Chapter 8
CHAPTER
EIGHT
CHRISTINE
When I arrive at the gleaming, modern hotel gym at two AM, there’s a finance bro type finishing up.
On his way out, he flashes a smile and looks down at where I sit, adjusting my shoes.
“Jet lag, huh?”
“Yeah,” I reply, despite the fact that I’ve been here for over a month. Twenty-four-seven gym access might be the reason I haven’t tried harder to switch to a hotel closer to the rest of the crew.
I finish tying my shoes and stand to my full height—which reveals that I have a couple inches on this finance bro.
His flirtatious smile flattens, and he turns and leaves without another word.
Typical. I’d mop the floor with him, anyway.
The gym is better than my room, but it’s still so empty and quiet. I put headphones in and turn on a podcast so it doesn’t seem so lonely. At least the rowing machine and I have become good friends.
I remind myself that I’d have more company if I didn’t keep firing my personal trainers.
There aren’t many with enough experience training alphas to really push me to my limit.
It doesn’t help that alphas, as a rule, don’t do well with being told what to do.
All the trainers I’ve tried so far were either exhaustingly sycophantic or obnoxiously bro-y.
I can figure out my own training, anyway.
I crank the rowing machine to the max setting, missing the specialized one back at my place in LA that hits double this resistance. It’s for the best, though. I’m just here to pass the time and I need to keep my muscles fresh for shooting.
The view, which looks through clear floor-to-ceiling glass past the azure-tiled lap pool and out over the sapphire harbor lined with silvery towers, was compelling for the first week.
The rowing machine itself is incredibly boring, but that’s sort of the point—an easy activity I can use to occupy my body while my mind wanders to other things.
Lately it only wants to wander to: What if this is a terrible mistake and you’re stuck forever?
I pause rowing and snap a pic of the pool, then text it to Morgan.
Tell me how to swim laps. I wanna use this cool pool
She’s the CEO and founder of Artemis Pharmaceuticals, the company responsible for bringing alpha and omega suppressants to market.
A little ironic that I don’t partake despite her being a close friend, but most Hollywood alphas don’t, and I have to stay sharp enough to defend my territory.
Not that Morgan has any trouble doing so, but not all of us have her gift of resting-bitch-face.
Some of us are too charming for our own good.
Morgan’s reply is prompt as always. She gets up at five every day, or some ungodly hour, to keep that stick-up-her-butt schedule of hers. Though she’s relaxed a bit since marrying Jamie. That’s been nice to see.
Morgan
Do you seriously think I can tell you how to swim over text?
Me
yeah :) ur the best
Morgan
Just swim back and forth and don’t look like an idiot
Me
Yep, teacher of the year
Morgan
It’s not rocket science
Me
is it a crime to want to text my good friend?
I follow up with a pleading face emoji.
Morgan
Do you actually need something?
Me
Oooh. Business busy? Or sexy busy?
This one gets a smirk emoji.
Tiny grey text appears with a little checkmark. Read.
I leave my phone open for a few minutes, but Morgan never replies.
I sigh, leaning into the pull on the rowing machine. “Bitch.”
My mind wanders again—to the smell of citrus and those brooding brown eyes.
Mylo.
My mood sours, and I increase my pace.
“Princess? I’ll show you a princess.” He thinks I’m cocky? He should look in a damn mirror.
Yeah, he has the skills—but so do I.
Normally, I thrive on this kind of friendly competition. I don’t know why it’s getting under my skin.
Lack of sleep might have something to do with it.
Frustrated, I drop the rowing handle and let it snap back into the machine. I throw a towel over my shoulder, and my legs are moving, itching for something else to do.
I push into the empty pool room. There’s nobody around to complain, but I kind of wish there was.
I toss my phone and towel onto a lounge chair, get a running start, and do a front-flip cannonball into the mirror-smooth pool.
The cool water and sting bring me back into my body, and I unfurl into a dolphin kick, coursing through the pool until my palms hit a wall.
I’ve seen Morgan swim laps enough times on our retreats, when Avery and I are kicking back with rum punch. It’s not too hard to imitate.
It’ll eventually be as boring as the rowing machine, but for now it’s something new to work on. Maybe I should take up diving. That’s pretty acrobatic. Requires a special pool though… I’ll text my assistant about it later.
For now, I try sillier and sillier strokes, half disappointed Morgan isn’t here to be offended on behalf of the dignity of the sport of swimming.
Eventually, I lean over the edge of the pool, admiring the lingering spray from my cannonball on the window before eyeing the harbor beyond.
Memories stir, and for a moment, waves sigh around me. Hard, cold sand softens under my feet as I step out into the water, grey clouds rippling overhead on a snapping sea breeze, a distant seagull cries…
I shake my head and trudge toward the pool’s stairs.
The past is the past.
Nothing to do about it now.