Page 27 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

How about, “Takes the fun out of our wedding by putting too much pressure on me”? Nope, too long.

Inspiration struck. In big letters, digging the pen into the paper, I wrote:MADE FUN OF HAVING A PERIOD.

There. If that didn’t nail his ass to the wall, I didn’t know what would.

Chapter

Eleven

Iwoke up when Wyatt got into bed beside me. He had his own key to my place, and the code to the security system, so he didn’t have to wake me to get in, but he definitely woke me when he pulled me close against him because his skin was cold. The red numbers on the clock read 1:07.

“Poor baby,” I murmured, rolling over to hold him. He wouldn’t get much sleep; he was usually at work by seven-thirty at the latest. “Is it that cold outside?”

He sighed as he relaxed, lying heavily against me. “I had the air-conditioning in the truck on high, blowing in my face to keep me awake,” he muttered. His hand slipped over the T-shirt I was wearing. “What the hell’s this?” He didn’t like for me to wear anything to bed; he wanted me naked, maybe for easy access, maybe because men just like naked women.

“I was cold.”

“I’m here now; I’ll keep you warm. Let’s get rid of this damn thing.” He was already pulling the hem of the shirt up, preparing to tug it over my head. I caught the shirt and took over the job, because I knew exactly where those stitches in my head were. “These, too.” He had my pajama shorts down around my thighs before I got the shirt completely off, sitting up in bed to strip them the rest of the way down my legs. Then he lay back down and pulled me close again. He sort of automatically ran his hand over me, cupping my breast and thumbing my nipple, before reaching between my legs; it was as if he was reassuring himself all his favorite parts were still there even if he hadn’t been able to avail himself of them. Then he sighed again, and went to sleep. So did I.

My alarm went off at five. I tried to turn it off before it woke him, but didn’t succeed. He groaned and started to throw the covers back, but I kissed his shoulder and urged him down on the pillow again. “Just go back to sleep,” I said. “I’ll reset the alarm for six-thirty.” He’d have to grab something to eat from a fast-food joint on the way to work, but he needed the sleep.

He muttered something that I took for agreement, burying his face in the pillow, and he was asleep again before my feet hit the floor.

I had put my clothes in the bathroom the night before, thinking he might be really late getting in, so I dressed in there. I didn’t need makeup today, since I’d be in Great Bods all day; I brushed my hair but left it down—I wouldn’t be working out today, either. The concussion headache wasn’t quite gone, damn it. I’d really hoped it would be.

When I was dressed, I took my toothbrush and toothpaste with me downstairs, to brush my teeth after I’d had breakfast. The automatic timer had turned on the coffeemaker and coffee was waiting for me. I had a quiet twenty minutes at the table, eating breakfast and drinking coffee. Then I brushed my teeth in the downstairs half-bath, poured the rest of the coffee into a big travel cup, and prepared the coffeemaker again and re-set the timer for Wyatt. I dropped an apple in my bag for lunch, grabbed a sweater, and was out the side door that opened into the parking portico. Well, almost. I had to stop and re-set the alarm, because Wyatt was a fanatic about things like that.

The morning was cold enough that I needed the sweater. I shivered a little as I went down the steps, using the remote to unlock the car. The normal routine was comforting, a signal that things were indeed normal again, or getting there. I’ve been injured plenty of times; cheerleaders get hurt as often as football players do. It’s always a pain in the ass. I’ve learned to be patient, because even though youcando stuff when you’re injured, that doesn’t mean you should—additional stress on an injured muscle or broken bone slows the healing. Since I always wanted to get back to performance level as quickly as possible, I’d learned to do exactly what I was supposed to do—and I hated every minute of it. I wanted to be at Great Bods, overseeing every little detail. The place is mine, and I love it. I wanted to be exercising, using the muscles I’ve worked so hard and so long to build and maintain. Besides, keeping myself in shape is great advertising for Great Bods.

There was almost no traffic on the streets; even in summer, opening Great Bods at six in the morning meant driving to work in the dark. In the middle of summer the sky would be beginning to lighten just about the time I arrived to unlock, but the drive itself was always in the dark. I kind of liked the emptiness of the streets, the early-morning quiet.

As I pulled into my parking space in the employee parking lot in the back, the motion sensor lights came on. Wyatt had installed those himself, just last month, after meeting me here one night and noticing how dark it was under the long awning that protected the employees’ cars from the weather. I still wasn’t used to those lights. They seemed unnaturally bright, as if I were standing on a stage as I unlocked the back door. I had a small LED light on my key chain that I’d always used before to see the lock, and to me it was perfectly adequate. Wyatt, however, wanted the place lit up like a runway.

The darkness under the awning had never bothered me. It had, in fact, concealed me from Nicole Goodwin’s killer when she was murdered right there in the parking lot. I hadn’t argued against having the lights installed, though—I mean, why would I?—and was glad when Lynn confessed she felt safer locking up at night, knowing those lights would come on the second she opened the door.

I unlocked, then went through the building turning on all the lights, setting the thermostat, starting the coffee both in the employee break room and in my office. I loved this part of my day, seeing the place come to life. The lights reflected in the polished mirrors, the exercise equipment gleamed, the plants were lush and healthy; the place was just beautiful. I even loved the smell of chlorine in the lap pool.

The first client arrived at six-fifteen, a silver-haired gentleman who’d had a mild heart attack and was determined to stay in shape and stave off any more attacks, so he spent some time on the treadmill every morning, then swam laps. Whenever he paused to chat, he’d tell me what his blood pressure and cholesterol levels were down to, and how pleased his doctor was. By six-thirty, three more clients had joined him, two employees had arrived, and the day was in full swing.

While Mondays were usually busy days for me, the added paperwork after missing two days kept me hopping. The headache rebounded a little so I tried to limit how much I moved around, but when you’re the one in charge you can’t just sit in an office.

Wyatt called to check on me. So did Mom, Lynn, Siana, Wyatt’s mom, Jenni, Dad, then Wyatt again. I spent so much time on the phone assuring everyone that I was fine that it was almost three o’clock before I had time to eat my apple, by which time I was starving. I also needed to go to the bank and make a deposit, which should have been done on Friday. Things were a little slow right then, or as slow as they were going to get; the lunch rush was over, and the pace wouldn’t pick up again until the after-school and after-work crowd arrived to work up a sweat, so I multitasked by going to the bank and eating my apple at the same time.

I admit, I was a little paranoid about watching for Buicks that were driven by women, but I think that’s understandable. There was no way I could recognize the psycho bitch, but I wanted to give any possibles a wide berth. And because I was watching, things I likely wouldn’t have noticed before got on my nerves, like the woman in the white Chevy who stayed on my bumper for a couple of blocks, or the one driving a green Nissan who changed lanes right in front of me, forcing me to slam on my brakes, which jarred my head and forced me to call her a fucking mongreloid. I hate when that happens, because people who aren’t paying attention think I’m throwing off on people with Down Syndrome. Thank God my windows were up, you know?

I went through the drive-in at the bank, then threaded my way through traffic back to Great Bods. I kept an eye out for that green Nissan, and Buicks, which is why I noticed the white Chevy again. Well,awhite Chevy, and it was driven by a woman, but that isn’t uncommon, so I couldn’t say it was the same white Chevy. What were the odds the same woman would be reversing her earlier path and would get behind me again? Not very high, but hey, I was reversing my path, wasn’t I?

When I got to Great Bods I turned down the side street to go to the rear parking lot, and the white Chevy continued going straight. I breathed a sigh of relief. I either had to get over this newfound paranoia or start paying more attention so I’dknowif the same car or just a look-alike turned up behind me. There was no point in imprecise paranoia.

My head was still pounding from being jerked around, so I went to my office and popped a couple of ibuprofen. Ordinarily I love what I do, but today hadn’t been a great day.

Around seven-thirty, the end-of-the-day influx was beginning to outflux, to my relief. I got a pack of peanut butter crackers from the vending machine in the break room, and that was supper. I was so tired, all I wanted to do was sit down and not move for, oh, ten hours or so.

Wyatt showed up at eight-thirty, to stay with me until closing. He gave me a sharp look that made me think I probably didn’t look my best, but all he said was, “How did you make it?”

“I was doing okay until I went to the bank, almost rear-ended a nitwit who cut in front of me, and had to slam on my brakes,” I said.

“Ouch.”

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