Page 12 of Black Roses

She puts a gentle hand on me. “You mean to tell me you haven’t had any formal training? You got those times byjust running?”

I shrug my shoulders. “Well, I like to box, too.”

“Box,” she repeats as if I told her the sky wasn’t blue. “You run andyoubox.” She once again looks me up and down,thenshe walks around my body and puts her hands on my calves, then on my thighs, plying them with her fingers. She comes around and faces me. We are almost exactly eye-to-eye, with hers falling ever so slightly below mine. “If you give me five days a week, three hours a day, I’mgonnashave ten minutes off your time.”

I smile. I knew I was going to like her.“Deal.”

I follow her over to the weight machines, noticing how her toned calf muscles flex whenever she takes a step. I think back to what Mason said about people like me not being athletes. Trick is obviously an athlete, and she’s way more outrageous than I am. Why did he even say what he did? Was it just to get a rise out of me?

I forget about anything and everything as she pushes my body to limits I didn’t even know existed before. I’m certain my muscles will beexcruciatinglysore tomorrow, but I’ve got to suck it up, I’ve already agreed to come back for more.

I start to question my sanity when Trick says we’re done with weights for the day. She points in the direction of the treadmills lining the back wall with scores of televisions hanging just beyond them. “I’ve already programmed number nine for you. Just push the ‘start’ button when you hop on. No more than five miles today. I don’t want you to push yourself too hard.”

I raise my eyebrows at her and she laughs. “Don’tworry,we’ve got a great massage staff here. The bosses said whatever you want, you get. Perks of knowing the owners, I guess.” She winks at me and then nudges me off towards the treadmills.

I curse myself for leaving my iPod in my bag, but at this point, I don’t feel I can walk the extra steps to retrieve it. I question my capability to do even five miles, which would be a piece of cake on any other day.

I’m glad they have televisions, but it looks like each bank of four machines shares one of them. I just hope some wanker doesn’t already have it on The Weather Channel or something.

As I walk down the aisle in search of number nine, I realize almost all of the few dozen treadmills are taken. I wonder what these people do that allows them to ditch work well before noon. Most patrons are men, executives probably, or maybe salesmen, based on the fact that they’re all chatting away on their Bluetooth devices. I’m relieved they all seem too busy to gawk at me.

I arrive at my designated station, a large, sleek, industrial-sized treadmill that looks more complicated than most cars. I step on and press the big green ‘start’ button. The belt starts whirling around, slowly working its way up to a good walking pace of 4 mph. This allows me time to take in my surroundings.

To my left is an older woman struggling to run at a mere 5 mph, sweat pouring off her brow and her middle bouncing up and down with each labored breath. I have to hand it to her for being here. I’ll bet if she keeps it up, she’ll lose the spare tire in no time.

In front of me is the large television that serves my pod of treadmills. I roll my eyes at the programming. Typical for a gym, I guess. It’s on ESPN Sports Center. My hand wanders to the keypad on my machine that controls the television. I switch channels until I find something worth watching. It appears to be a program about medieval castles in the Scottish countryside, but I don’t have my earbuds to plug in, so all I can do is admire the beauty and long to return to my gypsy lifestyle with Charlie.

“Do you mind?” a low, winded, inherently masculine voice speaks from my right, startling me. “I was watching ESPN. First come, first served, you know.”

My eyes close ever-so-briefly at the voice. Then I almost trip over my own feet as the speed of my treadmill rapidly increases to a steady running pace. I don’t have to look. Even as winded as he sounds, I’d know his voice anywhere.

I will myself not to turn and look at him. I can tell by looking in the mirror that he is shirtless.And sweaty.And very, very muscular.

I berate myself.Why do I even care about that?

I concede his point and use the keypad to return to the previous channel, hoping it will mollify him and keep his attention so that he won’t feel the need to talk to me.

“Thanks, Piper.” His fingers touch the controls of his treadmill, slowing his breakneck pace to match mine.

I nod and try to feign interest in his show, willing time to go faster so I can hit the showers and run hot water over my screaming muscles.

Minutes go by in silence. He’s no longer watching ESPN. He’s watching me. I can feel his stare burning into my flesh until I can’t stand it anymore. “What?” I bite, giving him a brief glance.

“Nothing . . . geez.”He holds his hands out, palms up and gives me a shrug with his broad shoulders, one of which his earbuds are now draped over. “I guess I thought you might be a little grateful, that’s all. I mean, Trick is kind of awesome, right?”

“What, you think Ioweyou something now, is that it?” I contemplate stopping the treadmill and ending this whole stupidshenanigan.“Because if that’s the case, I’ll leave right now.I don’t owe anyone anything.Ever.”

He looks taken aback. “No, Piper. You don’t owe me anything. Except maybe a ‘thank-you.’ You know, some people do things out of kindness and not selfishness.”

“Not in my experience,” I tell him.

His eyes narrow and soften. “Well, you’ve obviously had the wrong experiences then.”

If he only knew.

“Obviously.”I yearn for my earbuds to drown out his voice. To drown out the world so I can do what I do best.

Mason’s treadmill beeps and then slows, ending his program. The sense of relief that overtakes my body is palpable. It’s short-lived, however, because he doesn’t disembark from it right away. Instead, he stares at me, his curious eyes being drawn to the small tattoo behind my ear. I don’t feel comfortable with the way he’s studying it. I reach up and pull my hair from the band, releasing it so it falls around my shoulders to conceal that private part of me.

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