Carter
HELLO? 911? MY emergency is this: I’m fucking dying.
I’m gasping for air as I try to follow the Zumba instructor’s choreography. I need water, preferably gallons of it. But I didn’t bring a water bottle—because I’m a dumb ass. Maybe sucking the sweat above my upper lip will do the trick.
Tori neglected to tell me that Zumba is a cult, and its followers are insane. No, these women are sadists, and Eva, the instructor, is their mistress, cracking her whip at everyone—especially me. She keeps referring to me as “Mr. Tall Drink of Water,” and she’s watching my ill-fated moves like a vulture with her sights on roadkill.
Beside me, Tori’s enjoying my torment. She’s a sadist like the rest of them. I don’t understand how they can move their feet this quickly, while their arms do something altogether different. Just when I think I’ve gotten the hang of a move, they switch to another one. Plus, my hips don’t move like that. They just don’t.
“How you doing over there, Carter?” Tori asks.
My eyebrows are pinched in concentration as I count out the beats for the next combination. “Can’t talk right now, Ms. Alvarez, but it’s not as bad as I expected it to be.” I’m trying to keep my voice even, but the words sound like they’re being forced out my lungs. My pulse is racing. It’s not the exertion. It’s the pressure of having to remember all the steps. Stop laughing; it’s true.
Tori smiles, not a sheen of perspiration on any visible part of her body. She’s not breathing hard, either. “Bien, bien. Glad to hear it.”
I must admit the music’s great. Lots of drums and horns and a thumping base. We’re doing an easier combination now—just three hops, a slide, and a pumped fist in the air—and I’m smiling for the first time.
“Now, switch,” the instructor shouts at us.
Apparently, I’m the only one in the class who’s struggling because when I look up thirty-plus sets of eyes are on me. Yes, the entire class is facing me. I might as well be naked. The shame is real, people.
Tori’s eyes twinkle, and her lips are compressed. She’s trying hard not to laugh, and I welcome her reaction, even if it’s at my expense. It means we might be able to get beyond my initial stupidity. Maybe, just maybe, I can prove to her that I’m a decent guy who made a mistake.
Another twenty minutes of abuse later, Eva the Tyrant talks us through the cooldown period as she meanders around the room, occasionally correcting someone’s form. I tense when she approaches me. Perhaps if I don’t blink she’ll move on without commenting on my stretches. But of course, she slows and plants her hands on her hips. “Goodness, you’re a flexible one, aren’t you? It’s not often that a man in my class can touch his toes like that.”
Tori stretches her arms over her head and falls to her side, glancing at me before she drops her head. “Time to wrap this up, Eva.”
Eva straightens and smiles. “Right.”
After a few more stretches, Eva thanks everyone for coming, and her students, myself included, clap and cheer. As people trickle out, a few members make eye contact with me, and one of the guys in the class extends his hand to shake it. I give him a fist bump instead and then grab a towel to dry my wet face.
Tori sidles next to me and sips on her water bottle, nowhere near resembling someone who just completed a forty-five-minute fitness class. “What did you think?”
I’m wheezing as I respond. “That was great. I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”
She drops her shoulders, and her bright smile fades to black.
Now why would that be? Didn’t she want me to enjoy Zumba?
“No complaints?” she prods.
Ah, I get it. She must think I’ll reconsider the arrangement if I hate her training plan, and she’s trying to break me. Well, let’s have some fun with this, shall we?
“So, Tori, the first day of training has got me hyped for more. What’s on the schedule for tomorrow?”
She gives me a smile that makes the hairs on the back of my arms stand. “We’re not done for today. But to answer your question, tomorrow is hot yoga.”
Fuck. That doesn’t sound cool.
I EASE MY aching body into the tub. Tori kicked my ass today, employing a regimen of weightlifting and muscle-building exercises that pushed me beyond any training I’d ever done before. For the next six weeks, I’ll be alternating between sessions for my chest, biceps, triceps, legs, and abs. And after an hour-long meeting with a nutritionist, I have a diet plan that consists mostly of eggs, chicken, beef, avocado, and nuts.
I’ll be taxing my body, yes, but this is a small price to pay for the chance to land a career-defining role. Plus, I get to spend time with Tori. If I play this right, I’ll warm the cold shoulder she’s been throwing at me since I reappeared in her life. But first a soak, eight hours of sleep—Tori’s orders—and finally hot yoga.
After my bath, I throw on a T-shirt and boxers and call my sister Ashley. Although there’s a hot yoga studio on every corner in LA, I’ve never ventured inside one. I figure Ashley might be able to give me some tips so I don’t make an ass of myself in front of Tori.
Ashley picks up after the first ring. “Hey, bro. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. What about you?”
“Oh, you know, I almost smacked a passenger on yesterday’s flight, and my supervisor thinks I pour too much Dr. Pepper during beverage service, but other than that, life’s great.”
Ashley’s a bit of a rolling stone—it’s been years since she’s settled in one place—so you’d think being a flight attendant would be the perfect gig for her. Spoiler alert: It’s not. “Why’d you almost smack a passenger?”
Ashley growls. “She kept stretching her feet out in the aisle and made me trip twice. When I asked her—nicely, I might add—to keep the aisle clear, she sucked her teeth.”
Oh no. Not teeth sucking. That’s Ashley’s pet peeve. “I’m guessing she didn’t comply.”
“She did after the beverage cart accidentally clipped her ankles.”
“Well done, sis. Well done.”
“So what do you need, Carter?”
“I’m looking for tips. What do you know about hot yoga?”
“It’s yoga, and there’s lots of sweat involved, and because there’s sweat involved that’s the extent of my knowledge. Ashley doesn’t do perspiration. Not that kind, at least.”
“First, stop talking about yourself in the third person. You’re not an actor. Second, even a hint of sexual activity on your part is strictly forbidden during our conversations.”
“Okay, fine. Ashley was going to tell you about her initiation into the mile-high club, but never mind.”
“You’re a brat.”
“And that’s among the many reasons why you love me.”
“I’m confused. You were all psyched about kickboxing six months ago.”
“You’re so behind it’s sad. Carter, I was psyched about kickboxing six months ago because I was interested in my instructor. He had zero skills in bed. So no more kickboxing.”
“I’ll let that breach of our agreement pass. But you should have stuck with the instructor. Johnny Doche was not an improvement.”
“Au contraire, mon frère. He was an improvement, but not in the way you’d want to hear about, so let’s leave it at that.”
“Yes, let’s.” In fact, I’d gladly allow someone to snatch this conversation from my memory if they were so inclined.
“Wait. Why are you doing hot yoga?”
“I’m training.”
“But . . . hot yoga. Why?”
“I’m not sure, but I have a theory.”
“Which is?”
“My trainer’s playing me.”
Ashley laughs. “Is your trainer a woman?”
“Yep.”
“Does yoga relate in any way to the role you’re preparing for?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, you’re definitely being played. I wish I could be there to see it. What’s the woman’s name?”
“Tori-not-short-for-Victoria.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s Tori.”
“Are you interested in her?”
Interested is an underwhelming word in this context, but I can’t explain this to Ashley without opening myself to all kinds of sisterly abuse. “I’m definitely interested.”
“And she wants you to take a hot yoga class? Carter . . . you’ve met your match.”
“You may be right.”
“Why does she feel the need to play you?”
“I have a theory about that, too. She’s not interested in dating someone in the public eye.”
“Oh, she’s a keeper, Carter. Do you know what you have to do?”
Tell me. Tell me what to do. Please. “What?”
“Be Carter Williamson.”
I move the phone away from my ear and frown at it. “I am Carter Williamson,” I say in a loud voice.
“Yes, yes, I know that, but to her, you’re Carter Stone. In her mind, he represents a life she doesn’t want. But that Williamson guy is a different proposition. He’s the one she could fall for.”
“She needs to accept all of me if we’re going to make it work.”
“Baby steps, Carter. Baby steps.”
“Okay, thanks for the advice,” I say on a yawn.
“Am I boring you?”
“No, Ash. I’m exhausted. Anyway, when will I see your pretty face?”
“Not sure, Carter. I don’t have my schedule for the next few weeks yet. I’ll get it soon and let you know. But I’m doing fine. No need to worry about me, okay?”
Which reminds me . . . “Did you see Julian when you were in LA last week?”
“Yeah.”
Static fills my ear, and then Ashley’s talking to someone on her end.
“Gotta go, Carter. We’ll catch up soon.”
WHEN I ARRIVE at Hard Core the next morning, the kid at the front desk hands me a temporary ID and several sheets of paper.
“What do we have here?” I ask him.
“That’s your temporary gym card, sir, and that’s the waiver form for hot yoga. Tori left them for you.”
A waiver? That’s never comforting. Plus, where the hell is Tori? For someone who claims to be my personal trainer, she’s being noticeably impersonal now.
The club provides its members with a swank lounging area that belongs in a dance club rather than a gym. Situated twenty feet beyond the reception desk, a large-screen television, tuned to ESPN, dominates the space and is flanked by two large velvet couches. To the right, two staffers prepare smoothies at a health drink bar where members in athletic clothes flex their well-earned muscles. One guy’s pecs are particularly distracting. He plainly never heard the rule that your tank top must be big enough to cover your nipples. If I doubted his ability to kick my ass, I’d tweak them.
Pen in hand, I claim a space at one end of the couch and drape the waiver over the tufted arm. Hmm, let’s see. It begins by setting out the relevant parties: the gym and me. Then it gets cutthroat. The waiver states that by signing it I acknowledge:
“The room in which the ninety-minute class will be conducted will be maintained at a temperature of 104 degrees and at a humidity level of 40 percent.” In other words, I’m taking a class on the surface of the sun.
“Proper hydration is an essential component of the hot yoga experience. Hard Core urges the participant to hydrate before, during, and after the class.” Okay, cool. This time I remembered my water bottle, so that shouldn’t be a problem.
“If the participant experiences dizziness, shortness of breath, heart palpitations, or any other unusual signs of physical distress, the participant will immediately advise the instructor so that medical attention may be sought if necessary.” Damn, is Tori trying to kill me?
“Participant has read and understands the risks associated with participating in the class and agrees to hold Hard Core harmless for any injuries associated with such participation.” So let’s see if I’ve got this right: If Tori is trying to kill me, which seems more probable now than ever, I agree not to sue her?
Despite my reservations, I sign the waiver and hand it back to the kid. His name tag says Darryl.
He removes his headphones. “Enjoy your class.”
Although I’ve signed the waiver, I’m not enthusiastic about it. I’m tempted to ditch hot yoga, but I’m sure Tori would love to claim that I’m violating the spirit of our agreement, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction. Besides, how bad could this class possibly be?
Twenty minutes later, the verdict is in: It’s bad. Very bad. By this point, my body temperature has adjusted to its new normal, and the poses have moved beyond the Mountain Pose and Downward Dog. The instructor assures everyone that we should go at our own pace, demonstrating modifications for those with less flexibility.
Still, no accommodation will make a difference when I’m sweating profusely and sucking water from my bottle like a dog lapping at his bowl. My body is so hot I’m itchy, and my shorts and T-shirt are drenched in perspiration. At this point, I’m not doing much of anything. If there’s a dazed yoga pose, that’s what I’m attempting.
Next to me, Tori bends in ways that make my own muscles protest in pain. While on her knees, she bows her back and touches her forehead to her knees as though she’s presenting her ass as a gift. I don’t want to think of the obvious benefits of such a position in bed, but my fuzzy brain goes there anyway. Damn, it’s fucking hot in here.
“Carter, breathe,” she whispers. “It’s not as hot as your brain thinks it is.”
“It’s not my brain, Tori,” I say between ragged breaths. “It’s my pits, my ass, even the soles of my feet. And I don’t mean to be crude here, but my man parts are sizzling. This is supposed to help with stress?”
“It does help.”
“Then I’ll suck it up because I definitely need stress relief.”
Her head jerks up. “What do you have to be stressed about?”
“I’m trying to land an important role, and it’s annoying as hell that getting it probably hinges on whether I’m in shape to the filmmakers’ liking. It’s crass.”
“So why do it?”
“Because I want the part, and sometimes you have to accept the realities of a fucked-up situation to get what you want.”
“This really matters to you.”
She says this as though it’s surprising. Like she thought I was goofing around about needing to regain the weight.
A woman near us grumbles, probably pissed that we’re messing with her concentration.
Tori unfolds from the kneeling position. “C’mere. Sit down and face me.”
I crawl over and sit across from her. “Now what?”
“Now widen your legs in a V.” She does the same. “We’re going to help each other stretch, okay? All you have to do is hold my wrists and pull me forward.”
She’s giving me permission to touch her? I’d skinny-dip in a volcano for a chance like this. So I grasp her wrists gently and pull her toward me, and she flattens her back, her nose nearly touching the floor.
“Hold for seven,” she says. Then she straightens to an upright position. “Now you.”
She circles my forearms with her soft fingers and pulls me. My nose gets nowhere near the floor, though.
“Relax into it,” she says in a calm voice. “Don’t worry about how far down you go. Just soften your body.”
The muscles in my back lengthen and release, and I moan as she counts for seven seconds. “Oh, that feels so good, Tori. So, so good.”
Above me, I hear a small noise. Like a yelp. No, no, like a whimper.
“Sit up,” she says.
We both straighten. She refuses to meet my gaze, and her face is flushed. Did hot yoga put that color in her cheeks? Did I?
She jumps up from the floor and helps me stand. But I don’t have my bearings. Seconds later, I’ve lost all sense of place and time. An angel hovers near my face.
“Carter,” the vision says.
She waves a hand in front of me, and my body sways toward the welcome breeze caused by the movement. It’s Tori. I blink several times and then shut my eyes to be sure. When I open them, she grabs my wrist and pulls me out of the room, waving at the instructor on her way out. The cool air outside the studio pricks my skin like a million needles.
“Come with me,” she says in a voice that’s devoid of emotion.
I follow her up the stairs and down a long hallway, until we reach the door to a room marked “Staff.” She motions for me to enter.
The room is dim, and there’s an entire wall of lockers. Two benches sit in the middle, and a couple of desks face each other near a single floor-to-ceiling window. Function over form, 100 percent. “What’s going on, Tori?”
She blows out a breath and meets my gaze. “We need to talk.”