Chapter 4
I.
Feel.
Like.
DEATH.
My stomach is a burning, roiling riot of alcohol fumes and acid.
And my head is pain. Concentrated misery throbbing in time with my heartbeat. It stabs against my eyeballs, which are so gritty with makeup residue, I can feel last night’s mascara through my closed eyelids. For the moment, I keep them shut; best to reduce the number of parts receptive to pain.
Today will be a total write-off. Hell, it’ll be a miracle if I’m even at 75 percent tomorrow.
And yet, a smile stretches across my face. I had a great time.
Tentative optimism has me reaching across the mattress to check for a possible gray-eyed bedmate, but as my left hand skims over what feels like terrycloth, it seems I’m alone.
I brave a peek, slitting my eyes: just me.
Me, covered with, if the crinkling is any indication, a sleeping bag, lying on a red-and-white-striped beach towel.
There’s a large fold-over tag still sewn in the far corner of the towel. A new towel, then. How nice.
My solo status rouses a flicker of disappointment, but it’s probably for the best. If I look even as remotely as hellish as I feel, I’d hate to alarm my mystery hunk.
Though I could go for a co-misery snuggle.
Or the release of death.
Or…Taco Bell.
Eyes still partially open, I spot my phone beside my pillow.
It vibrates with an incoming text, but I leave it.
I’m not ready to let reality intrude on this surreal bubble of pain and giddiness.
My head is splitting and I got kicked out of a bar last night!
I cleaned a bathroom and made out with a stranger!
Who was that guy? And who the hell was I?
I close my eyes, replaying the session’s highlights. We kissed, which I initiated! Five years since my last first kiss, and I made the first move! And the kissing was excellent, with hands going all sorts of happy places. Definitely a butt guy, my mystery man. He found my tush and held on!
And then—
I frown.
And then… it is now. My memory is a soggy blur from the butt-grab to the unkindness of daylight.
Save for that enthusiastic hold on my backside, I’ve got nothing.
I know that there was no sexual activity; even with the current barrage of sensations in my body, I’m clued in to my nether regions enough to know they stayed on the bench last night.
Though, in other erogenous zone news, I’ve exceeded my boob tape’s recommended usage period by who knows how many hours. That’s going to be rough later.
Okay! So. I blacked out—not great—but I was safely tucked away with makeshift bedding. I’ll call that a draw. I’m not super sure where I am—also not ideal—and I’m—I hold a hand over my left eye, cautiously opening my right—nothing but a blur in the outside corner. Still half-blind, then. Crud.
So that’s two in the con column for my current state, and that’s ignoring the dumped, homeless, and potential MS of it all.
But I’m still smiling. I went for it.
And now I’m violently hungover in an unknown location.
Still smiling, though!
Granted, that smile slips into a grimace as I push myself into a seated position for a better view of my surroundings. The sleeping bag falls to my lap with a crinkle of nylon. Other than the bed, which is simply a mattress on the floor, there’s nothing in the room. Incredible light…
Clarity! The Dawghouse! With the collegiate puppies! Where…I might live now?
My other senses are slowly emerging from the booze-soaked haze, and I register the dull thump of bass. And—I inhale through my nose—someone in the vicinity is cooking bacon.
The bacon is my motivation as I knee-walk my way to the end of the mattress.
There, I find my shoes—ugh, no thank you, heels—and a pile of laundry.
On it is a sticky note reading, FOR ELLY ALL CLEAN!
The note must have been written after the sticky was put on the clothing; there’s a hole poked into the paper at the bottom of the exclamation point.
I look over the stack of sweatshirts and shorts and smile. First, they give me cheese, and now, they’ve conjured comfies from who knows where.
I put the clothes aside for later and swing my legs off the mattress. Standing is precarious, but once upright, I make it to the door without incident, then open it and step out. The bass is louder, and the bacon smell blessedly thicker.
“Hello?” No response.
I continue down the hall, noting an abundance of fuzzy gray mounds running the length of the baseboards. The off-white walls are bare and pockmarked with years of thumbtack punctures and residual tape. There has to be a constant flow of students through this place.
I pass an open door and peer in to find a bedroom. It is masculine collegiate in its purest form. The unmade bed has no headboard, clothing litters the floor, and in lieu of curtains or blinds, dark sheets have been pinned—no, duct-taped—over the windows.
Leaning in the doorway in my achy, dehydrated state, I feel ancient.
This is a world for which I have zero context.
I don’t know if the posters on the walls are for bands or video games or some strain of comic book movies.
The desk is a wasteland of textbooks and slim black cans of what I’d guess is an energy drink. I shake my head and move on.
The next door leads to the bathroom I enjoyed with my mystery man, and I take advantage of the facilities.
I study my reflection as I wash my hands.
Other than the telltale puffiness of binge-drinking after thirty, I look less haggard than I feel.
I clean up the raccoon eyes with my fingertips and give my hair a fluff. Man Mountain had liked my hair.
Grinning, I shake my head and reach for the mouthwash. I gargle and swish—thanks again, my minty friend—and replay what I can remember. That happened!
I spit and rinse. And I’m feeling almost human. Things are looking up!
For exactly three seconds.
Then I lurch for the toilet and violently expel the contents of my stomach.
One hideous, sweaty minute later, I’m back at the sink for a second helping of mouthwash. This time, the refresh isn’t hijacked by my body’s attempt to rid itself of the many poisons consumed last night, and I step back into the hallway, leaving none the wiser.
I pass a window—and backtrack.
It’s a view of the backyard. A black frame sits on a concrete slab by the back fence.
Grant is hanging on to one of the bars bracing across the top of the frame, doing…
something. His legs swing forward, then pump back, and a moment later, he’s levered his torso above the bar.
I don’t even have time to wonder how he’ll get down before he reverses the route, swinging himself below the bar.
Another launch has him vaulting up again.
A few feet away, Diego is committed to some other bonkers feat of strength.
He has a barbell held across his chest and shoulders, with thick weight plates on either end.
He squats, then straightens to a standing position, shoving the bar up and over his head with a grunt loud enough to hear over the music they’re blasting.
In one movement, he brings the bar back to his shoulders, squats, straightens, and sends the bar up, repeating the cycle… again… and again…
I’ve lost track of how many times the two repeat their respective endeavors when Diego announces something I can’t make out.
Grant replies with a cry, propelling himself above the bar one more time. “Fifteen!” He lowers himself to the ground. The two knuckle-bump as they change spots, immediately getting to work on the other activity.
“They didn’t even take a break,” I marvel.
“Yeah. That set is for time,” announces a voice.
I wheel to find Alistair on my right, wet-haired and glistening, wearing only a towel.
Protective instinct has me returning to the window, for fear that looking upon a god in its purest form will extinguish the vision from my remaining eye.
Jesus. I don’t even understand what I just saw. An eight-pack?
When he joins me at the window, he’s on my bad side, limiting my view to a sliver of shape and motion. “Diego’s on bar muscle-ups, and what Grant’s doing is just a thruster. It’s a quick grind. Twenty-one, fifteen, nine. Of each.”
Wow. “I can’t imagine doing a single one of either. Let alone forty-five.”
“Nah. The bar muscle-ups can take years to master, but there’s always alternate movements. And thrusters are basic. It’s the weight and volume that wear you down.”
I understand none of this, but it’s nice of him to try to explain. “You’re not out there?”
“I gotta hold stuff in my shoot on Monday. Can’t shred myself on the bar.”
Before I can process the implication of the “shred” comment, Alistair says, “C’mon,” and moves farther down the hall to a door. He shoulders it open, and his towel slips from his waist to flash me his entire posterior.
He recovers in time to spare himself further exposure, bunching the towel together as he continues to press open the door. He brays out a laugh. “Almost showed off the goods.”
I just raise my brows and step onto the porch. There are no words.
Alistair keeps a hand on his towel as we cross the patio, still strewn with last night’s fallen soldiers. I don’t know that I made it out here, but if I had, I’m disappointed in myself for failing to rouse anyone to consolidate the recycling.
By the time we get to the yard, the guys have traded places again. They move through the final round with the same speed as the previous sets, and I lose all thoughts for beer cans and the unbroken skin tone of Alistair’s backside as I watch them work. It’s incredible.
Diego spots us. “Ah!” he grunts, the bar overhead. He brings the bar back down, squats, and extends. “Morning—” Squat, extend. “Ellie—” Squat, extend. “Did you sleep—” Squat, extend, “Well? Nine!” He brings the bar to rest at his chest, then drops it to the ground with a thud. “That’s time!”
“Howdy, Ellie!” Grant drops from the bar and fetches his phone from a little stand on the frame, silencing the music, then bumps knuckles with Diego, and the two join Alistair and me.
Alistair extends a fist to each of the guys. “Looking strong. Overextending at the top of some thrusters, though, Grant.”
“I felt it, too,” Grant replies, shaking his head at himself as he rolls out his shoulders. I remain agog. How is he not incapacitated right now?
“As long as you know. Imma get dressed.” Alistair bumps me with his shoulder. “Ellie just saw my ass,” he says, chuckling, and departs.
Diego shakes his head. “We’re always seeing his ass.”
I nod. “This is what you do? To maintain—” I motion toward them, hoping it conveys their general vitality without having to directly address the fact that each appears to have been hewn from marble.
Because neither of them is wearing a shirt, and it’s hard not to stare.
Grant is a tribute to long, lean, athleticism, while Diego is a stockier version, softer, but powerfully built.
They gleam in the spring sunshine, breathing heavily, but steadily.
The way they’ve bounced back from last night’s activities brings to mind the adage that youth is wasted on the young, but considering what they just did with their youth, I’m going to settle on being jealous.
“My brother owns a gym,” Grant explains. “Actually, we were gonna talk to you about that—oh!” He interrupts himself. “Were you okay in back? We kind of threw together the stuff for you to sleep on.”
“Yeah, thank you! I appreciate it. I’m just sorry you had to take care of me.”
Grant waves me off. “Nah. It’s all good.” He chuckles. “You were awesome.”
I don’t believe I’ve ever been dubbed “awesome” before. I can’t help smiling. “Thanks?”
“Seriously!” he insists. “You, like, crushed that trivia game. You could have been your own team and totally won.”
“And you’re so good at flip cup! Do you think that your nails are an advantage? They’re so elegant. You’re so elegant,” he says, voice dropping off into shyness.
My smile expands to a grin, which, oddly, relieves some pressure on my aching skull. “Thank you. That’s very sweet,” I say, otherwise unsure how to respond. I’m not accustomed to this degree of unfiltered flattery. A gal could get used to this.
“It looked like you had a great time, too!” says Grant. “I’m so glad, especially after how your night started.”
“I still cannot believe you were dumped at a restaurant,” says Diego.
The reference abrades my freshly stroked ego.
Except for that inventory of misfortunes when I woke up, I haven’t spared a thought to the general unpleasantness of my reality.
Some of that could be simply prioritizing my hangover and the exploration of my surroundings, but the guys have been a welcome distraction.
“At least it ended up a tie,” I say.
“Hell yeah!” Grant raises a hand for a high five, and, why not? We slap palms.
He grins and pivots toward the frame they were on earlier, like he’s just remembered the three-subjects-ago thread of conversation.
“Yeah, we coach at Ian’s gym, and also work out here.
” He points to an open-sided shed. Inside are black weight plates, as well as an assortment of dumbbells and some kind of round, handled weights in yellow, orange, green, red, and purple.
“You wanna get in a few pull-ups? You’d have total freedom of movement in what you’re wearing. Oh! We left stuff for you to change into. C’mon!” He starts walking toward the house, leaving me several conversational turns behind.
I follow him and Diego, still trying to formulate a response to the offer to do pull-ups, as if it were a given that I’m capable of performing them, when I remember the laundry that had been at the end of the bed. “Where did you get clo—”
But the guys gasp in unison, breaking into a sudden run for the open back door. I can make out a shrill beeping, and Diego’s dismayed cry of “The bacon!” before he dashes inside.
Bacon?—Ah! I congratulate myself as it clicks. They’d been cooking bacon. And the beeping is a smoke detector. Which means that the bacon is burning.
Then I’m running for the door, too. “The bacon!”