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I glance at the time and curse when I realize it's the six o’clock alarm I set so I could attend a hot yoga class for the first time. I've been branching out, experiencing new things since I've been on my own. Trying to realize who I am again, without my pack’s influence.
The apartment is still pitch black with the early hour, and my body is so stiff from falling asleep in a half-upright position on the couch, that I really consider skipping the class. That is, until I remember this will still count as my one free session. With great effort, I heave myself off the couch and go to my closet to grab a pair of leggings and a t-shirt. A mournful sigh leaves my lips. If I'd been able to pack more clothes when I took off a few months ago, I'd be slipping into a buttery soft pair of leggings with a long-sleeved crop top to match. But those weren't on my list of essential items when I ran, so I had to pillage the clothes I'm putting on now from a thrift store. The thread is itchy and uncomfortable, the t-shirt a size too big, but I got the entire outfit for less than ten dollars.
I tie the shirt into a knot at the front so it doesn't hang too low, slip on a pair of tennis shoes, and head out the door, water bottle in hand. The studio is only about a ten minute walk away from my apartment, so I get a nice warmup before the class. That's the great thing about my crappy apartment. It may be less than four-hundred square feet with almost no kitchen and water stained ceilings, but it's centrally located so all of the essentials are within walking distance. Which is great, because there is no way I could nickel and dime a car into existence right now. The phone I have was bought with the five grand I ran with and is enough of a luxury, I can’t afford another. It’s also pay per month, since I can’t sign up for a plan.
When I make it to the studio, I start feeling extremely self-conscious.
What if they laugh at my inexperience? What if I didn't sign up correctly and can't take the class? Do I check in first or go straight to the hot yoga room?
Nerves wrack me, but they needn't, apparently. As soon as I walk through the front door, a bell chimes signaling my arrival, and I'm greeted immediately by the friendly, female beta receptionist with a sickly sweet scent who asks my name, confirms my free trial class, and points me to the correct room with instructions to take my shoes off and grab a mat.
The room is suffocatingly hot, a blast of heat hitting me in a wave when I walk into the studio. I roll out my mat and take a seat, looking around to see what the other girls are doing. Most are stretching, but just as I go to mimic them, the instructor comes in and calls out to gather everyone’s attention.
An hour later, I'm wishing I'd just stayed in bed; or rather, on the couch. Sweat is dripping from every orifice on my body, my shirt is clinging to my skin, and I can feel my hair sticking to my neck and forehead like a wet halo. It's not even that the moves are hard, it's the unbearable heat of the room that just seemed to grow hotter as the hour passed.
Breathing heavily, I roll over from our ending pose on our backs with little enthusiasm and try to heave myself up so I can clean the mat and put it away. I wipe the sweat dripping down my forehead with the back of my arm to stop its tickling descent.
"Ergh. Never again," I groan to myself as I wipe down my mat with the antiseptic spray everyone is passing around. I’m out the door, walking back to my apartment and congratulating myself on trying new things but confessing this new thing is not for me.
Once I make it back to my apartment, I shed the workout clothes and throw them on the bathroom floor. They make a heavy, wet thud sound as they hit the floor, and I cringe. I've cooled down enough on the walk back that I still set the temperature of the shower to just below scalding and enjoy the feel as the water pelts my skin to the point of almost blistering.
Feeling like a new woman as I step out of the shower, I make a quick breakfast of eggs and toast and settle in to read the manuscript with the hopes of getting at least a third of the way through.
A little while later, my stomach growling brings me back to the present, out of the captivating storytelling that Dillan Doherty has spun. It's incredible. A gripping tale about an amputee's journey toward recovery. There's loss, heartbreak, hope, love, and so much pain. It's no wonder there is a bidding war for the rights to this book. It'll hit the top one hundred, guaranteed, and I’d bet my month’s wages that sales are going to double in ancillary rights. It's so captivating that I have gotten through half of it in a matter of hours. I'll be able to finish it tomorrow and come with the edits to work on Monday.
Wait...hours?
My eyes shoot to the clock on the wall, and I curse when I realize I have to be at work in twenty minutes. I stumble off the couch, scrambling to my tiny closet for a pair of jeans and a somewhat nice shirt so I don't look like a slouch. I can't afford anything too fancy, but I manage a tight black v-neck that accentuates my curves enough to look dressy but not like I'm trying too hard. I pair it with a light pair of jeans and some converse, and run out the door.
My stomach grumbles again, and I resign myself to bar food all day. At least I get a discount on it. Ava would give it to me for free, but the first time she tried, I turned it down. It made me feel too much like a charity case to handle. She's already employing me, no questions asked, so I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth.
Tumbling through the door of The Hog's Head eighteen minutes later, I wave at Ava as she stands behind the bar, serving drinks to patrons. Four people stand at the bar top, grabbing drinks from Ava, and there are another dozen or so men and women scattered at various tables. It’s nothing like it was last weekend with the St. Patty's Day bar crawl. The music filtering through the sound system is loud enough to hear over the chatter but quiet enough so I don't have to yell when I greet Ava. Since it’s just coming up on noon, I imagine this place will fill up later in the day.
Behind the bar now, I tie on my apron and start to braid my long hair in a simple plait down my back. My shift is twelve hours, so I put in an order for food now, and then I'll eat again later before going home. Several hours in, I've hit my stride and time is passing by quickly. The bar has filled up a little more, everyone enjoying the return of warmer weather with some day drinking. I'm just ringing up a customer and handing them back their card and receipt when someone calls out my name.
"Summer, right?" A deep voice sends shivers down my spine as bourbon and citrus drifts towards me in a delicious wave.
Six
Maverick
I'm a stalker.That's what I've become. A bona fide creep.At least I'm not the only one,I think as I look behind me at the rest of my pack crowded in a booth at The Hog's Head. They all decided to join me when they heard I was going to try my luck at seeing her again today. I tried to protest, to tell them we would just overwhelm her. But my pushy beta pointed out that she can't tell we're her mates anyways, so it'll just be like any other day at the bar. I couldn't really argue after that.
So here I am, leaning over the bar top, calling her name, and trying not to stare at her ass as she stretches on her toes to hand another patron a receipt. I clear my throat and look up at the ceiling to calm myself down before she gets over here. But her nutmeg and honey scent is just as distracting as she is.
Finally, she finishes with that other guy and comes over to me. She's giving me a strange look though by the time she's in front of me. Almost apprehensive.
"Yes..?" she says slowly. "Sorry, have we met?"
Ouch.
"I was here last weekend," I say, internally nursing my wounded ego.
"I remember," she says, and my spirits lift exponentially. "But I didn't tell you my name."
Ahh. That.
She looks genuinely concerned, so I hurry to put my mate at ease. I look behind me to the table where the rest of the Goon Squad are sitting, just in time to see all three of their heads turn suddenly in new directions. I snort at them; each one wishing they were me right now. We rock, paper, scissored to see who would come talk to her and grab our first round. So, I point to where Brooklyn sits, looking at a spot on the wall with interest. The very blank wall.
