Full Disclosure (No Secrets Book 1)

by Julie Olsen

  FULL DISCLOSURE

  BOOK ONE OF THE NO SECRETS SERIES

  JULIE OLSEN

  Published by Julie Olsen

  First edition, February 2016

  Copyright © Julie Olsen, 2016

  Cover design by Schwan Park

  Edited by Jeri Walker

  Ebook formatting by Guido Henkel

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for adult readers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For those who dream

  and try

  CHAPTER 1

  “Lucy, you are so dead,” I muttered to myself as I once again tried the ignition of my Jeep Wrangler. The clicking noise couldn’t be a good thing, and like the previous handful of attempts, the car didn’t even come close to starting.

  It was just my luck that my sister, who had last used the Jeep and apparently left its lights on all night, was working a rare early shift. Her food truck was gone, and with it my only remaining hope of getting to work on time. The realization of missing my first client of the day hit, and I slammed my palms against the steering wheel. I was a good five miles from work.

  I exhaled and let out a groan as I picked up my phone and glanced at the time. I had twenty-five minutes. I mentally ticked off possible solutions while stuffing my keys and phone into my satchel. My sister, Lucy, was presently staged in her truck at an office complex on the other side of St. Louis. Weldon, Boone and Justine, my boss and co-workers and closest friends in the world besides my sister, had been at work for hours. A cab would take too long. A cursory scan up and down the street told me what I already had guessed, that any eligible-to-help neighbors were long gone to work on this Monday morning.

  I was screwed.

  I flounced out of the car and slammed the door as a rising sense of panic welled up. On any other day this wouldn’t have been such a disaster and I could just breeze in a few minutes late. After all, in my line of work as a personal trainer for an up-and-coming gym, many clients showed up late for their appointments, in juxtaposition of my own unblemished on-time percentage.

  But I was training a new client first thing. And Weldon had specifically assigned me to her as she was the wife of Ivan Price, bigwig CEO of Bainbridge Pritchard Communications, and a major St. Louis mover and shaker in her own right. Weldon had aspirations of taking Star One Fitness to the next level, and catering to the rich and famous was akin to putting our foot on the first step of that stairway. He had been so good to me over the past two years. I couldn’t let him down.

  While tapping my foot, I considered the remaining options. By foot, five miles would take well over an hour, much too long. But by bike? My foot bounced as I did the math and came up with the only logical choice.

  Within two minutes, I located my helmet and unhooked my dusty bike from the garage rafters. A quick squeeze of its tires‌—‌not flat, a miracle‌—‌gave a first glimmer of hope and the feeling that I was on the right track. My panic subsided a bit as I slung my satchel across my body and began pedaling. With luck and light traffic, I should just make it.

  Crisis averted. But as for you, Lucy, just wait till I see you tonight.

  * * *

  If not for worrying over possible lateness, the ride into work would have been perfect. It was a beautiful spring day, and everywhere I looked trees and flowers burst with blooms. Leaving my leafy residential street, I merged into light traffic. Sunlight slanted through gaps in tree branches, bathing everything it touched with fiery light.

  Even as a lifelong resident, the bustling St. Louis city streets never failed to impress, lined as they were with buildings whose architecture exuded a mix of progressive cosmopolitan chic and Early American charm. Even with the extra care of maneuvering around the odd pothole and double-parked car, the blocks seemed to go by quickly. I took the least busy streets when I could and cruised along at a good pace, bypassing most of the traffic lights.

  Before I knew it, I was crossing the last major intersection to the gym. As I got closer, I scanned the lot for Weldon’s car and saw it in its usual spot. Coasting to the entrance, I swung off the bike and simultaneously opened the front door and pushed it through with as much grace as possible. I had made the trip with five minutes to spare and did a mental fist pump as I headed toward Weldon’s office, hoping he wouldn’t mind if I propped my bike against his wall for the day.

  Weldon appeared in the doorway, smiling from ear to ear. “Hey girl, nice helmet head.”

  I smirked at him. “Just trying to keep the trend you’ve set with that bowl cut you’ve got going on, Boss.”

  In the two years I had worked for him, Weldon Lopez became like a surrogate father, even though he was only in the last year of his thirties. And his huge, toothy grin never failed to win me over, bowl cut notwithstanding. He was a mix of loveable leader and unassuming authoritarian. I had totally lucked out landing him as a boss and friend.

  He took the bike and wheeled it into his office, propping it in the far corner. Turning toward me, he grabbed his chest, feigning heartbreak. “That cuts me, Olivia. Deep.” Glancing over his shoulder in mock seriousness, he moved around to his chair, plopping down and waggling his eyebrows in his self-deprecating way. I couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Weldon, if anyone can rock the bowl cut, it’s you,” I pointed out, smiling sweetly.

  Weldon slid his muscular frame behind the desk and winked. Clad in nylon sweat pants, short sleeved compression T-shirt and Nikes, he looked every bit the fitness maven.

  “So what’s with the bike, chica? You training for a tri?”

  Eyeing a stack of towels, I grabbed one and dabbed at my sweaty face. “Josephine wouldn’t start. I think Lucy left the lights on all night after her grocery run.”

  “Liv, you should’ve called me.” Weldon rifled through the items on his desk, finally locating his glasses and sliding them on so they sat low on his nose. He peered over the top of the frames. “I would have come to rescue you.”

  A surge of tenderness filled my heart. Sometimes I wondered what I would do without Weldon, and what would have become of me if I hadn’t walked through that door two years ago.

  “I know you would have.” My mouth twisted in a rueful grin at a swell of uncharacteristic emotion. Weldon smiled and handed me a file folder. “But I knew you would be prepping for our new client. Speaking of, where is she?”

  Peeking at his watch, he stood and motioned me toward the door. “Late, apparently. That’s the lifestyle of the rich and famous for you.” He gave my shoulder a tiny squeeze.

  “Yeah, well, after I whip Angelique Pritchard hyphen Price into shape and she raves about us to all her rich friends, don’t go changing on me when you find yourself in the same lifestyle, okay?” I elbowed him on my way to the locker room where the next order of business required checking my reflection in the mirror. After a bike trip into work, I needed to make sure I didn’t look like a sweaty mess and scare away our most famous client before she even lifted a single weight.

  “You know it. Now make it snappy, chica. You got a client to train, and she’s going to help put us on the map,” Weldon called over his shoulder.

  I redid my ponytail and gave my face a quick wash before reapplying my regular light makeup of eyeliner and lip stain. It would have to do. I worked in a gy
m, after all. No makeup required. Still, that didn’t stop some customers who glammed up like this was a nightclub. Normally I would never wear heavy makeup to train regular clients. But then again, this was no regular client. Maybe for once I should throw on some mascara and eye shadow. My brown eyes blinked back at me in the mirror.

  You’re overanalyzing again, St. Clair.

  Sighing, I shoved my bag in the locker and headed out. Our new high profile client would soon arrive, and I was ready as I would ever be.

  Wandering through the gym, I paused outside the glass wall of the spin room. Justine had a full class today, and as I caught her eye she grinned and gave me the thumbs up. She and Boone knew how important this client was to Weldon. I just hoped I was up to the task.

  I joined Weldon at the circular front desk just as Mrs. Pritchard-Price finally entered. I didn’t read the society pages, but it was impossible to not notice she belonged to a much higher tax bracket. Ten minutes late, she glided toward us on stiletto heels, her face a picture of makeup artistry. Trying hard not to smirk, I took in the rest of her appearance. Flawless manicured nails, jewelry that looked like it should be in a museum and an assessing stare. Yep, she was rich and wanted people to know it. That she was dressed in yoga pants, probably from Armani‌—‌snort‌—‌and her long blonde hair hung in an elegant ponytail, were the only clues she was here to be put through her physical paces.

  “Welcome to Star One Fitness, Mrs. Pritchard-Price,” Weldon’s eyes lit up as he spoke, then he moved to meet her halfway, extending his hand which she took in something like a royal handshake.

  “Mr. Lopez, if I’m not mistaken,” she purred. Hers was the kind of stare which appeared to look past him, as if bored already.

  “Please, let’s take care of the preliminaries in my office. If you will,” he replied, gesturing toward the bank of office doors down the back hall. She gave no indication of my existence when I fell into line, but I couldn’t help but notice her as she sashayed ahead. Weldon did not even try to look my way. He knew I wasn’t impressed.

  Entering his office, he pulled out the only other chair besides his own, purchased new specifically for Mrs. Pritchard-Price’s Armani-clad butt to perch upon. I noticed he had removed the folding chairs used for meetings and lunches from their usual haphazard Tower-of-Pisa placement against the wall. The extra chair dramatically reduced the amount of available space in his office, and I held myself against the back wall so as not to take up unnecessary space better used by our esteemed client. She folded herself onto the edge of the chair without looking at it, crossing her slender legs in a manner befitting a crown princess.

  “I trust you are having a good day so far, Mrs. Pritchard-Price,” Weldon said. She smiled and gave him that look-through stare. “May I introduce you to Olivia St. Clair? Olivia will be assisting you in your training. She is a highly qualified and certified personal trainer with additional certifications in P90X, kickboxing, rock climbing and Tabata instruction.”

  I emerged, chameleon-like, from my oneness with the wall, to present myself as close to her line of view as I possibly could without bending over Weldon’s desk. She gave a slow, half-turn as I held out my hand. She limply grasped it, giving the same little half-shake she had given to Weldon.

  True to form, she stared right through me.

  “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pritchard-Price. I am excited to begin assisting you in your quest for personal fitness.”

  Jeez, Liv, did you just say that?

  A small smile tugged at her lips as she continued to look through me. My foot began a soft tap and I stole a glance at Weldon, who had pasted on a fake Cheshire cat grin while his eyes silently broadcasted a don’t-screw-this-up message.

  Mrs. Pritchard-Price simply stared. Okay, maybe some light banter to loosen her up was in order.

  “Mrs. Pritchard-Price‌—‌may I call you Angelique?” At this she raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. “To begin, you and I will take five minutes together to go over your goals, health, lifestyle and fitness background. We will then do a quick fitness assessment implementing a series of strength-related exercises to help better determine your individual training. But first, may I just say that I love your bag?”

  Again, a stare and complete silence. Well, it would be complete if not for the tap, tap, tap of my foot.

  Her eyes, and only her eyes, moved to note my tapping foot, which succinctly tapped its last beat. She swung her eyes back to me and gave a half-smile, showing off her multitasking skills by laconically staring and speaking‌—‌all at the same time. “Mrs. Pritchard-Price is fine.”

  Using every bit of decorum I possessed, I tamped back about four smart replies. “Of course, Mrs. Pritchard-Price.” Holding my hands in front of me, I gazed at Weldon who appeared to be in a trance. No doubt he was watching this train wreck and seeing his hopes and dreams swirling right down the toilet.

  “So. Um. Weldon, I’ll just hop back there and begin her assessment.” I indicated an intention to replace him behind the desk and at the computer. A light bulb appeared and he affixed a rather sickly smile.

  “Wonderful. Perfect.” He stood and moved toward the door. “I will leave you in Olivia’s capable hands. By all means, let me know if I can help you in any way, Mrs. Pritchard-Price.”

  He left us, closing the door behind him. I looked at Mrs. Pritchard hyphen Price, who of course still gawked at me. The silence was deafening. Sitting down, I jammed my traitorous feet behind the wheels of Weldon’s chair. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

  * * *

  As promised, within five minutes I had documented her information. And as I guessed, she continued with her intimidation tactics. Were all rich people like this? With boredom and pretentious indifference, she answered all the questions except for those pertaining to her health, when she instead produced a letter from her doctor detailing minor injuries over the years.

  The physical assessment went as smoothly as could be expected. Forgoing use of the public areas, Weldon had set up one of the yoga rooms with the necessary equipment to keep her from prying eyes, a consideration she most definitely did not thank us for. I expected the time to drag, and it did. I also expected to see Weldon’s nervous face at the small window on the door, but I did not.

  At ten o’clock I stood and silently indicated the session was over. She had signed up for four sessions per week. At this point the only thing which made the thought of devoting four hours per week of my time to this woman bearable was knowing my time with her today was over.

  Even though my face felt deformed due to fake smiling, I turned it up a notch and gave Angelique everything I had in the flake department. “You’ve done awesome today, Mrs. Pritchard-Price. I am very impressed with your level of fitness.”

  “Yes. We do have ten minutes left on the session, Olivia. I would like to spend my remaining time focusing on my core.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I pointedly glimpsed at the wall clock. Clearly her time was up. Surely she couldn’t think that because she breezed in ten minutes late that we would adjust to her schedule. I had a kickboxing class starting in fifteen minutes and needed time to prepare.

  I took a deep breath and looked back at her. She remained standing at the equipment, daring me to contradict her.

  “Mrs. Pritchard-Price, your session begins at nine and ends at ten.”

  She smiled but as usual, it didn’t quite touch her eyes. “I was under the impression that Weldon would extend certain courtesies when I was running late. My time is very valuable, you see.”

  We squared off. In one corner, an arrogant, self-centered snob who held my dear boss’s aspirations in the palm of her well-manicured hand. In the other, a hot-tempered, smart-mouthed rule follower who was champing at the bit to do the world a favor and put this woman in her place. We glared at one another and my hackles rose. Oh Mrs. Pritchard hyphen Price, I guess we were going there. I smiled inwardly. This was going to feel so good.

>   And then in my peripheral vision, I saw a familiar bowl cut at the window.

  Game over. Bitch snob 1, weenie trainer 0.

  * * *

  Thankfully, the remainder of the day was not nearly as aggravating. My classes went smoothly, and all my clients were easygoing and friendly. Weldon splurged and brought in sandwiches at lunchtime. Doing so gave him the opportunity to pepper me with questions regarding our dear Angelique.

  “She’s horrible, Weldon. I won’t be surprised if she shows up Wednesday wearing dalmatians.”

  From his perch on the edge of Weldon’s desk, Boone’s eyes lit up mischievously. “Come on, Liv. Remember when I got stuck training The Belcher? The guy belched at every exertion. I mean full on, glass-rattling belching. Nobody can be worse than that.”

  Boone crossed his tatted arms over his chest. He was all muscle, shaved head, and goatee. He grabbed an energy drink and cracked it open, drinking it down in a single gulp before belching long and loud.

  “Oh my God, Boone,” Justine called from the hallway. She popped her pixie-cut blonde head around the doorway, throwing daggers at Boone with her vivid blue eyes. “Just what barn were you born in?”

  Boone grinned and we all burst into laughter. “You know you love me, babe.”

  Justine shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I’m off, folks. See you in the A.M. Liv, you sure you don’t need a ride later? I can come back for you, girlfriend.” Boone opened his bag of potato chips, and Justine leaned in and grabbed a handful, swatting his hand when he tried to stop her.

  I searched through the pile of sandwiches, finally locating the turkey on whole grain, extra mustard. “Nope, go on. I’ve got it covered, but I might need a ride tomorrow. You working early again?”

  Justine wrinkled her nose as Boone unwrapped his sandwich. Pastrami on rye, double onions. “Five a.m. With onion boy here. Joy.” She rolled her eyes again at Boone, who took a big bite of sandwich and winked.