Chapter 8 #2
“I only saw your room,” I say, hesitating. “Not the guest room.”
There wasn’t any time to explore while crawling around before dawn, gathering my clothes from his floor. Only one thing mattered in that moment: getting out before being seen.
“It’s a one-bedroom apartment.”
My head swivels. “Really? How is that possible? This is the penthouse floor, and you’re a famous MMA fighter.”
“No title fights yet,” Danny says, his eyes shooting down to his feet. “No big sponsors. People may know my name, but I’m still a lowly day-rater.” He shifts and his jaw clenches, an uncomfortable vulnerability weighing down the air.
This glimpse of humility allows some warmth to seep into my voice. I reach out and touch him lightly on his shoulder.
“We’ll fix that.”
“Thank you,” he says, his hazel eyes meeting mine.
Instantly, there is heat between us again. That chemistry flickering and sparkling, making my stomach lurch and my mouth go dry and my groin pulse dangerously.
“I’ll just hang a few of my things and then we can have an air mattress delivered,” I say, tearing my eyes away and breaking the spell.
Danny watches as I walk toward his bedroom, his scarred eyebrow raised.
I open the door and inhale. It’s a relief to be away from him, like the first cool breath after a hot yoga class.
A sweet scent hits me, cloying and perfumed, so different from the clean citrus of Danny. Where is that coming from? Perhaps a diffuser, or an overenthusiastic Glade plug-in that will need to be decommissioned immediately. I have no interest in getting a migraine on top of everything—
“Oh my god.” I clap both hands to my mouth.
Tangled limbs and flesh, naked and stirring writhe on the bed. A living abstract painting of breasts and thighs, lips, and cascading hair. They stretch luxuriously, reclaiming their own forms.
The two naked women smile lazily up at me from his Prussian blue duvet. Danny comes up behind me, chomping his apple.
“Told ya you should have let me tidy up first.”
“This was a mistake,” I say to Belinda on my phone a few minutes later, pacing out in the hallway. “I can’t do this.”
“I’ve yet to see you fail a client, Lauren, so don’t start now.”
“But he’s rude, childish, and a total deviant. He doesn’t even want to be coached. He’s just riding out his time so his manager doesn’t bail.”
“We guide clients. We don’t judge them.”
“And he isn’t taking any of this seriously at all. He keeps calling me a babysitter.”
“Then find another way through to him. Try being his equal instead of an authority figure. If you quit, I’m afraid the Malibu position will be off the table.”
I bite my lip. Twenty days. Danny’s fight is in twenty days. The human mind can suffer most things if they know the endpoint.
“Fine. I’ll keep trying.”
I hang up with Belinda just as the apartment door opens and two scantily clad women step into the hallway.
“Wait, it’s cold out,” Danny says, following them with two UFC sweatshirts.
“Always a gentleman,” the brunette says, smirking at me.
They give a little wave as they enter the elevator. Danny lets his apartment door close and leans his back against it, crossing his arms.
“Why so shocked, Theranos?” he says, his head cocked. “Didn’t realize some women stay the night?”
“You set me up.”
“I did not. I tried to come up first, and you wouldn’t let me.”
“You let me walk in on a—a stripper orgy!”
“Ignoring the general offensiveness of your take on sex workers, you’ve got it wrong. They weren’t strippers. And if you think that was an orgy …” He gives me a pitying look as he opens the door and holds it, waiting for me to come back inside. I roll my eyes but oblige.
“You can clutch your pearls all you want,” he continues, “but some people are capable of engaging in consensual physical intimacy with no pretense.”
This stops me short, right under the arm that’s holding the door.
“There was no pretense with me,” I insist.
“Yes, there was.” His eyes hold mine, his face too close in the confines of the door well. “We connected. You might not want to admit it, but we did. But for some messed-up reason, you gave me a fake name and snuck out while I slept. It seems to me you’re the one who needs some life-coaching.”
I stand there with my mouth open, the shards of truth in his words cutting that much deeper. But I’m the professional here, and I have the benefit of my training. I lean on it.
“My personal life is not up for discussion,” I say, ducking under his arm and walking into the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of water to give my shaky hands something to do. “You are my client. And for this arrangement to work, we both need to forget about that night.”
“Unlikely,” Danny says, his voice low, like he’s remembering something. The side of his mouth tips up into a grin.
I cross my arms in front of my chest defensively. “Well, we have to do something. I really need this to work, and so do you.”
He pushes himself off the bar and moves closer to me, his strong jaw flexing. My heart beats quicker, and he bends his head so that his face is close to mine, scented with fresh green apple sweetness. He’s silent, but his hazel eyes search my face.
“Fine,” he says, having decided something. “We can start over. On one condition.”
“Anything.”
“You let me coach you on the life-changing benefits of hedonism.”
I roll my eyes. “So, you’re, like, actually a hedonist? That’s a thing?”
He pulls a sleek silver card out of his wallet and hands it to me. “It’s a thing.”
“ ‘International Hedonist Society,’ ” I read. “ ‘Established 1920.’ ”
“Consider it my religion, if that helps. I pursue pleasure, unapologetically and without exception.”
I stare at the card, my mind buzzing. “You want me to become a pleasure-seeker?”
Danny gives me a sly smile. “You do remember what pleasure feels like, don’t you?”
Something in his eyes jettisons me back to his room, where he laid me down on his duvet, the warmth of his fingertips gentle on the nape of my neck. He must know what I’m thinking because his lips tilt upwards into a knowing smile, his dimple appearing.
“Yeah, right. Devolve our constructive time together into debauchery so you can get me fired and do whatever you want?” I say, handing him back the card. “Sorry, but no. I’m not falling for it.”
“Hedonism is not about debauchery. It’s about choosing pleasure in every moment.”
“Right,” I say, gulping more water. It’s hot in here. The air is too thick, and I can’t think properly.
“Humans value pleasure on a sliding scale,” he says, and his tone is earnest, like he really wants me to understand.
“The rarer, the more valuable. But this is a flawed mentality.” He looks up, thinking of an example.
“Which would you choose: a trip to the Maldives or a simple walk in your neighborhood park?”
“The Maldives, obviously.”
“And if you fight with a lover at the resort, but fall in love at the park, which feels better?”
My stomach does a little flip when he says the word lover, but I do a good job of not letting my face register it.
“Hedonists indulge in what feels best,” he continues, “common things. Simple things. Crunching a fall leaf. Sipping a warm drink. Caressing a lover. They all count toward the net goal.”
“Goal of what?”
“Of maximizing pleasure over pain.”
“But life doesn’t work that way,” I object. “You can’t just spend all your time pleasure-hunting.”
He hops up on the stone island and opens his arms. “I’m proof that you can.”
“You’re proof that drifting through life on a pleasure cruise prevents you from achieving your actual goals.” Oops. Perhaps that was a bit harsh. I glance at Danny’s face to check, but he doesn’t look the least bit offended. Just amused.
“Or, maybe you’re proof that one can’t live on lima beans alone. Be honest with yourself, Theranos. You must have some life goals you haven’t yet reached, despite constantly having that cute nose of yours pressed against the grindstone. I’d wager loosening up a little would help you achieve them.”
It’s hard not to be offended—obviously not about the cute nose part.
Of course I know what pleasure feels like!
He makes me sound like some negative shrew finding fault in all of life’s little joys.
A thorn on the rose. A typo in the romance novel.
A soggy, uncrunchable leaf. But appreciating the little things has been the touchstone of my relationship with Casey for years.
Simple nights spent watching the rain is, like, our whole thing.
But if I was more comfortable with pleasure, wouldn’t Casey have fallen for me by now?
Oh god, what if he’s right? What if my buttoned-up demeanor is the reason Casey chose Helena instead of me?
Helena, who can hold eye contact without turning into Jell-O.
Helena, who is comfortable in her own sexy skin, who leans in for a kiss when he looks at her lips instead of running away by changing the subject.
“It’s not a good idea,” I say firmly. “I’m the life coach, and you are the client. I was hired to keep you on the straight and narrow for twenty days, and that’s what I’m going to do. By the book. Now go sit at the dinner table and wait for me to bring you our first exercise.”
He sighs, hopping off the island. “Guess we’re doing it the hard way.”