“Seems to have rubbed off on you,” Andrea says as she steps off the machine and gets to the floor. “You sure it's safe?”
“No... but then again, when do I ever do the safe thing?” I ask, to which Andrea doesn't smile, doesn't smirk, nothing. “What?”
“Someday, Jackson... someday I hope you really learn what not doing the safe thing means,” Andrea says mysteriously after a moment, then pulls her t-shirt back on. “In any case, have a good rest of your workout, I've got class.”
Andrea leaves, and I finish up the rest of my quick cardio, just letting my mind drift. I figure I'll get a swim in later, but maybe today instead of a swim I'll pull out my old gloves and throw down a few rounds with the heavy bag in the corner. It's not quite the same as actual training, but it'll help in starting to get me back in fight mode. I won't be caught by surprise again.
I go inside and drop off my shaker cup of post-workout protein mix in the sink for the maid to wash and run upstairs to take a lengthy shower. I even make sure to condition my hair. I've been lazy with it since I've been cooped up around the house, but it's time to get back to normal.
I dry off and put on my first set of clothes for the day, some Burberry pants and a button-down Ralph Lauren shirt. I grab my Steve Madden loafers, and I'm all set for the morning.
As I walk down the hall toward the stairs, Andrea's door opens and she comes out, also dressed for success in her typical power suit look, although I see she's skipping the heels for something a little more comfortable. I guess doing close to an hour on the StairMaster does have side effects after all. “Well, you are dressed today. Back to your regular duds, I see.”
“Not totally regular,” I note, showing her the Maddens. I normally reserve these for when I go out and go around the house in training shoes instead. “What do you think?”
“I think you need to keep them polished better,” Andrea replies. “But they're fine. What's the occasion?”
“Like I said, I was thinking of going out today,” I reply. I stop at the top of the stairs. “Andrea... would you mind if I borrowed some of your business books? I mean... oh fuck it, never mind.”
“Whoa, whoa, niichan, stop,” Andrea says, putting her hand on my shoulder. “Slow down, what's all this?”
“Just... I had a dream last night, and with what you said... I was thinking that maybe I can start learning about more than bodybuilding and partying,” I say. “And I was thinking that maybe I could learn a little bit about investing and stocks, or real estate, or something like that.” I shake my head, and shrug before giving her a grin. “You know, something actually useful in real life.”
Andrea studies my face for a minute, then nods. “Hold on... I've got something in my room you can start with.”
She jogs back to her room and comes out with a book. “Here. He's become a bit of a hack, and I don't want you running off like a madman with it, but take a read, and if you want... I'll be around to answer questions and talk with you.”
I look down at the title. “Rich Dad, Poor Dad? Okay... looks easy enough.”
“It is. Not trying to say you're an idiot, Jackson... but you've been fucking off for the four years since high school finished for you. It's a decent refresher. In the meantime though, let's get some breakfast. I thought you were all about protein loading after lifting or whatever it is you call it, and if you don't mind, I'll share an egg or two with you.”
I keep the book with me while we eat, then Andrea goes off to class. I've got a while before my afternoon swim, and I was planning on getting out during the evening, so I find a comfortable chair in the downstairs den and start reading. I'm caught up pretty quickly, and I find that I'm in chapter four when Mom comes in, pretty much ignoring me. Not that unexpected, really. “Hey Mom, is Pops around?”
Mom shrugs, not caring, and goes over to the liquor cabinet in the corner and pours herself a straight bourbon. I glance at the clock and shake my head. It's just after eleven. “A little early, even for you, isn't it?”
Mom downs half the bourbon and glares at me. “Considering you caused it, you have no room to say a damn thing,” she hisses. “Do you know what the doctors just told me?”
“That you have a surgical addiction?” I shoot back. “That you need a psychiatrist more than you need more collagen in your lips? By the way, you're dribbling.”