Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Case
Nothing's going to stop me.
Staring out at the sea of faces and bodies, people finding spots to roll out their yoga mats, I'm filled with an impenetrable wall of confidence.
I've done it.
This is it.
Victory is mine.
Prakash Shanti may have founded Chakroga123, but I've perfected it. I bought this franchise three years ago. Put every ounce of time, energy, and mental space into this place and the six others I've opened in Boston. I've got Prakash ready to buy them back and pay top dollar for it all, and after I sell, I get to pursue my next-level dream:
Nothing.
That's right – nothing .
I get to retire early. Live off my assets. Be my own man, manage my own time. Do whatever I want.
Parasail around the world? There's an idea.
Binge watch old 1970s television shows while eating gelato out of a gallon container for a year? If I want.
Grow my legally allotted marijuana plants here in Massachusetts and get blitzed every day? I could.
That's the thing.
I can do anything I want. Anything .
In three weeks, once the sale goes through.
Being out of the rat race before thirty-five was my goal for years, and I'm achingly close.
Speaking of aches, my glutes are a little stiff from last night.
Thinking about last night makes other places a little stiff, too. Better watch that. No one needs to see wood on their yoga instructor.
The regular instructor, Maisie, is out on maternity leave, so I'm filling in for the next three weeks. She made it to thirty-six weeks with twins, but the laws of gravity apply to everyone equally, whether Maisie agrees or not.
One of the students walks past, wearing the same perfume as the woman I slept with last night. Sarah. You know the kind. A little uptight, out with her looser friends, the quiet, bookish one in the corner of the big booth who looks like she'd rather be reading Austen than out sharing pitchers of sangria.
But get that third drink in her, and a long, thick piece of fun she can grip in her hand and put up to her mouth, and she comes unglued.
Undone.
Unrecognizable.
I don't do one-night stands.
But I did last night.
And if I keep thinking about Sarah, I'm going to look like a paper towel holder while doing child's pose on stage.
Something about the way she sang karaoke, hair in her face, cheeks pink with fun, her eyes shining and sharp, made me want her.
And the sex... oh, man.
Never underestimate the smart, quiet ones, They're always wild in bed.
Always.
Sneaking out of her place this morning was the right thing to do. Unbuttoned at night, she's the type to freak out in the morning, and who needs that kind of tension at the crack of dawn?
While she showered, I left. Cleaned the bed quickly, gave her a cute Zen pillow stack, and whistled my way down the three flights of stairs, jogging on over here.
I own the studio. Might as well shower here and keep everything nice and simple.
Campsite rule, right? Leave the place nicer than it was when you found it.
Hope I did the same between her legs.
Nah. I don't hope.
I know .
“Why do you have that weird porny smile on your face, Case?”
Rory, our studio assistant, nudges me with a yoga block as she walks by.
“Porny?”
“Like you got laid last night.”
Rory's known for being direct.
“Smiling makes my face porny?” I smile even bigger.
“Ew! Now you look like a serial killer.”
“A serial killer who got laid last night?” I ask, which makes her stick her tongue out at me and walk on by.
Rory is Prakash's niece and a pain in the ass, but she's a whiz at organization and inventory management.
And she knows how to brew lemongrass sun tea in a way that makes people pay $4 for a single glass, so she's good for profit margins.
Not that I'm going to care in three weeks.
The front-of-class students take their places, stretching and looking around, comparing and evaluating. Unlike other, more mellow yoga franchises, Chakroga123 is designed for type-A achievers. We have a leaderboard that tracks attendance. You get one free month's membership to give to a friend when you attend sixty days in a row.
See those six women in the front?
None of them has missed a day all year. Katrina – the salt-n-pepper hippie chick with the tie-dye Grateful Dead tank top – is the leader at 463 days in a row.
I half expect Ivy, the nineteen-year-old Instagram influencer next to her, to kneecap her in the parking lot so she can jump ahead.
Don't let anyone tell you yoga isn't cut-throat.
Katrina's going to nama-stay in first place if it kills her.
And Ivy's ready to kill her.
But notice how they're smiling at each other, chatting away about glutathione levels and heat yoga promoting ATP for energy? I hear Katrina mention something about salt cave sessions. Ivy retorts with red light therapy for cellulite.
But none of that matters as a new student enters the room.
Time stops.
She walks in, blue cylindrical carrying case slung over her shoulder, hair in a messy knot on top of her head, cheeks pink. Texting madly, she nearly bumps into John, an octogenarian Maisie warned me was a talker, with a bum knee that goes out whenever he moves too fast.
“Hey there. What's the rush?” he jokes with her. “You're here to relax.”
Polite laughter, genuine and guarded, comes out of her. Slipping the phone into her mat case, she takes a spot next to him toward the back, looking around the room.
Our eyes meet.
I press my palms together right at my throat.
I bow, never breaking eye contact.
And then I give her my best porny smile.
Because she's the reason I have one this morning.