Page 27 of Spinning Out Of Control

I take my right earbud out and offer it to him, a gesture of good faith. He takes it, popping it into his own ear wordlessly. We walk like that the whole way to my neighborhood. Quiet, contemplative, immersed in the sound of the music. A sort of separate togetherness that makes me want to reach out and thread my fingers through his. It’s a nice reprieve from the monotony of always walking home alone.

Maybe I should invite him in for dinner, as another show of good faith. All I have in my refrigerator is Sauvignon Blanc and carrot sticks, but we could orderin. People have meals with the bosses they hate all the time, right?

“It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?” He asks as we round the corner of Masonic Avenue, breaking the silence and my devolving thought spiral. The brightly colored Victorians that line my street come into view like a watercolor palette, breaking through the murky, late-fall grey hanging in the air.

“What’s a bit odd?” I ask as we approach my front stoop. I make a mental note that the Madagascar palm on the right side of my stairs needs a little attention this weekend.

“The houses. All these colors, it’s like an Easter basket. My mother would have hated this city. She’d say that new money can only go so far, and that these multi-million-dollar rainbows are proof that you can’t buy taste.”

He sounds amused, like he doesn’t necessarily agree with his mother’s take, but he gets where she’s coming from. Just like the fish comment in his office, his offhand remark comes at the perfect time, reminding me why entertaining anything more than a working, disdainful relationship with Warren Yates is a terrible idea.

“You’ve got a little something, right here,” I say, brushing the corner of my lips. His hand flies up to his own.

“What is it?” he asks, wiping at his face.

“Oh, my mistake. It was just your foot entering your mouth. This is my house. Have a good night, Warren.”

I reach and retrieve my earbud from his ear and then hustle up my front steps. When I’m safely behind the front door, I peek through the curtains framing my front bay window.

Warren is standing on the sidewalk, tugging at his luscious hair, looking positively gob smacked.

Just the way I like him.

12

WARREN

I swear, with every passing day my life is making me feel more and more like I’m some stupid, hungry horse trotting through a field and Kira is the cowboy on my back, dangling a carrot that I’ll never actually get to eat.

Actually, no. That’s not the right analogy. Kira isn’t dangling anything, I’m just too obsessed with the thought of her riding me that the dumbass horse and carrot schtick is the only thing in my mind.

I’m more like…a dog.

A big, fluffy dog, and Kira is the family cat I’m desperate to befriend. But every time I get too close, I do something stupid like bark (or accidentally insult her home, in a roundabout sort of way) and she whacks my nose with her claws.

I can’t seem to stop fucking up where she’s concerned. It’s killing me, not only because the last thing I want to do is hurt her, but because the lack ofcontrol in the situation is nagging at me. Kira is sunshine personified, except when it comes to me. I get hurricane Kira at worst, cold and foggy Kira at best. This deep, powerful urge to be the reason for her smiles is keeping me up at night, but everything I do or say pisses her off further. I don’t know how to make this right.

I’m standing just outside the floor of Spin Sync that houses the instructor’s locker rooms. Though calling the space on the other side of the door a locker room seems a bit insulting to the room itself. I got a tour of the space on my first day here, and like the rest of the building, I was blown away by the size and beauty.

There are lockers, yes, but they’re floor to ceiling, lit and shelved luxury lockers that are bigger than some people’s first apartments. There are several mirror and vanity stations, enough for each instructor to have a place to themselves, as well as one or two to spare. Next to the bathroom that boasts multiple walk-in showers, there’s a shared closet filled with brand-new apparel the instructors can take from a variety of different brands that all want their clothes worn in a Spin Sync class. They have their own sauna, a red-light therapy room, ice baths, as well as a spa room with a rotating schedule of on-site masseuses and masseurs to ease their aching muscles.

It came as no shock to learn that implementing the amenities was Kira’s idea when the company moved into this building. It shocked me even less to find outthat it was her suggestion that the locker room amenities be accessible to all Spin Sync employees, not just the instructors. Each instructor has their own changing room and a key code that locks each shower door while it’s in use, so there’s no privacy issue.

Even though I have my own key code that will grant me access to the locker room, I’ve been standing outside, listening to the muffled sounds of laughter and EDM music through the door.

“Fuck it,” I mutter to myself as I palm the pin pad and type in my six-digit code. The lock turns, and when I enter the room, I’m hit with the scent of lavender. A few of the instructors are stretching out on plush couches around a coffee table in a space that dips below the ground, resembling a conversation pit from a home built in the sixties. They grant me polite waves as I pass by, and I appreciate that while no one seems to jump out of their skin in excitement over my presence, they also don’t feel the need to cut off their chatter or shy away, either.

I allow myself to look around the room, giving the illusion that I’m taking in the space when really, I’m looking for her. I’m always looking for her. If anyone asks, I’m here to take advantage of the amenities, maybe indulge in a massage. Hell, I probably should get a massage. The muscles in my back are twisted into knots from carrying the weight of Kira’s dissatisfaction for weeks.

One of the strength instructors approaches me,slamming a hand into my shoulder. Alex is a really beefy guy with the kind of body that would get him typecast as a dumb jock in Hollywood. But he’s an incredibly kind fellow. I took one of his endurance run classes during my first week here, and I was beat to shit for days afterwards.

“Aye, boss man. What are you doing slumming it down here with us? Are you thinking of jumping off the corporate ladder and trying your hand at teaching? Maybe we can get a Silver Sneakers program going for you to run!”

“Funny, Alex. Give it a few years and you’ll be tucking your own grey hairs under that hat of yours. No, I’m just up here for the goods. Thinking about getting a massage…”

My words trail off as my eyes catch a billow of steam pouring from one of the lux marble shower stalls across the room. From the fog, Kira emerges with a white towel wrapped around her waist and her arm draped over her otherwise bare breasts. Her hair is wild and curly, with soft, damp pieces sticking to the skin on her forehead. She’s not wearing any clothes.

Why the fuck is she not wearing any clothes?

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