“I mean it.”
“Me too. I’m not interested in being coddled.”
He laughs, his voice warm in the white room with a floor covered entirely in black mats. “I got you, Cate. I do.”
While I pack my gear into my bag, he disappears behind the counter at the front of the studio and comes out with his own bag. I straighten up, giving him a look. He usually doesn’t leave with gear. As far as I know, he comes straight from home to work out with me and goes home after.
“Where are you headed, Carl?”
He gives me a sly smile. “What’s it to you?”
I shrug, a tiny blush spreading across my cheeks. “You never bring a bag.”
“Correction: I never brought a bag.” He flips the light switch, plunging the studio into darkness, and we walk to the door of the studio together. Carl holds it open so I can step out first into the hallway. It’s a second-floor walkup. One half of the building is Carl’s boxing studio, and the other half is a yoga studio. The word “studio” is about all they have in common. About a year and a half ago, I spent three months taking classes there before all the chanting and peaceful energy started to grate on my nerves. Something drew me to the other side, literally and figuratively, so one day after an endless forty-five minute vinyasa class I slung my mat in its matching bag over my shoulder and went across the hall, slipping in as silently as I could.
Carl had been with another client then. It took two minutes of watching them go at it before I wanted in.
“Turns out,” Carl says, turning the key in the lock, then dropping his key ring into his bag, “you’re not the only one who likes to be up early.”
“But you hate getting up early.” Carl told me that during one of my first few sessions with him. He normally doesn’t open the studio until 2:00. Getting him here at 4:30 isn’t cheap.
“You know what I love?” he elbows me lightly in the ribs, and I shove his hand away with a laugh. “Money.”
“So you’re cheating on me, is that it?”
He throws up his hands. “Hey, hey, I showed up. I didn’t even make some bullshit excuse about working late.” Our feet are thunderous in the empty stairwell. “No, I told Money Bags the earliest I could be there was 6:30, so he settled.” Carl flashes me a winning smile. “I’d never do anything to lose what we have going on.”
“You’re the worst, Carl,” I say, shaking my head but smiling too. “So, who’s the lucky guy?”
He purses his lips, pretends to lock them and throw away the key, a dainty gesture for a muscled boxer with more tattoos than a t-shirt could hope to hide. “Not supposed to tell. Let’s just say…he’s rich as sin and can pay my outrageous early morning rates.”
We stop outside the black town car idling by the curb. After my first year working for Sandra, she called me into her main office and gave me a laundry list of criticisms, followed by a clipped, “You’ll have a car now. Twenty-four hours. Be available.”
“Need a lift?”
Carl shakes his head, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “I’m good. You really woke me up in there, Cate!” He cups his hands around his mouth and lets out a whoop.
I laugh, but standing near the car has hit the kill switch on my workout buzz. I trace the outline of my phone in the outer pocket of my gear bag. The list tumbles into my mind, beginning with the four meetings before lunch that need to be confirmed.
I can hardly let the thought all the way to the surface of my mind, but now that I’m changing to work mode, the fatigue is starting to set in. It’s hard to keep up this breakneck pace.
But I have to.
I can’t fail.
Can’t end up like Dad.
Mark, my driver, hustles around to my side of the car and opens the door, and I slide in.
“See you on Wednesday?”
Carl puts a hand on the door, freeing Mark up to come back around to his side. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Neither would I.”
“I’ll tell you all about it then.”
My hand is already on my phone. I have no idea what he’s talking about, and it must show in my face.
“The new client who wants your slot,” says Carl, giving me an incredulous look. “Don’t you want to know who the other woman is?”
“Thought you said it was a man,” I tease.
“That’s right,” says Carl, dragging out the word, eyes shining. “And not that it matters to me, but he’s hot. Even you wouldn’t be able to help yourself.”