Page 44 of Concerted Chaos

twelve

I’mworkingoutat my gym when Tanner walks in. I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks, since the disastrous night out with Xander and the even more disastrous donut delivery. I kind of want to talk to him, clear the air. It’s not like I meant to “use” him, as he claimed.

He takes the stationary bike right next to me, even though there are two others open. But he doesn’t say anything, he puts in his headphones and starts pedaling. I wait a few minutes, but he doesn’t glance my way at all. What a dramatic baby.

“You’re exactly like everybody else, aren’t you?” I finally say. He takes out an earbud and looks at me, one furry caterpillar eyebrow raised.

“Did you say something?” he asks, even though he knows damn well I did.

“I did. I said you’re exactly like everyone else. You’re petty and stupid and you don’t stick around.”

“That’s ... rather insulting. You’re the one who—”

I raise my hand to cut him off. “I’m not the one who did anything wrong. You keep saying you want to be my friend, but that’s all fake. You don’t listen; you don’t care. But I guess that means my first impressions were correct, and you’re nothing but another scheming paparazzo.”

While perhaps he doesn’t necessarily deserve it, I’m lashing out because: 1) Tanner was right, it did seem like I was using him; and 2) he kissed me and I liked it and then he got all weird and I ended up making out with a guy who called me mommy and asked me to paddle him. Okay, maybe I’m somewhat responsible for that last part. Maybe.

“I told you, I’m a serious photographer! And I thought we were friends, but you invited me out to dinner just to make some other man jealous. That’s selfish and lousy, Cass.” His brow furrows in anger and he aggressively speeds up on his bike. I find myself pedaling harder as well.

“That’s not why I invited you! I asked you to come with me because we were friends, and I thought you’d appreciate a free meal at an expensive restaurant. Powell came up with a last-minute excuse, and if I have to deal with Xander, I’d rather not do it by myself.”

“Then maybe you should have warned me in advance! Xander was incredibly obnoxious,” Tanner says. He’s broken out in a sweat and he’s breathing hard now. Ha! This is nothing to me. I up my speed because I like to show off sometimes.

“He’s the worst,” I confirm. “But you’ve met him before, so you knew that. It’s not like I lied and told you we were meeting up with somebody else.”

“The food was good,” Tanner admits. He’s slowing down.

“It was.” I think I’ve won. But I go a little faster, just to rub it in. Behold my superior physical condition and weep, Tanner.

“You seriously weren’t trying to make him jealous? I thought maybe you liked him or something.”

“What is this, ninth grade? No, Xander is terrible. I only have to put up with him because he’s Powell’s ex-bandmate. Even Powell doesn’t like him very much.”

“What about the other guy? Pink sweatpants guy?”

“Fuchsia, and I told you, it wasn’t what you thought.”

“What was it then?” Tanner’s pedaling is slowing even more. He’s at a child’s walking pace now.

“I can’t tell you because if I did, you’d die laughing and I don’t want my staff to have to haul your dead body out of here or deal with towing your van.”

There it is! I saw a brief flash of dimple.

“Would you tell me over drinks?”

“Depends on the drinks.”

“Whatever you want. The money from the Powell photo landed in my account today, so it’s my treat. Are you working out much longer?” Ah, no wonder he was so easy to tease into a better mood. That, and he’s a gracious stationary bike race loser.

“I’ll be finished soon, then I need a quick shower. Maybe meet out front in a half hour? We can take my car.” That’s not altruism, I’m just not interested in riding around in his crappy van.

After Tanner walks away—after the shortest cardio workout ever—Powell and his ever-present human shadow come over to say hello. Mike is wearing a baggy sweatshirt, which creates the illusion that he doesn’t have the world’s most powerful body. If I were him, I’d show it off, but he prefers discretion.

“They let you out?” I ask. Powell gives Mike the side-eye.

“Temporary reprieve. I like using your studio to practice. He let me come in for a rehearsal and now I want to go out for Mexican. Can we trade cars?”

“Depends. Are you getting your food to go? I don’t want my car to stink.” I know his usual order; I don’t want that meaty smell permeating my custom vegan leather seats.

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