My eyes close again. I’m so sleepy. “You smell good. I bet your sheets smell like you.”
Braxton stands abruptly, tipping my legs off the couch. I bend my knees and tuck my feet under the blanket. Who needs a bed? I’ll just sleep here.
Braxton’s hands slipping beneath me wake me from a vivid dream.
“Where? What?”
“Shh,” Braxton says, his voice throaty and low. “I’ll get you to bed.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and rest my head against his chest. He carries me across the living room, past the kitchen, and through my bedroom door. His chest is solid, his arms hot steel around me. My eyes don’t want to stay open, but a part of me wants to wake up. To see Braxton holding me like this. To be aware of what’s happening.
I feel the mattress beneath me as he sets me down. He pulls the covers up, and a second later I can tell he turned off the light. Everything melts away, floating on a sea of vodka.
“Night, Brax,” I say, without opening my eyes.
“Night, baby girl,” he says.
Something he said catches in my mind. “Brax?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re not an asshole,” I say. “You’re the only one of them who isn’t.”
He doesn’t reply and I feel myself drifting off again, the soft blankets warming me.
“I am, Ky,” he says, and his voice startles me. “I really am.”
The door clicks shut and I fall asleep, wondering what he means … and wishing he had stayed.
I grab a towel and wipe the sweat off my forehead. ACDC blasts from the speakers. It’s six-thirty in the morning, but my gym is in an industrial area, so I don’t have to worry about bothering the neighbors. I’m not always in at this hour, but today I have a client at seven, and I’m booked up until the afternoon. I needed to get my workout in early.
My legs burn from doing heavy squats. I walk around to loosen them up before my next set. I’m too hot, so I pull off my shirt and toss it on the floor. It feels good to get some of my aggression out. Working out has always been a must for me. It doesn’t matter what else is going on—unless I’m injured or sick, I hit the gym. Hell, sometimes even when I am injured or sick.
Sweat runs down my chest and back, but my head clears as I do another set. It’s like getting an extra hit of oxygen. I finish my workout, grab some water, and jump in the shower before my first client is due to show up. And Derek Marshall wants to stop by and take a look at the facilities again. If this guy keeps being such a prima donna, I’m going to tell him to fuck off. He won’t be the last football player I have a chance to take on. But that’s the thing with training pro athletes: they sign these big contracts for huge money, and everyone treats them like their dick is made of fucking gold.
Everybody except me. They pay me for results, and that’s what I give them—but they have to be willing to put in the work. Most of them are. They don’t get where they are by being lazy asses. But I also don’t put up with bullshit excuses—whining, showing up late, or canceling appointments. If they want me to take them to the next level in their career, I’ll fucking do it. But I don’t put up with divas who aren’t willing to work their ass off in my gym.
Does it mean I lose clients? Yeah, all the time. But I’m in high enough demand that they come to me, not the other way around. I have no problem filling my schedule. So if Derek Marshall wants to be a pussy and find a trainer who’s going to coddle him, he’s welcome to.
The first part of my day goes fast. I go from one client to the next, take a quick break for lunch, and see two more in the afternoon. Derek Marshall does stop by—sans manager, which is a nice change. When he’s not with his entourage, he’s a decent guy. He signs the training agreement, and I get him on the schedule for next week.
With that wrapped up, I head home and take another shower. I’m sweaty from training all day. Afterward, I get dressed in a pair of jeans and a dark gray shirt. It’s March fifteenth, which means I have somewhere to be.
I pull up in front of the assisted living facility. It’s a nice place—not the kind that smells like bleach and death when you walk in. Kylie’s dad has lived here for the past year. He’s only in his sixties, but a debilitating combination of rheumatoid arthritis and gout have ravaged his body. He’s wheelchair-bound and has a hard time using his hands, which made it impossible for him to live alone. Kylie’s parents have been divorced for years, so assisted living was the only good option. I made sure we found him a place where he’d be well taken care of, and not feel like he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life in a hospital. This place was a good choice.