibly rude to you.
It’s actually funny to think we’ve never bumped into each other since your sister works at the shop. On top of that, our close friends are getting married.
Small world.
Anyway, it was nice to meet you. See you soon.
Cord
What in the fuck was I supposed to do with that? I read it three more times. It really was a small world. I’d thought that myself only yesterday. Only it turned out it was getting smaller and smaller by the minute.