by Tara Sivec
“I most certainly am paying you rent. I’m not a fucking charity case, Eric. Just tell me how much and I’ll pay you.”
I wonder if Cindy and Ariel would be opposed to adding a hooker option to our website. . . . Not that I’d be ready to do something like that, since I can’t even strip at the moment, but, you know . . . I could be a pimp or something. I’ve heard they make good money.
He yanks his hands out of his sweatpants and stalks across the room towards me, his eyes filled with fury that, I’m not gonna lie, is kind of hot after watching him baby that damn cat.
Eric stops when we’re toe-to-toe, shaking his head as he stares down at me.
“I know you’re not a fucking charity case. I’d like to think that we’re becoming friends, and there is no way in hell I’m letting a friend give me any fucking money to crash on one of my yachts. So be nice and just say thank you.”
Did he just friend-zone me? And why do I even care?
“Be kind, be grateful, and smile.”
Since I’ve already fucked up the smiling and kindness bit, I let out a sigh.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly, surprised when my skin doesn’t break out in hives.
My neck is still craned to look up at him, since he’s almost a foot taller than me. I swallow thickly when his eyes never leave mine. He’s standing so close that I can smell the soap on his skin from a shower he must have recently taken, and all sorts of dirty thoughts about him wet and naked in the shower fill my head. It doesn’t take much to imagine it, since he’s already half naked, and I’ve gotten an eyeful of the magnificent top half.
“There, that wasn’t so hard now was it?” he asks with a damn smirk, and the image of him standing in the shower with his hands resting against the tiles as water cascades over his body disappears with a poof.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, forgetting all about Belle’s damn voice in my head and her stupid articles.
Eric chuckles again, and I roll my eyes, turning to head back up the stairs and get away from this annoying man who is confusing the hell out of my body. He quickly reaches out and wraps his hand around my upper arm, stopping me from leaving.
“Got any plans today, neighbor? I was thinking of taking my yacht out for a little while. Wondered if maybe you’d like to come along.”
“As tempting as it sounds to be out in the middle of the water with you, miles away from shore with no way to escape, I have to go to a . . . yoga class,” I tell him, trying not to choke on the word yoga.
Much to my dismay, one of the suggestions in a few of the articles Belle sent me about gaining self-confidence was to exercise and be Zen, whatever the fuck that means. She assured me that I in no way needed to exercise and decided to latch on to the Zen part of that nonsense instead. Cindy got on board with that horseshit as soon as she heard it and they both bought me a pass to a yoga class today.
“Excellent idea. I’ve never done yoga, and I’ve always wanted to. I’ll go with you,” Eric says with a smile.
I jerk my arm out of his hold and shake my head. There is no way I can even attempt to be Zen with him on a yoga mat right next to me, bending and flexing his muscles.
“Nope. No way. It’s bad enough my friends are forcing me to do this shit, I don’t need you there breaking my concentration with . . . all of that,” I complain, swiping my hand up and down in the air in his general direction.
As soon as the words leave my mouth and Eric’s smile grows even bigger, I realize what I’ve just done.
“And by that I obviously mean the annoying annoyance of your annoying mouth that annoys me,” I quickly ramble, trying to backpedal and sounding like a complete idiot who doesn’t know how words work.
“Nice try, princess. It’s too late. I already know you want me, so stop fighting it. Also, since I know you don’t like the idea of living on my yacht for free, consider this your first month’s rent. I’ll drive. Just give me a minute to grab a shirt and put on some tennis shoes.”
He turns away from me, quickly walks across the living room, and disappears down a hallway. The smart thing to do would be to run as fast as possible up the steps, get in my car, and get out of here before he comes back.
Instead, I stay right where I am as Derrick Alfredo pauses in the middle of licking his own ass on the couch to look up at me, the expression on his devil face clearly saying, “Jesus, you’re an idiot.”
Chapter 9: Princess Sassy Pants
“Are you sure this is the right place?” Eric asks skeptically when he gets to the end of the long, winding dirt driveway and stops his SUV.
Both of us lean forward to stare out the front windshield at the sprawling white farmhouse a few hundred yards in front of us.
Glancing down at my phone, I double check the text Cindy sent me yesterday with the address to the yoga class, and then look up at the GPS on Eric’s dashboard screen.
“Yep, this is it. Looks like Farmer Ted’s Yoga Emporium is a bustling place,” I snort, craning my neck to look out all of the windows at all the cars parked in the grass on either side of the driveway.
“I really hope we don’t have to milk any cows as part of our entrance fee,” Eric mutters as he puts the SUV in reverse, flings his arm over the back of my seat and turns his head to back into an open spot between two cars.
I try not to openly stare at him, but it’s impossible. The position of his arm pushed the sleeve of his shirt up, giving me a nice view of his bicep, which is tensed as he holds the back of my seat while he maneuvers the car. This guy has straight up arm porn from his shoulder to his wrist, and I am weak. So, so weak for arm porn. He doesn’t have crazy, huge, gym rat arms that are so big he can’t wipe his own ass. He’s just got perfect muscle definition that tells me he works out, but isn’t a freak of nature about it.
“Wow, impressive,” Eric states.
“Yes, indeed,” I sigh, realizing as soon as I make that ridiculously, breathy noise that we’re not talking about the same thing.
Jesus, what is wrong with me?
I clear my head of all arm porn thoughts and realize Eric is looking around the property as he turns off the engine and gets out of the SUV. Taking a deep breath and thanking God he didn’t catch me ogling him again, I open my door and join him on the other side of the vehicle, and we walk through the grass towards the farmhouse.
Living in suburbia where there are sidewalks and professionally manicured lawns everywhere, car horns honking at all hours of the day and night, and so much light pollution that midnight could pass for noon, I’m actually kind of glad to be out here in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but trees and fields as far as the eye can see, and the only sounds are the occasional chirps of birds.
I suddenly don’t want to kill my friends for signing me up for this class. It’s a little weird to be taking a yoga class at a farm instead of inside a gym, but I can see why Belle and Cindy thought this would be a better option for me. Being inside a small studio, crammed close together with a bunch of irritating skinny bitches who complain about how the kale smoothie they had for breakfast is going to go right to their bony hips while the glare of fluorescent lighting highlights every bit of cellulite on my body would have surely ended in bloodshed.
Being out here in the open, with the sun shining down on me and plenty of room to spread out and just breathe the fresh air is already making me feel lighter and more relaxed.
“Hi! Are you guys here for GOGA?!”
Eric and I stop in the middle of the front lawn as a woman who looks like she’s in her early fifties, wearing a pair of black yoga pants and a hot pink T-shirt, steps down off the front porch and hurries over to meet us.
“I’m sorry, did you say GOGA?” Eric asks in confusion.
The woman laughs and points to the words printed in black cursive script across the middle of the shirt she’s wearing—GOGA: Relax, and don’t mind the poop!
“Yep, GOGA!” she repeats with a bright smile.
“What in the hell is a GOG
A?” I question, not entirely sure I want to know the answer, considering it has something to do with shit.
“It’s goat yoga!” she shouts happily, throwing her arms out in excitement.
What in the actual fuck?
“Goat yoga?”
“Goat yoga,” she confirms with a nod.
“Is there an echo in here?” Eric asks with a laugh.
He turns his head and looks down at me, my look of horror - slash - you’ve - got - to - be - fucking - kidding - me making his smile immediately drop.
“Follow me, you guys are right on time. My name’s Mary Lou and my husband and I own this farm and started GOGA about six months ago,” Mary Lou tells us as she turns and starts heading around the side of the house.
Eric takes off after her, and when he’s a few feet away, he looks back at me and sees I haven’t moved from my spot. He jogs back to me and jerks his head towards Mary Lou.
“Come on. This will be fun.”
“First of all, there is nothing fun about yoga to begin with. It was created as a way to torture prisoners during wartime,” I snap.
“I’m certain that’s not true,” Eric replies, the corner of his mouth tipping up in amusement.
“Whatever. I’m allergic to goats. I’ll go into anaphylactic shock, my airways will close up, and I’ll die a slow, painful death, clutching my throat, and staring at you the entire time croaking, ‘Why? Why would you forsake me?’ Do you really want that on your conscience?”
All of a sudden, Eric grabs my wrist and tugs me towards him. He turns away from me and starts moving faster and faster, until I almost have to run to keep up with him. I’m all prepared to kick my foot out in front of his ankle to make him trip and fall face-first into the grass when his hand slides down from my wrist and he laces his fingers with mine, slowing his pace when we reach Mary Lou. Warmth travels up my arm, starting where his palm is pressed against mine, and spreads across my chest. My throat immediately gets itchy and tight, and I start believing in the power of suggestion.
Am I seriously having a fucking anaphylactic episode?
I can’t even remember the last time I held hands with a man. Probably when I was back in high school with Sebastian, since there weren’t a lot of sweet moments like that after we got married. Or maybe there were but over time the bad stuff has eaten away at all the good memories until I can barely even remember them. For the first time in a long time, thinking of Sebastian doesn’t make me break out into a cold sweat or curl up in the fetal position and cry. I look down at mine and Eric’s joined hands and I feel . . . relaxed.
“If you guys want to head over to the side of the barn there, you can grab yourself a couple of yoga mats,” Mary Lou informs us when we get behind the house. She points to a huge red barn with multicolored stacks of rolled-up yoga mats set up on a cafeteria table right next to it. “Join us inside the fence when you get your mat and we’ll give a brief overview of the class, bring out the goats, and then we’ll begin.”
With Eric still holding securely to my hand, I glance over inside the white picket fence that closes off part of the farmhouse’s backyard and see around twenty people sitting on their mats, laughing and talking and looking completely happy about whatever this GOGA nonsense is. More of my irritation melts away.
How bad can this be? Maybe we’re just going to do yoga while a bunch of goats walk around outside of the fence, far enough away to not annoy me but close enough for people to reach through the slats of the fence and pet if they so choose. And since I hate all furry animals equally, I will not so choose.
“You’re going to have a blast!” Mary Lou tells us as she starts walking backwards, away from us. “And like my shirt says: Relax, and don’t mind the poop!”
With that, she turns and practically skips over towards the fenced-in area, and the power of Eric’s fingers, still laced through mine, starts to wane.
* * *
“Look, I’m not any happier about this than you are. Let’s just agree to get along and get this over with as fast as possible. Got it? Good.”
Eric’s laughter has me whipping my head in his direction and glaring at him. He’s on his yoga mat on all fours, just like me, with a twenty-four-pound pygmy goat on his back, just like me. Except his goat is tan-and-white and alternates between lovingly rubbing his furry face against the back of Eric’s head and curling up for a nap on his spine. The asshole on my back, who is all black with just one small white spot in between its eyes that I’m certain is the sign of the devil, alternates between angrily stomping her hooves between my shoulder blades and screaming in my ear.
“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand a word you’re saying. Just relax, breathe deeply and find your center,” Eric says with a smile as he slowly drops his ass back to his feet with his arms stretched out in front of him in Child’s Pose while that fucking goat of his just lies there calmly and rests his chin on his tiny little goat feet.
“Fuck you and fuck your center. She understands me. She understands me just fine,” I mutter, craning my neck to look back over my shoulder and glare at the farm animal on my back.
“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!” she screams right into my ear, angrily stomping her hoof into my back.
“GODDAMN IT!” I shout, jerking my body to try and throw the damn thing off me.
She doesn’t budge. She just digs her hooves in harder and continues to goat scream at the top of her lungs.
“Princess Sassy Pants, are you giving Ariel a hard time?”
I hear Eric snort next to me when Mary Lou shouts this from a few rows of people over.
“There is nothing funny about this,” I say to Eric through clenched teeth as I hold myself up on my hands and knees and try to remain perfectly still before the stupid goat tries to paralyze me.
“The fact that you got paired up with a goat named Princess Sassy Pants who is giving you a run for your money in the attitude department is nothing but pure enjoyment for me,” Eric informs me as he shifts back up on all fours and slowly lifts one of his arms and one of his legs straight out in a Balancing Table Pose while his goat continues napping on his back. “Isn’t that right, Prince Hot Stuff?”
I roll my eyes when he looks back over his shoulder at his sleeping goat.
“You paid off the owner of this farm and gave him that name, didn’t you? And forced this she-beast on me just to torture me,” I grumble, staring around in aggravation at all the people in different poses.
After we were given a half hour of instruction of basic poses, they left us to our own devices to practice whichever moves we felt comfortable doing with our goats. Some are sitting cross-legged just cuddling their goats, and some are doing more difficult poses while their goats walk around them, easily jumping on and off their backs when the moment arises.
“Are you saying my nickname should be Prince Hot Stuff? Because I’m perfectly fine with you calling me that from now on,” Eric says, giving me a cheeky smile and a wink.
I stare at the muscles rippling in his arms as he lowers his body to the ground, and I let out an aggravated huff when he’s lying flat on his stomach with his elbow on the mat and his chin propped up in his hand.
“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”
Another scream from Princess Sassy Pants makes me wince and angrily whip my head around to shoot her another glare.
“Listen, Sassy Ass. Let’s call a truce. You agree to stop screaming in my ear and digging your hooves into my back, and I’ll agree not to chop you up into tiny pieces, deep fry you, and have little delicious goat bites for dinner later.”
We have a stare down for a few seconds, and then she snorts and lets out the quietest baaaah I’ve heard out of her mouth in the last hour. She huffs, then plops down onto my back, curls up, and closes her eyes.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I whisper. “You’re my bitch.”
Right when I feel like I might be able to find some sort of Zen for the remaining minutes of the class, Eric suddenly lets out
a loud, girly, ear-piercing scream. I turn my head to see him jump up from his mat and watch Prince Hot Stuff go tumbling ass over end off of his back and onto the grass.
“MOTHERFUCKING SON OF A BITCH!” Eric shouts, shaking his arms, his legs, and his entire body as he jogs in place, twisting and turning and trying to look over his shoulder at something on his back. “HE SHIT ON ME! THAT FUCKING GOAT SHIT ON ME!”
My eyes widen in shock and my mouth drops open as Eric continues to flail all over the place. Little balls of goat poop drop from the back of his shirt onto the grass, which just causes Eric to shout and curse even more.
“Relax! And don’t mind the poop!” Mary Lou shouts over to Eric with a big smile on her face.
I immediately collapse onto my stomach, laughing so hard my eyes fill with tears. Princess Sassy Pants steps off my back and curls up next to me on my mat. I wrap my arm around her and continue laughing, both of us looking over at Eric when he finally stops bouncing around all over the place and crosses his arms over his chest in annoyance.
“It’s not that funny,” he complains.
“You’re right. Totally not funny at all,” I reply, trying my hardest to contain my laughter. But it’s no use. It bubbles right out of me and I smile up at him as I run my palm down Princess Sassy Pants’s head.
“Just relax, breathe deeply, and find your center,” I tell him in a sweet, placating voice, repeating what he said to me earlier.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying this.”
“Watching a goat shit on you is nothing but pure enjoyment for me,” I say, batting my eyelashes and giving him a taste of his own stupid medicine.
Mary Lou walks over to us a few minutes later, handing Eric his very own hot pink GOGA shirt so he doesn’t have go home wearing a T-shirt with goat shit on it. Scratching Princess Sassy Pants behind her ears, I swear I hear her let out a little goat sigh when he pulls his T-shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the side.
“I hear ya, sister,” I whisper in her ear as he quickly pulls the GOGA shirt on, picking up his dirty shirt from the ground between his thumb and forefinger and walking it over to a garbage can next to the fence gate.