by T. I. Lowe
Sincerely,
Kate Singleton, Associate Agent
I wasn’t even worth the effort for Maxine to email me personally. That really stings. After staring at the cursor for a few more minutes, I finally form a response.
Ms. Singleton,
Money has nothing to do with my wish to write under my own name. It has everything to do with me needing to get out of this debilitating shadow, so I can have the independence to express myself freely.
Since Maxine is unable to communicate with me properly, I feel it is time for my lawyer to speak for me. She will be hearing from him soon.
H.B.
Now I just need to get a lawyer, a male one at that. Wishing I had someone to talk to sends an ache to set in deep inside me. Jack is the only one I ever discuss this stuff with and he’s out of town. My parents would just tell me to be grateful for what I have and that’s not what I want to hear. Shoot, they don’t even know I ghost write.
I’d say a girls’ night would be a great way to get my mind off this mess, but one would have to have girlfriends to pull that off.
Bone-tired, I slump in my desk chair and let the heaviness do its damage. Darkness muddles my vision while the same mantra repeats in my head.
You’re not good enough.
No one cares.
No one sees you.
Your life does not matter.
You’re all alone.
This is what you deserve.
I’m stuck in this melancholy funk, not able to move from the office for several hours, until an anxious rage singes it away. I abandon the pity party and go straight into a ticked-off frenzy. With the anger clawing at me from the inside, I pop my earbuds in and crank the iPod up to the highest volume setting and attempt to working it out of my system. I need to drown out the disappointing reality I’m stuck living.
By midnight, my house has been cleaned from one end to the other. The sterile smell of bleach has attached to my skin and clothes. Between the chemicals and the loud music, my temples have begun to drum in a dull tempo. The anger has been worked out of my system, but is now replaced by a fatigued depression. No matter how hard I run from it, that monster always catches up to me.
Shuffling from the laundry room to the den, switching off every light along the way, I go to my hiding spot behind the couch. If my body scrunches close to the corner, I only get a glimpse of the ocean from the French doors. This spot between the couch and wall forms a little alcove of sorts and always gives me the false sense of being hidden from the world. Usually a bottle of bourbon is the only companion invited to this hiding spot, but tonight I settle against the back of the couch and only permit tears to join me. They fall until the dull throb in my temples transforms into an entire percussion section.
After downing a few migraine-strength pills, I move to the bedroom and curl in a ball underneath the blankets of my bed until the alarm clock announces Tuesday-too-darn-early-morning. My first reaction is to throw it across the room and keep on sleeping, but then a set of sparkling blue eyes flash from my memory. I shouldn’t want to see Beck, but at the moment, he’s the only thing interesting in my life. And that’s completely pathetic due to him being my fitness instructor whom I hardly know anything about. But danged if he ain’t purty to look at.
A quick shower and a fresh set of workout clothes make me feel closer to human, but one glimpse in the mirror cancels that notion out. Big, poufy pillows sit below my red-rimmed eyes. A futile attempt with an icepack to reduce the swelling has me pushing close to five. Giving up, I throw on a hat to conceal last night’s crying spell and rush out the door. It’s the first morning I’ve been late since the first class. Hopefully Beck’s threat was all growl with no bite.
By the time I scurry up to the group they are already in the midst of jumping jacks. Angling slightly behind Nadine, I seal my snarky lips and do every exercise Beck divvies out this morning. A whiny comment wants to slip out a few times, but I refrain for fear that drawing any attention my way will result in consequences.
Beck finishes the torture session with four sets of push-ups, adding up to a total of one hundred. My chest burns and my arms tremble, but I hold in the groans.
“That’s it for the day. See you Thursday.” His gruff voice rings out, followed by several sighs of relief from the group.
Before the group has a chance to scatter too much, I dodge around them for cover with hopes of making it to the golf cart before Beck can make good on his no-late-to-class policy. The mini rescue wagon is in my sight and I’m about to take off like shot when a hand comes out of nowhere and grips my shoulder, sufficiently halting my escape.
“You owe me five miles.”
I spin around to dodge his hold on me and sass out, “I owe you nothing.”
Those penetrating eyes narrow as he points toward the shore. “To the pier and back is four and a half miles. We’ll call that close enough. Now get on with it.” He growls the command. It’s so full of menacing authority, my legs begin trudging the shore at once.
My body is sending me death threats as I beg it to pick up the pace to at least a sluggish jog. The sand taunts me as it grasps ahold of my sneakers each time one plops down.
“Speed it up!” Beck yells out.
I glance over as he sidles up to me, discovering he’s lost his shirt and nearly trip over my own feet. Oh yes. This is the distraction I need from my crappy life. “Stop yelling at me! I can hear you just fine!”
“That’s debatable.”
“Why are you running?” I huff out, still wobbling around.
He reaches over to steady me, which only makes me stumble more. “For the fun of it,” he answers.
“You’re a sick, sick man.”
Beck doesn’t respond, just sets the pace a little faster. My lungs begin to burn and my legs scream at the sand to leave us the heck alone. I have deduced one thing in these five minutes of running and that is only insane people would willingly run on the beach.
I’m. In. Purgatory!
Inhaling enough air to be able to form words, I sputter out, “I’m dying.”
“Nonsense. Suck it up.”
Unable to form any more words, I growl instead. Real mean-like, too, and that jerk has the audacity to laugh.
“Tell me, Harper. What is it you do for a living?” he asks out of the blue, distracting me from the idea of biting the laugh out of him.
“Grr!” I growl again, but decide to answer a few seconds later with a half-truth. “Freelance writer.”
“Yeah? And what does that entail?”
Our feet slap against the shore in a rhythmic thud. I listen to the beat of it for a second to form an answer. “Someone offers me a writing assignment and I write it.” There, that should shut him down. Making the mistake of looking over at him, my throat thickens at the sight of all that glistening skin…
“Blume!” His harsh tone pulls my eyes up to meet his.
“What?” I grouch out, ticked he just caught me ogling him.
“I asked you a question.” His hard trainer façade has slipped down enough to reveal the smug jerk underneath.
“What?” I grouch out again, not liking that perceptive look on his face. He sees too much.
“Have you written anything I may have read?”
Wiping the sweat from my forehead before it has the chance to sting my eyes, I shake my head. “Probably not. You look like a history buff kind of guy who wants to read about war.” Yes, that’s too assuming, but I want to shut his questioning down.
“I’ve lived war firsthand, sweetheart. No need in reading about it.”
I squint against the early morning sun, wishing the pier would get off its lazy haunches and meet me at least halfway. “You wouldn’t read anything I write.”
“I’m pretty versatile. Try me.” His dark brows kick up in challenge.
I look ahead, but then back to him, taking a moment to appreciate the appealing contrast of the bright blue of his eyes to the darkness of his eyebrows.
Beck is all raw masculinity, no doubt about it.
“Come on, Harper. Tell me.” The man isn’t even winded. He speaks with such evenness you’d think he’s taking a leisurely stroll.
That won’t do.
“Steamy romances?” I question.
This only earns a slight curl of his wide lips. “I don’t knock anything until I’ve tried it at least once.”
Dang. This makes my breathing sputter out. “You’ve read steamy romance?”
“No, but I wouldn’t dismiss the idea of giving it a go.” Sounds like the same answer he just gave me until he adds, “Especially if you’re the one penning it.”
All I can do is gasp at that, thinking this beach is about to become my burial ground. Eventually, I say, “Too bad. I don’t write that stuff.”
“Oh. You’re not daring enough?” A challenge gleams in his turquoise eyes.
“I’m versatile enough to write whatever I so please, but that genre has never appealed to me.”
Beck produces a knowing smirk. I’m just not sure what he thinks he knows.
After we finally reach the pier and swiftly turn our backs to it, my breathing relaxes a bit with finally pushing past that runner’s wall. It always shows up around mile two.
“Tell me a steamy story, Miss Versatile.”
His request slams into me and wrecks my steady breathing.
“What?” I sputter out.
He huffs with a good bit of agitation. “If you say that word one more time, I’m adding a mile.” He gives me a pointed look, all business again. “Now show me how versatile your writing craft can be and spin me a love story.”
Heat rolls up my neck at the absurdity of this conversation in the midst of a forced run. My resolve shows up and demands I not allow this jerk to get the best of me, because clearly that’s his game. No way am I telling him such a story on the fly. In my sleep-deprived state, I’d most likely blurt out one of my daydreams about a hot soldier with aqua eyes.
“How about I describe a physical experience?”
“Whaddaya have in mind?”
Thinking it through for a few minutes, I recall something I read once about pain and pleasure being similar in more ways than not.
“You can’t do it?” Beck challenges when I remain mute.
Taking a slow breath, I begin, “A throb dances along in an aggressive beat, burning through my veins. A pressure builds, igniting a fire so intense my body weeps for its release. If the crescendo doesn’t hit soon, surely I will perish from the excruciating torment. Every nerve ending spasms, sending sparks to ricochet along my body.” Pausing, I hiss a heavy breath out as my hands rub along the curve of my neck. “A fever-pitch ringing strokes my eardrums from the pressure building. It’s too much. All too much.” I roll my neck and let out a slow moan, while stealing a glance at Beck.
“Whoa now. I think that’s enough.” He stifles a groan and tries covering it with a cough.
“What? I was just describing the massive headache I had last night. FYI, that’s why I was late for class.”
The mortification fades from his heated eyes before he rolls them. “Smart-aleck.”
My hands shoot up. “I can’t help where your dirty mind went.” It’s all I can do to hold back the giggle begging to be freed. It feels pretty good to get Mr. Alpha Cool flustered. It’s what he deserves for making me run almost five freaking miles.
“I think I need to head to church and repent,” he muses while slowing his pace.
I’m all grateful to slow right down with him. “Oh, so you’re one of those holy rollers? The way you bark at me, I’m surprised. And asking for a steamy story… Shame, shame, shame…” I tsk with a reproachful head shake.
“Maybe steamy was the wrong word to use. I meant a girlie romance, but anyway…” He scratches the scruff on his cheek and shakes his head as though to rid himself of the story before turning serious. “No holy roller here, Harp. Just a sinner saved by grace.”
“Now that right there sounded much like a holy roller answer.” I point at him. “What’s the repentance for lust? Don’t you have to cut something off—”
“Harp! You just don’t know how to let something rest, do you?”
“You do call me Harp for a reason.” I’m right proud of myself for getting underneath his skin with my flippant remark. That feeling lasts all of two seconds until he speaks again.
Beck halts suddenly and grabs my arm to plant me in front of him. “We’re none perfect. I don’t claim to be. Some religious groups have put my God in a shiny glass cage, but they’re wrong. And closedminded folks such as yourself are being cheated out of knowing a powerful Savior because of it. It isn’t worth being flippant over and going to hell. Let’s be clear on one thing, heaven and hell are just as real as the air you’re breathing and the sweat dripping from your skin.” His fingertips glide through the damp trickles along my neck.
I take a step back to put some distance between his touch and his words, confused by how both make me feel. Beck drops his hand and just stares. We say nothing for a strained pause until he turns and begins walking away.
He calls out in a thick voice over his shoulder, “Thursday! Don’t be late!”
Some seagulls begin squawking, snapping me out of my daze, so I shuffle over and hop onto the golf cart. I thought I had finally one-upped the sucker with the misleading headache story, but now I realize all the points go to him today. Beck effectively distracted me from the pain of the five-mile run with flirting of all things and also helped block out the pain I’ve been drowning in lately. Then he rounded it all out by going religious on me. Don’t know why, but my insides stir until the pout drops from my lips as they begin to tremble.
The tears flow all the way home as the cart zips down the deserted beach and don’t cease until I’m locked away in my office. I take the wild feelings Beck has summoned, mix them with my longing to be free of my dark vices, and allow them to pour out in several chapters.
*****
“It’s Margo.” With a sick stomach, Ward identified the body, knowing Chance Marx had something to do with this dynamic woman’s death. He knew not to trust him. Margo knew not to trust him. But both failed to pay attention to the warning bells, and now Margo had paid for their naivety with her life. One thing in that moment was for certain, Ward wouldn’t rest until Chance paid for what he had done.
My aching fingers fly over the keyboard before hitting save. One glance at the wall clock says you better keep on keeping on, so I power down the computer. I’ve really got to stop pulling these all-nighters, especially two in a row. The sleep deprivation is starting to catch up with me in the forms of lethargy and body pain. I caught myself putting the jug of milk in the dishwasher and my dirty plate in the fridge last night and at this moment my entire body feels bruised. Standing, my arms reach over my head with hopes of alleviating the soreness along my spine. When the ache won’t relent, I head to the bathroom for a scorching shower.
Once I’m out and redressed in a tank top and spandex capris, I still have an hour before class. There are dishes to be washed, a neglected basket of laundry waiting by the washer, and two toilets needing a scrubbing. That could kill the extra time and keep me awake. Instead, I’ve got my trusty golf cart scooting along the dark beach, knowing he’s already out here setting up.
The beams of the cart’s lights catch Beck bent over a giant wagon with massive wheels. My foot eases off the gas pedal to prolong the view. He peeps over his shoulder before standing, both fists pulling a thick rope out of the wagon and into a long straight line. I park and walk back to his wagon and try yanking out a fat kettlebell weight, but give up rather quickly.
“You’re incredibly early.” He sounds amused. It’s way too early in the morning for amusement.
“Not gone to bed yet,” I reply, my voice sounding rusty and feeling scratchy from not speaking since Tuesday. A smaller kettlebell catches my attention, so I pull it out and test its weight with a few bicep curls before handing it
over to him.
“You’ve been up all night?” The nightlight from above catches the skepticism skirting his features.
“Yeah. Been on a writing spree. Just wrapped up the climax of the story,” I mutter while poking around in his wagon. A stack of orange cones sits in the corner, reminding me of the suicides he made us perform a few weeks ago. I take a towel and stealthy place it over the cones.
“Aren’t you tired?” He keeps his focus on me as he fishes the stack of cones out from under the towel.
Guess I wasn’t as smooth with the sneakiness as I thought. Dang it.
My tender shoulders shrug as I watch him set the cones in a familiar staggered line. “Yeah, but I knew if I got still I’d never make it to class, so you get an assistant this morning.”
Beck nudges me out of the way and lifts three of the kettlebells in one hand, making it quite evident he is in need of no assistance.
“Lucky me,” he says, but doesn’t come off sullen. The amusement is still weaving through his tone. It’s almost enough to make me grouchy. Who in the heck is chipper at four in the morning?
I motion over the obstacle course. “No plyotheatrics today?”
“Plyometrics,” he corrects.
“I know the right term.” My heavy eyes roll.
He chuckles at my poor joke. “Today is circuit training. It’s good to change up your routine. Muscles memorize a routine and tend to get lazy.”
I prop against the giant wagon and regard him. Beck’s moves are graceful and determined as always and I’m becoming addicted to simply watching his body move. “Did you go to school for this?” I point to the equipment littering the sand.
“Didn’t need school for this. I lived it out in the military, and then taught it out during my last tour as Master Drill Sergeant.”
“Wow. Drill sergeant… Now that is hawt,” I mumble, angling my head to get a better view of his backside as he straightens a set of weights. The sun needs to wake up so I can see better.
He stands back up, looking a bit stunned. “You just call me hot?”