Page 75 of Snap Shot

Wade lunges forward, stiff-arming past me to shove the instigator.

I twist the faucet shut and go to dry off, leaving them to duke it out and wishing Derrick hadn't left early to do whatever newly married men do. The locker room towel sits snug on my hips as I throw up middle fingers to the two shitheads as a goodbye.

They stop beating each other up to flip me off in return.

It's only been one night, but I miss Indi. Impatience has me fishing my phone from a duffel pocket to text her.

Gym Girl:Hey.

A smile splits my face at the simple message. This must be what it's like to be wooed.

Me:Is this your version of wyd?

Gym Girl:It's 2 p.m.

Me:And?

Gym Girl:And I'm at the office.

Me:Hasn't stopped you before.

Gym Girl:Shut up.

I expected her to say that. This shit-eating grin stays put.

Me:Sorry, I'm jealous it wasn't me.

She types, then stops. Types again, stops again. This repeats three more times. Finally, the text pops up.

Gym Girl:You said I had to talk?

Me:Yes.

Gym Girl:Last night was intense.

Me:Yeah? Tell me more.

A sharp slap pulls my gaze away from my phone. Clad in her usual all-white scrubs, Helga wrings her hands, readying them for work. “Radek, you're up!” her deep voice booms. My shoulder tenses at what's coming next.

She shrugs when I ask her if I can bring my phone in with me, but Indi doesn't respond through most of the massage. Whenever my hips are tight like this, I wonder if Helga enjoys piercing my glutes with her elbows a little too much. Breathing through every rotating jab only helps so much. The therapist eases up, cracking my back with the pressure of her thumbs straddling my spine. My phone buzzes on the foot stool below my face port.

Gym Girl:It was a lot. I'm kinda freaking out.

My heart clenches. “Helga?” I strain through the question. “Mind wrapping up? I think I'm good for today.”

She frowns and nods with a harrumph, ending the incessant kneading and clearing my skin of oil with a steaming hot towel.

“Thanks. Anyone after me or can I use this room for a few minutes?”

“Nah, you're the last. You know what to do,” she says, pointing at the robe hung on a hook for me and the bottle of water on the side table. As soon as the door creaks closed behind her, I scramble for my phone, sheets still wrinkled around my private bits. My hands move to call Indi. The line rings.

She answers by clearing her throat. “Indira Davé.”

“Do you want me to come there?”

“It's nothing serious.” Her voice runs low, husky, and trepid.

Something's wrong. I jump down from my seat on the massage bed. The sheets hang from the tabletop, waterfalling to the floor.

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