I take a step backward and rub my forehead, looking from the closed sign to the piece of paper taped to the glass on my right.
SORRY FOR THE INCONVIENENCE, BUT WE ARE REMODELLING THE GYM FOR YOU! PLEASE COME BACK ON MONDAY THE 11TH FOR OUR GRAND RE-OPENING.
TUESDAY THE 12TH^
“Tuesday?” I say aloud to no one. “That’s seventy-two hours past Friday, you idiot.”
“Just a minute,” a voice answers from inside the gym, startling me. I squint through the silvery reflective film on the glass doors to see inside. The new gym owner himself appears, holding up his hand for me to wait. Even in worn out sweatpants and a white shirt with paint splatters all over it, he looks hot as hell.
I think about turning and running to my car but, I’m twenty-seven years old and twenty-seven year old women don’t run away when they feel stupid.
Kris grabs a set of keys off the front counter and jogs to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. “You here to work out?” he asks, glancing over my wardrobe of black yoga pants, hot pink Nikes and a matching pink racerback tank top.
“Well I was,” I say, stepping inside and looking around the room at all the shiny new cardio machines. Instead of sweat and rubber, it now smells like a mixture of new plastic and fresh paint. “But I thought I had to work today. I didn’t realize the place was still closed.”
“Yeah, I underestimated how much time it takes to paint.” His eyes look off to the left and then back at me. “Err… plus I thought I’d have another helper here to paint, but he’s not allowed to hang out with me anymore.”
I know who he’s talking about and I really, really, wish I didn’t.
I toss my bag under the front counter and shrug. “I could help you if you want.”
“That would be awesome.” Kris leads me into the dance room, where the polished wooden floor is now cloth-covered and full of paint buckets, paint trays and two paint rollers—one clean and unused. He hands me the new roller and folds his hand into a finger gun, pointing it at me. “You deserve a raise, my lady.”
We work in mostly silence, painting the dance room walls a shiny black, a color that looks so much better than the old dried-blood-red that was on the walls before. He says he always thought black looked best in a dance room with mostly mirrors, and that the rest of the gym will be painted navy blue.
Kris thanks me for helping him—the third time he’s thanked me since I started rolling paint on the walls over two hours ago. “It’s no problem,” I tell him, dunking my roller back into the paint tray. “I’m technically an employee here so it’s my job to help. Plus, I need the workout and this is killing my arms.”
“We could strap some five pound barbells on the end of your roller stick if you want a better workout,” Kris snorts, painting the higher parts of the wall that I can’t reach. I duck under him and his roller to paint the lower part of the wall next to him. When my roller goes dry, I look around the half-painted weight room.
“Do you plan on getting all this painting done tonight?” I ask.
He drags his roller across the wall and looks at our progress. “I’m not sure. I guess we can just paint until we’re too tired to go on. You can stop now if you’re worn out.”
“Excuse you?” I ask in a mocking voice. “I am nowhere near being worn out, Mister Bossman.”
He smiles, that smile only Kris Payne can make, and says in a voice just as sarcastic, “Oh yeah? Why don’t you try painting up to the ceiling, Miss I-just-paint-what-I-can-reach.” To drive his point home, he reloads his roller with paint and then slaps it to the wall, painting the spot just above my head, all without breaking eye contact with me.
For a second I feel like we’re in high school again, flirting and picking on each other, knowing there won’t be consequences. Maybe that’s what makes me take my roller and press it to his shoulder, lifting my eyebrows in a what are you gonna do about it expression while I drag the roller down his arm, leaving a trail of wet black paint.
Kris’s mouth falls open as he looks at his painted arm. “I can’t believe you did that,” he says.
I hold my paint roller to my mouth and blow on the end as if it’s a smoking gun. “Well, believe it. This girl doesn’t mess around.”
His paint roller is cold when it presses to my arm the next instant, dragging all the way to my elbow before I shriek and jump, slamming my back into the freshly painted wall.
“Ah, shit!” I pull away and crane my neck to see the damage done to my shirt. Kris bursts into a satisfied laughter, clearly thinking he’s won this round.
“Don’t you dare laugh at me, Kris Vernon Payne.” I say his hated middle name with emphasis as I press my roller to the front of his white shirt and roll it up his chest. He lifts an eyebrow and paints my other arm. Pressing my lips into a thin line, I swipe my roller across his other arm.
His eyes meet mine and he lowers his head, his eyes narrowing into attack mode that makes him look so fucking sexy, my insides turn to mush. My roller falls to the floor. I bite my lip and take off running, jumping over the paint buckets and through the door that leads into the main gym. Kris follows me, his footsteps lighter and quicker than mine.
I reach the opposite side of the gym, my hands slamming into the corner walls. Kris lets out a deep, faux menacing laugh. Warm fingers grab my wrist and slowly turn me around. “You’re trapped now, sweetheart,” he says, pressing the paint roller to my neck. Cool, wet paint sticks to my skin and I shudder.
“Gross,” I whisper, pulling my head to the side. This only makes him slide the paint roller further up my neck, cocking his head to the side as he watches me struggle to find a way out of this.
But it’s so much fun I’m not sure I want out.
“These are deplorable working conditions,” I say, somewhat out of breath although I’m not sure why. I didn’t run very far. His cocky grin makes it hard to keep a pretend serious face, but I try anyway. “I should sue you. Once this paint dries, it’ll be a bitch to get off.”
His eyes narrow in frighteningly sexy way. “Well then let’s not give it time to dry,” he whispers, his lips just inches from mine. In one swift motion, drops the paint roller and slips his arm under my knees, lifting me off the floor. I let out a squeal, instinctively throwing my arms around his neck for balance. He spins around and carries us toward the locker rooms, stepping over empty boxes and paint supplies.
My heart pounds so hard I bet he can hear it. He’s probably going to drop me off at the showers and tell me to clean off, so I shouldn’t be so nervous. But my stomach twists into excited knots when he bypasses the door to the women’s locker room and ducks inside the men’s door. I’ve never been in here before.
Kris walks into the first shower stall. His tongue sticks out as he concentrates on balancing me in his arms and turning on the hot water. When he finally finds a way to twist the water lever, warm water bursts out of the faucet, splashing us in the face. I slam my eyes closed and bury my face into his chest to avoid it.
Without saying a word, Kris bends and sets me back on my feet. The water sprays between us, soaking our clothes and hair. I reach up and pull the hair tie out of my ponytail. Kris holds his palm under the automated soap dispenser on the wall and then lathers his hands together, making them foamy. He presses his hand to my neck and rubs off the wet paint, careful not to pull my hair.
My head twists to the side, begging for more of his touch. I reach up and rub my hands over his biceps, the wet paint peeling off with each swipe of my hand. Kris washes the paint off my arms and shoulders. Chills prickle down my arms at the touch of his rough hands on my skin. The warm water causes the small shower to fill with steam, making his gorgeous face appear blurry as if I’m dreaming. Maybe I am, I don’t care.
I stand on my toes and grab his shoulder, pulling myself high enough to rub off the paint on his forehead. His hands wrap around my waist, pressing into my lower back and pulling me closer to him. Without thinking, my hand slips under his shirt. The sensatio
n of his hard stomach on my fingers makes my hands move on their own accord…slipping up higher from his waist, to his belly button to his chest.
Kris releases me and grabs his shirt, pulling it off and hanging it from the towel hook on the wall. I swallow. His chest is even more glorious in person: golden tan, bulges in all the right places, and just a hint of stubble across his chest. I have to touch him. My fingers slide across his chest, stopping at his shoulders.
With a smirk, Kris hooks his fingers inside the waistband of my yoga pants and pulls, making me crash into him. He slides out of my pants and places his hands on either side of my hips, slowly lifting them up my sides, taking my tank top with him. I raise my arms and allow him to take off my shirt. Without so much as a tentative eyebrow lift to ask my permission, Kris unhooks my bra and slips it off as if he does this every day. My clothes cover his shirt on the towel hook.
I’m thankful the steam covers the pulsing in my chest.
My back presses against the tiled wall, forced there by the weight of his body. His hands touch the wall on either side of my head as his eyes narrow, fixing me with a stare that is all hunger. I gasp as his body presses against mine, hard in all the right places.
Trying to avoid his gaze, I turn my head to the right. But that only makes things worse when he lowers his lips to my neck, kissing me and then dragging his warm tongue from my collarbone up to my ear. I shudder with a pleasure I’ve never felt from Nathan. Or anyone, for that matter.
He continues his emotionally lethal attack on my neck, kissing and licking and grazing his teeth over my flesh as his hands stay on the wall, temptingly close but still so far away. I groan and my knees bend a little as his lips begin to melt my cold heart.
Reflexes take over as my legs go weak and I grab onto him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on tight. His chest muscles flex as supports me, throwing one arm around my back. The other hand slides off the wall and presses to my face with a touch so gentle, I’m not sure I can feel it over the water splashing all around us.
I meet his gaze now, unguarded desire flowing through me as I all but beg him to just fucking kiss me on the lips already. He lifts an eyebrow as if to ask permission.
I answer his question by pulling his head lower and slamming my lips onto his. His kiss is tentative at first, but I don’t hold anything back. If I’m going to kiss my ex-boyfriend turned boss in the men’s locker room, I’m going to do it right. My fingers twist in his short hair, pulling him as close as he can get with our pants still on. He grunts as his tongue parts my lips and slides across my mouth, sending chills down my spine and tingles through my toes. Feelings I’ve never experienced course through me, making me desperate for more.
I’m vaguely aware that what I’m doing is wrong. So, so very wrong. But I do it anyway. And when Kris slides his hands down my stomach and tugs on my pants, I let him push them down to my ankles.
His hand reaches for my most sensitive spot and my head rolls back against the tiles as my eyes close, taking in every second of his touch. His fingers rub against my lacy underwear and my body moves with him, begging him to take it further. My mind loses all forms of logical thought as he slides one finger inside me. I gasp and clutch him closer to me, burying my face into the crook of his neck. I lick across his collarbone and he groans.
I’m lost in Kris’s arms, my mind fully encapsulated in his touch. That is until an unexpected sound startles me, making me jump backward. “Did you hear that?” I whisper to Kris, who opens his eyes with a confused look on his face.
“Hear what?”
This time, the sound is louder and we both hear it. A man’s voice. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Fuck,” I whisper as my brain goes into freak out mode. How the hell are we going to walk out of the men’s locker room, soaking wet, and not look suspicious?
Kris grabs my soaked clothes and hands them to me, turning me toward the inside of the shower while he stands guard by the clear shower door.
“What are we gonna do?” I whisper as I tug my bra over my arms. Kris puts a finger on his lips, telling me to stay silent. He pulls his wet shirt back over his gorgeous body and it’s a shame to see those muscles disappear.
“I sure hope someone’s here,” the man calls out. “The door is unlocked and all this fancy equipment could get stolen.”
I recognize the voice now, and that only makes me panic more. The last thing I need right now is for him to see me in the shower with the boss.
A smirk stretches across my boss’s face. “Okay, okay!” he yells, aiming his mouth outside of the showers. “You win. You are the better plumber than I am.”
My eyes crinkle in confusion. A shadow steps into the locker room looking like a tall muscular blur through the glass shower door. Kris continues, “You fixed it, but you didn’t have to soak us in the process, geez.”
Kris swings open the shower door, muttering things about how I won’t get a raise after that stunt I just pulled, and he pretends to look surprised when he sees Austin standing there watching us. “Oh, hey man,” Kris says, reaching out an arm to do this handshake fist-bump thing with Carson’s Gym’s most loyal guest. “Sorry we’re still closed. Renovations took longer than expected.”
“It’s cool,” Austin says as he returns the handshake and follows Kris out of the locker room, agreeing to his offer of receiving a sneak peek at all the new equipment. I follow behind both of them, my heart still racing. Although I’m not sure if I’m more panicked about what I was doing with Kris, or the fact that we almost got caught.
Chapter 13
Susan eyes me as she squats below the front desk, refilling her wine glass from a bottle she keeps stocked in the mini fridge under there. “You’re acting weird,” she finally says after a few awkward seconds of me watching her watch me.
I twist the lock and key charm bracelet around my wrist, take a sip from my Diet Dr. Pepper can and give her an apathetic shrug. “No I’m not.”
“Yes you are. I’m not an idiot.” Susan rises from the floor and sips the red liquid from her glass, not giving a shit that everyone working out in the gym can see that she’s drinking on the job. I don’t understand how some people get away with the things they do. If I were drinking at work, Judy would—wait, no. Judy isn’t my boss anymore.
Susan sets her glass on the counter and narrows her eyes at me, trying unsuccessfully to conjure some unknown magical powers that will allow her to see inside my mind. “Girl, I’ve known you for like thirty years and—”
“I’m not even thirty years old,” I interject. She rolls her eyes and continues, “—For several years then, and you have never acted so damn secretive. I know you and Nathan broke up so it’s not like you have anything to hide from me.”
My eyes dart over to her. “Seriously, I’m not hiding anything. I’m at work. I’m bored. This is the same as any other day.”
The bells on the front door jingle. “Welcome to Carson’s—” I begin, before realizing the new guest is the owner himself. And I swear to god Kris wore this outfit on purpose, just to screw with my mental ability to not rip all my clothes off and throw myself on him. Gray Billabong board shorts cling to his thighs and a charcoal grey t-shirt stretches across his torso, the tightness across the chest just begging me to reach out and touch it. His hair is messy like he just got out of bed, and he’s wearing flip flops which makes me think he didn’t come here to work out today.
“What’s up, boss? It’s a beautiful day, huh?” I ask before immediately kicking myself for sounding so damn chipper. That ridiculous display of perky customer service is so not how I usually act. The Delaney way of doing things is to smile when obligated and just generally look bored all the time.
Unfortunately for me, Susan isn’t drunk enough to let that slide. “A ‘beautiful day’?” she asks with a snort. “Damn, Mr. Payne, what got into her? Someone must have put too much sugar in her coffee.”
Kris waves to a guy at the squat rack and walks around to th
e front of the counter. He gives me a sideways smile before glancing at Susan. “I’m gonna pretend that’s grape juice. And don’t call me Mr. Payne because I refuse to believe I’m old enough to be a mister.”
She nods and sips from her decorated wine glass. “This grape juice is delicious, Kristofer.”
I don’t know what I’m expecting to happen in the first time I see Kris since our unexpected shower make out fiasco, but this isn’t it. Besides that stupid sideways smile that he probably does to make my knees weak, Kris doesn’t talk to me anymore for his entire visit to the gym. He heads into his office, closing the door behind him and still hasn’t emerged by the time my shift is over in the morning.
I drive home from work feeling pissed off and annoyed, but I’m more angry at myself than at him. He’s just being a typical guy. I bet he’d make out with Susan in the showers if she wasn’t married. Or maybe he would even though she is married.
When I reach the turn for my neighborhood, I keep driving. Deep down, I know where my subconscious is directing my car to go, but part of me wants to pretend that I’m just driving without a destination or a care in the world. I’ll save my worrying about where I’m going for when I get there.
Grace Memorial Park is not a real park. That was my first thought when I saw it from the window of the black limo I rode in with my family ten years ago. And I still think it every time I drive past it as an adult. You shouldn’t be allowed to call something a park if there are no swing sets, slides and laughing children.
No one laughs a cemetery. They aren’t parks.
Tyler’s headstone is a large piece of white marble that stands out from the mostly gray headstones marking the graves around him. A permanent glass photo frame is embedded on the top of the headstone, displaying Tyler’s senior class photo for all of eternity. I hate that my parents chose that particular photo. Sure, he looks handsome and sophisticated in this photo, but it doesn’t represent the real him. My brother did not walk around wearing a graduation cap over his shaggy hair and he wore skateboard brand T-shirts, not dark green gowns.
Not Your Fault Page 7