Increasing the speed on the treadmill, I bring myself to a steady pace of nine miles per hour while I get lost in the news, trying to block out the shit running through my mind. I have a meeting with Lucas, my best friend and architect, this morning before he takes off on a business trip to discuss the property I recently acquired as a gift to my sister and her new husband. Gerald is a fabulous chef and hopes to open a French restaurant. Only it’ll have a twist. Since my sister loves art, she wants to attach a gallery to it and call it Artfully Delicious. I think the concept is brilliant and will do well here, so I’m meeting with everyone to go over the plans.
I also have a conference this afternoon with Brody’s guidance counselor to go over the expectations for the remainder of the year. Since he was expelled from his private school, I enrolled him in the local public school, and he’s behind on credits since he failed so many classes. Paola damn near lost her shit when she found out our son is attending a public school, but I don’t care—and I told her as much. My sister and I both went to a public school, and we turned out just fine.
I’m about ten minutes into my run when the door opens, and a woman I’ve never seen before walks in. Instinctually, my eyes roam over her, taking her in. Caramel hair with various shades of blond highlights are pulled up into a loose ponytail. Tanned, toned legs are barely covered with yellow cotton shorts—if you can even call them that. I’d bet all my money, if she turned around, I’d see a hint of her ass cheeks peeking out. I chuckle at the shoes on her feet. Instead of wearing tennis shoes, she’s sporting light pink fluffy boots. Her face is free of makeup, and her tits look real—perky but not in the so-perky-they-hit-her-chin sort of way.
It’s not often I see a naturally beautiful woman free of plastic surgery and makeup. Especially living in the places where I’ve lived. You want a fake woman? They’re a dime a dozen. I’ve learned the hard way women are good for one thing, to sink into and find release with. It doesn’t matter if their tits are real or fake. As long as they can handle their own in the bedroom and understand what the term no strings means, we’re good to go.
Realizing I’m still staring at her, I drag my eyes back to the television, but when she comes over and steps onto the treadmill next to me, I can’t help but check out her backside. I was right. Her ass is firm, just like the rest of her body, and her shorts are so tiny, the bottom swells of her cheeks are popping out. She has this thickness to her that I can imagine grabbing ahold of in bed. This woman is either new to this building or has changed her workout time because I damn sure would’ve remembered seeing her here before. Then again, I haven’t been around much for the past several years, so it’s possible we just haven’t crossed paths.
When I force my gaze to move from her ass back up to her face, I notice she’s staring at the treadmill screen with the most adorable look. Her nose is scrunched up in confusion… or maybe frustration. Either way, she’s staring at the gym equipment like it’s from another planet. Based on her furry boots, I’m going to assume she’s new to working out.
“Need some help?”
She turns her attention to me and hits me with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. It’s like getting lost in an ocean of warmth. I’m in such shock by how beautiful she is, I almost trip over my feet. In fear of face-planting, I grab the emergency stopper and yank it out, bringing the machine to a sudden halt. Not realizing how quickly it would stop, my feet keep running, and my stomach hits the front of the machine, causing me to release a loud grunt.
She smiles wide at the scene in front of her and giggles. Fucking giggles. I almost ended up facedown on a potentially deadly machine, and she’s laughing at me.
“I think I should be asking you that question.” Her words are wrapped in a cute Southern twang. It’s not strong, but enough to tell me she’s not from here. When I look at her pink shirt, I notice it reads Southern girls do it better across her chest. I would definitely like to find out what it is exactly they do better.
I clear my throat and force my attention back up to her face, again. Her eyes dance with mirth, telling me she caught me checking out her assets.
“I was reading your shirt,” I say dumbly as a way of explanation.
“Uh-huh,” she says with humor in her voice. She goes back to looking at the treadmill, except now with what looks like determination in her eyes. Is she willing it to turn on?
“You just pick a program, enter the info, and hit start,” I explain, pointing at the program button.
She lets out a sigh and presses the button, then begins to enter all the necessary info:
Sex: female—damn right she is.
Age: 24—ten years my junior… a bit young for me, but I’m an equal opportunist. Age is just a number, after all.
Weight…
She looks at me and gives me a mock glare. “You already know my age. At least let my weight remain a mystery.”
I bark out a laugh and press the start button on my treadmill. She hits start on hers as well and begins to walk. Her machine makes a faint screeching sound my machine doesn’t make, like it’s scratching against the bottom. Screech, screech, screech, screech, screech, screech. Holy shit, it’s annoying.
She picks up the pace a little, and the sound gets louder. Thank God I never use that machine. How is it not bothering her? Then I notice at some point while I was once again ogling her, she put earbuds in. I can faintly hear the sound of country music playing from them.
After several minutes of this annoying noise, I look to see how long she set her workout for. She catches me staring and takes one earbud out. “Whew! This machine is gonna work me hard.”
Is she serious? She’s walking at an unhurried pace. The people on the streets of New York walk quicker on their way to work.
“How long are you planning to walk for?” I ask while I slow my run down to a brisk jog.
“I’m not really sure. I guess until I get tired.”
Great. At that speed, she’ll be here all day, which means I’m stuck listening to that screeching noise for the rest of my run so this woman can go for a leisurely stroll.
“Have you worked out before?”
“Nope. A part of the new me is to become healthier, and because there’s no way I’m giving up my fried chicken or ice cream, I figured my best bet is to work out. It just so happens my new living situation means I have this gym at my disposal, so I thought, what the heck.”
Would it be piggish of me to tell her that her body looks just fine and there’s no reason to waste her time on that treadmill—driving me nuts with that screeching noise while I’m trying to listen to the news and enjoy my workout in peace? If she wants a workout, I can gladly accommodate her, and I guarantee she’ll work up more of a sweat than she’s doing right now. The thin material of my shorts stretches against my growing erection. It’s been a while since I’ve gotten laid. Between finishing up the club in LA and moving back here with my teenage son, who hates his parents and the world, I’ve been a little preoccupied.
A few minutes go by and then she presses stop on the machine.
“You’re done?” She’s only burned thirty calories.
“Yeah. Don’t want to overdo it on the first day. Figure I’ll work my way up slowly.”