Page 63 of Rock Bottom Girl
“You’re here?” I was horrified. I flew to the window and yanked back the curtains. And there in his shirtless glory stood Jake Weston on my parents’ front lawn.
“Cute jammies. Hurry up, peaches. I ain’t got all day.”
“It’s 5:30 in the morning.”
“And if you try to crawl back into that bed, I’m going to ring the damn doorbell and wake up your whole house.”
My parents’ first Airbnb guest would probably protest with a bad review. Byron from Seattle. He had glasses and a briefcase and began every sentence with “I don’t know if you know this, but…”
“I hate you,” I told Jake.
“Get your ass down here.”
I hung up and spent thirty seconds debating whether or not to crawl back into bed before dragging on a pair of clean shorts, a sports bra, tank, and sneakers. I slothed my way out of the house to where Jake was stretching his really spectacular quads.
“What are you doing here?”
“Meeting my girlfriend for an early run,” he said as if it was obvious.
“How is torturing me like this going to keep She Who Shall Not Be Named at bay?” I yawned.
“You’ll see. Besides, your health should be your number one priority. If you’re gonna coach a team of girls in a sport that’s ninety percent running, shouldn’t you know how?”
“I know how. Move legs. Stop breathing. Puke. Repeat.” I was hilarious at the ass-crack of dawn.
“Come on, Mars. I’ll go easy on you the first time.”
Oh, that devil may care grin. I might have been mostly asleep, but even not fully conscious that bad boy smile was lethal.
“Whatever. Just tell me what to do,” I said pretending not to be enthralled with those really nice muscles peeking out of his shorts. V cuts, I believe those delectable lines were called.
“Submissive. I like it,” he teased, jogging in place.
“You’re disgusting.”
“We’re gonna warm up for ten. A nice light jog,” he said, jerking his head toward the sidewalk. “Come on, pretty girl.”
I was annoyed by the warm appreciation that coated my stomach like honey at the nickname.
Following him down the sidewalk in the pre-dawn light wasn’t the worst early morning experience I’d had. His legs chugged along in front of me hypnotically. The muscles in his back bunched and tightened. Too bad my lungs were burning as if I’d just inhaled ammonia.
“I can hear you puffing like a chain-smoker.” He slowed his pace until I gasped my way to his side. “Lesson One: The Breath.”
“Teach me, Obi-Wan,” I wheezed, mustering the energy for an eye roll.
He shoulder-checked me, and I tripped, landing in Mr. and Mrs. Angstadt’s pink flamingo flower bed in their front yard. I took a beak to the gut and made one hell of a racket.
“Christ, Cicero. You’re a freaking disaster,” Jake snickered. He pulled me to my feet.
“You pushed me, you jackass.”
“As I was saying, the breath is important because if you don’t have that, you ain’t got nothing.”
“Did you ever think of teaching English?” I asked, righting a dented flamingo.
“Shut up and run.”
We took off again slowly. The beak break had been good for my breath. I had some now.
