Page 1 of Lucy and Her Wicked Three

Chapter 1

Lucy

A single bead of sweat drips down my forehead. Like a vacuum, the surrounding sound disappears, and for a single, solitary moment, I can ignore the pressures of performing for the world, my flaws, my fears, my ever-present anxiety. Inside my head, there's quiet, an absence of sound.

I wipe the lone drop of sweat away before it hits my eyes, only for another to take its place, while my LuluLemons wick the sweat off my body like a $180 athleisure bodysuit should.

"Tap it! Tap it! Let's go, people! Let's go!" The instructor yells, and just like that, the room rushes back. The sound, buzzing at first, morphs into an overwhelming pulse of heavy breathing, grunts, and motivational shouting, carrying with it all my insecurities.

It's hard work, trying not to compare myself to everyone around me. That's why I'm here busting my ass, because nothing zaps my joy-thieving anxiety like a workout from hell.

Sweating bodies, all cycling to nowhere, flood back into my vision. My racing heart steadies, and I can breathe again, though I regret the gasping breath, drawing in the stench of high-end perfume, hair spray, sweat, and body odors.

"What in the hell is wrong with you?" Portia hassles me. I glance to my right; she's lifting her butt up and down off the spin bike, her quads flexing and stretching beneath her sculptedbike shorts each time the instructor yellstap. I can barely catch my breath, I don't know how her scrawny ass can even talk right now.

"What do you mean?"

"You look like you've got an enema shoved up your ass."

If I could reach over and give her a friendly shove, I would. Not to knock her off the bike but, you know, to maybe make her stumble.

"Nice," I rasp. The instructor shouts for us to increase resistance, and though my legs are burning, I do it.

"Only you can smile like a psycho through this shit," Portia continues.

That's what happens when you're anxious, tired, and wired, and you still manage to plaster a smile on your face worthy of an NFL cheerleader for hours on end. Eventually, the cracks in your veneer start to show, and your friends look at you like you've got something shoved up your ass.

"I'm fine," I grit, though I feel anything but. I need this workout. The exercise helps keep me sane; it's half the reason I work out this hard. The other half is to appease my inner mean girl who's a harsh critic of how I look compared to my friends or other people online, afraid that if I let myself slip, my boyfriend might notice I'm only human.

Usually, I post videos of my workouts, but I'd never post one this intense. It's not supposed to look like hard work, right? It's supposed to be easy. Like I woke up like this.

We lift up again from our seats, adjust the resistance dial, then sit back down, sweating and swearing like one unified pack as we pump our legs and cycle on.

The instructor—referred to only asSorceressin class, though I'm pretty sure her real name is just Amy—shouts, "Okay, people, one last push!" Her voice booms across the room, clear and deep through the little headset microphone that drapesneatly across her deeply tanned, angular face. "You can do this! That pain you're feeling? That isyourpain! You own this! Everything outside this door may be out of your control, but this right here, the sweat and burning and muscles aching, this is yours! You are powerful! Yes!"

For what feels like an hour, but likely only another minute, spurred on by the instructor's inner Tony Robbins impression, we pedal on the highest resistance before finally slowing to a cool-down pace. There's a collective groan all around me, and I wipe the remaining sweat from my forehead and down the contents of my water bottle.

Clutching my phone, I follow the tired crowd out of the slowly emptying room, splitting off to one of the many locker rooms to clean up. CycleSorceress is part of a workout co-op; every floor in the small three-story renovated building is home to some of the city's most elite yoga, spin, and barre classes.

The white hardwood floors, soft lighting, velvet chaise lounge, and rows of well-maintained and stocked showers make the locker room feel more like a spa than a place where people rinse the sweat off their bodies.

Thirty minutes after showering and getting distracted by cheek-kissing and side-hugging half the women in the room like we're old friends, even though I barely know them outside of their online personas, a locker slams shut beside me. Portia has managed to not only finish getting dressed quicker than me, but she looks flawless in her high-waisted linen pants, pink silk crop top, and simple gold jewelry, which sits bright against her dark skin.

Self-consciously, I loosen the neck of my chunky, oversized knit sweater, wishing I had brought something a little more fashionable to wear to lunch. I know these are our brands. I'm the health and wellness one—eating right and exercising and breathing techniques and inspirational quotes—but sometimesI'm jealous of Portia, whose entire online platform is just looking hot and wearing couture.

"Is Delaney coming to lunch? I can't believe she skipped spin classagain."

I shake my head. "Not sure, I haven't talked to her in a few days. She's been so weird lately, don't you think?"

"Very. More of an asshole than usual, too. She borrowed my moto jacket, the one I got in Paris, like a month ago, and will not give it back. I'm going to have to break into her apartment or something."

"Maybe she's just goin' through a hard time. One of us should talk to her, see if she's doin' okay."

Portia sighs. "You're welcome to talk to her. You always liked her more than the rest of us did."

"Now, come on, that ain't fair. We've all been friends for years," I remind her.

"We've tolerated her for years. There's a difference. You're too nice, Lucy." That's not true, but Delaney hasn't been around much lately to defend herself.

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