Chapter 16
brooks
The first thought I have is, So she did come here trying to catch me. The second thought is, Wow. Drew and Kit stop alongside me and we watch Izzy skate. She flies around the rink, fearlessly, like a fine sports car, smooth and wild all at once, magnificent.
We watch her move into the middle of the rink, and as the music builds to a crescendo, so does she. She starts to spin, and then her leg is up toward the back of her head, her back bowed. All I can do is watch in awe.
“Tell me this is the woman who is driving you half-insane,” Kit says.
I can’t take my eyes off Izzy. I’m fixated, like a child seeing something enchanting, magical, for the first time.
“’Cause all I can think is, are you in-freaking-sane for not wanting to tear this woman’s clothes off?”
I wrench my eyes away from Izzy just long enough to glower at Kit, then turn back to the scene in front of me. She stops twirling and bends over her knees, giggling. She looks happy. Truly happy. Exquisite.
Her laughter stops in an instant when all eleven of the guys I’m with start to clap and whistle. I can only concentrate on stopping my heart from pounding right out of my chest.
Izzy starts to skate toward the exit of the rink, and the guys sit on benches to suit up. Drew is last to move. He drops a hand on my shoulder. “You like her.”
“Nah, she’s just another Alice. A rich girl messing with a poor kid’s head.”
“Except you’re not that kid anymore. From where I’m standing, you’re in big trouble, Adams. Big trouble.”
“I’m starting to worry about that.”
I hardly feel my legs as they move me, mindlessly, toward her.
She steps off the ice, the change in momentum bringing her closer to me than she probably intended. “So, you changed the rink time to fool me.”
Up until this moment, I had completely forgotten about that. “So, you tried to catch me cheating. I may not have a degree in English literature from Cambridge, and I may not have come from much, but I’m not stupid. Look how your master plan backfired, Coulthard. Now I’m the one with you on camera not sticking to my rules.”
She swallows so hard I see it in her throat. “I don’t think you’re stupid. And how do you even know I have a degree in English literature?”
“I read the bio on your blog.”
“Whatever. What are you going to do with the pictures?”
Since I have no actual pictures because I was too busy gawking, I’m not doing much. But she doesn’t need to know that. “I want to run.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to run, in place of two dance sessions a week, or in addition to them. And I want to do light weights.”
She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me. I can almost see her cogs whirring. “Two runs, no longer than an hour, and toning, with your own body weight.”
“Fine.”
“And you’ll call a truce on the skating?”
“You also have to let me play hockey.”
“Fine.”
“And I want protein. Something lean. Chicken will do.”
“No. I draw the line at running, toning, and hockey.”
It was worth a try. “Fine. Agreed.”
“You’d better be true to your word, Brooks Adams.”
“If I’m anything, I’m a man of my word.”
She nods. “Shake on it?”
I take her offered hand. Despite her pink cheeks, her fingertips are cold. “Off the record, you looked unbelievable out there.”
I see the flicker of a smile before she puts her pout back in place. “There’s no room for compliments in business, Adams.”
She struts, as well as she can in figure skates, and my lips curl as I watch her walk away.
“Brooks! Let’s play! Get your skates on,” Kit shouts.
“Coming.”
* * * *
Day 3.
My member is as hard as steel when I wake. I don’t remember the specifics but Izzy showed me a damn good time during the night. There was definitely reverse cowgirl in there, and I’m pretty certain she let me venture to the never-never region.
I hit my 6:00 a.m. alarm to shut the thing up and cave in to the inevitable. Bringing my tissues within easy reach, I take my hand to my cock and let my mind go to Izzy. Her ass in Lycra. Her tits in those little white T-shirts she wears in the mornings. The roll of her hips in my hands as she dances.
Ah, yeah, like that…
* * * *
“You’re late,” Izzy says, moving the breakfast shake she has already made along her kitchen counter toward me. The easygoing, happy Izzy from the skating rink is gone.
She’s wearing one of those T-shirts and tiny shorts again. The skin of my neck heats. “Sorry, I had a few e-mails to deal with.” And I needed to fuck you in my head. You were good, by the way. That rich-girl attitude didn’t make an appearance.
I rustle up an omelet for Izzy and we sit next to each other on stools to eat. Or, in my case, drink breakfast. I seriously can’t wait until I’m allowed to eat real food again. I can feel my body shedding muscle and pounds on a daily basis. It’s killing me.
“How are you feeling?” I ask, wondering if she’s struggling as much as I am.
“Fat. Incredibly fat. It’s starting to make me feel… Never mind.”
“Go on.”
She stares down at the omelet she’s pushing around her plate. “Ugly.”
“Ugly? Are you joking right now? Izzy, you couldn’t look ugly.” The words seem to leave my mouth without my synapses firing messages. Yet, I don’t try to qualify the statement. It’s true. With the exception of the first day we met, she hardly ever wears makeup. She’s in sports gear most of the time. And I’ve never met a more naturally stunning woman in my life.
She exhales heavily. “I understand what you say, you know, about me putting on some muscle. I just find it hard.” She looks at me, as if she’s wondering whether to continue. We don’t exactly do heart-to-hearts. For some reason, she decides to talk. “I went to an all-girls private school. You’re probably thinking lesbian activity, right?”
“I swear I wasn’t until you put that into my mind. Now, yes, I confess I have a few questions about the shower cubicles.”
She pushes my shoulder roughly, but her forlorn look changes to a smile. “It wasn’t like that. It was bitchy and pretentious. It was a constant competition to be the best at everything. Academics. Sports, of the right variety, like polo and dressage. The way you dressed and did your hair. Your weight.
“Half of it was the parents. If they had the smartest, prettiest, slimmest daughter, they somehow had elevated social status. Being skinny became something that I had to do, not for me, but to please my mother. It’s hard for me to change that mind-set. I mean, I love feeling clean but I wish I could eat out without feeling guilty. I want to drink alcohol sometimes. God, I’ve lost so many friends, or at least people I used to think were friends, because I’m just no fun anymore.”
I don’t know why but I feel compelled to touch her. I drop my hand to her thigh. “We’ll work on it together.” She looks down at my hand and I realize it is touching her bare skin. Energy powers into my fingertips and courses through each vein and capillary in my body. I pull my hand away. That’s dangerous ground. “Your sense of humor failure, I mean.”
She hits me harder this time. “Bugger off!”
* * * *
I’m spotting for my PT client as he does bench presses. We’ve upped his weight today and he’s feeling the increase as he grunts and barks his way through each lift. He’s doing well. The problem is, I’m not. It’s past lunch and I’m still surviving on this morning’s shake. My hands are trembling, my arms are weak, and I’m wondering whether I’d be any use to this man if he were to get in trouble.
I’m fucking annoyed!
This whole damn PR stunt is making me put my own health on the line, but worse than that, it’s making me take risks with my clients. One of my other trainers, Leon, is doing his own workout on the multi-gym.
“Leon, can I borrow you, buddy?”
He comes over. “Sure, man, what’s up?”
“Can you spot for me? I’m not feeling great.”
“You got it.” I move aside and let Leon take my place. As I watch him assist in my session—the first time this has ever happened—the dull ache that’s been building in my head for the last few hours starts to throb incessantly.
Once my session is finished, I trudge up the stairs to my office. I’m drained, I’m irritable, and I’m in a lot of fucking pain with this headache. I close the door behind me and sink into my desk chair. It feels like my brain is pounding against my skull. The room shifts around me and begins to move in and out of focus.
I’m going to faint.
Bending across my thighs, I drop my head between my legs. Sweat beads form on my temples as I take deep inhalations.
“Brooks! What’s wrong?”
I feel Izzy’s hands on my shoulders. I want to slap them away. This is her damn fault. “I need some goddamn food, Izzy.” My words are little more than a mumble toward the ground but she must hear them.
“Are you feeling lightheaded?” she asks.
“Understatement of the fucking century.”
“Do you have a headache?”
“I’ve never had a fucking headache like it before. I’m fairly certain this is a migraine.”
She presses her thumbs into my shoulder blades as she massages me. “It’s withdrawal, that’s all. Your body is craving sugar and fat you’re not getting. It’s the detox working. You’re fine.”
That’s it. I dart up from my seat. “Fucking fine? Look at me. I’m a mess. You’re feeding me like a petite woman. I can’t even spot for—” Whoa, shit.
I plant my hands on my desk as my body sways. My vision starts to tunnel. I do what I tell my clients to do when they overexercise; I lie on the floor of my office and raise my legs. I’m vaguely aware of Izzy leaving the room. Probably finding this whole scene fucking hilarious.
When I start to come around, and stop sweating like a racehorse, I pull myself up to sit against my desk. The very last person I want to see returns. “Izzy, not now, all right. No more of your shi—”
She bends down in front of me. “Here. It’s your afternoon shake. I had them add a spoonful of protein powder.” I take the glass from her and immediately sip through the straw, feeling like a patient to her nurse. “You can have these too.” She opens a packet of almonds and I dive right in, groaning as I chew.
“Real food.”
“You’re such a wimp. Do you know that?”
“Don’t be pissy with me because your plan doesn’t work for anyone other than a one-hundred-pound child, Izzy. This is exactly why I said your methods don’t work. When it comes to your exercise, I’ll admit I can feel muscles tightening around my waist and hips that I don’t usually work out. But your nutrition advice is way off the mark. You need to tailor your plans to suit individuals, like I did for you.”
“I told you this morning that I feel fat. How is that tailored?”
“You only feel fat because you normally eat like a mouse. As your muscle builds, you’ll be using that extra protein. Honestly, I’ve added about four hundred calories to your diet, and you needed them. No one can survive on the shit you recommend.”
“Shit?” She stands, and the version of Izzy I know best—pouting, hands on hips, childish attitude—is back. “You’re an arsehole.”
“Oh, real mature, Izzy. Walk away because you hate the truth.”
“Get your arse up. You’re working out in half an hour. Kerry and Madge are here to speak with us before then.”
I tip my head back and fill my mouth with nuts, not caring that I’m starting to drool or that I have hamster cheeks. Hey, that’s a thought. Maybe I should store some for later.