Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Matt
For the second time in two weeks, he woke up Nessa with a kiss behind her ear.
"It's me, Truffle," Matt whispered. "It's 4:58. I'm waking you up two minutes early so you don't have to listen to the alarm going off."
Evidently she did not find him the least bit amusing or thoughtful, because she groped for her phone, turned off the alarm, and pulled her pillow firmly over her head.
Unsuccessful in this attempt, he tried a few other, quieter methods of waking her. At first, she just burrowed deeper under the bedcovers, but gradually he detected a change as she shifted the slightest bit under his hand, moving a millimeter or so in the direction of his light caress. Soon his patience was rewarded by a suggestion of a purr and, although he might have been mistaken about that, he didn't think he was.
Later, when they were fully awake and once again able to speak in full and coherent sentences, he rolled over and checked his own phone.
"Shoot, it's six thirty! We have to go!"
"Go? Now? You still want to go? "
"Yes, of course! I'll go make–oh. There's no coffee." You could have substituted the words, “Oh. Santa didn't come.”
Nessa pulled the sheet up to cover her mouth, but he heard her snicker.
"What's funny?"
The snicker became a guffaw. "There's coffee."
"Dunkin' is not coffee. Not by any stretch of the imagination–I don't care if you were born in Massachusetts and never left for even a weekend. We'll have to stop on the way."
"There's coffee! I was just messing with you. Look in the refrigerator. And there's a grinder in the cupboard over the stove. I don't personally correspond with the person who grew the beans, but I think it's drinkable."
"That is not funny, Nessa."
"I wasn't kidding about the Chemex, though. You'll just have to manage."
"You have manufacturers sending you German sausage grinders and sous vide cookers, and it never occurred to you to partner up with Fellow or Jura?”
"I have a full-time job, you know! Maybe next month. Now can you go get busy? I have to shower."
"Shower before the gym? Why?"
Once again, they regarded each other, nonplussed, as if they lived on different continents–if not planets. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
"If you want to leave this apartment before noon," she murmured around his mouth, "you will go make that coffee right now."
"Right." He pulled on his boxers, although it wasn't easy. "I'm on it."
In the kitchen, he followed her directions and located decent beans, grinder, filters, and carafe. The rushing sound of the shower made a faint background noise as he filled the tea kettle with Icelandic spring water and set the gas burner to high. While he waited for the sound of the water bubbling–but not quite boiling–he looked around with different eyes than he had last night.
If you'd asked him to describe his apartment, he would have had to think for a minute, but he probably would have said modern, utilitarian, simple . He liked things put away, a place for everything, because he liked to be able to find what he wanted immediately. His books were very important to him and he knew exactly where each one was shelved. Hanging on his walls were a few nice prints and pieces of art from his family, and they were sentimental–he valued them–but they weren't things he'd thought about; they just came to him. If anything, his place was nicer than his friends' apartments, though. Interior design wasn't generally a priority for the clergy.
Nessa's place, though… it wasn't that it was over-the-top luxurious, or that every corner was filled with expensive antiques. Quite the opposite, it was open, airy, and comfortable.
But it was–he searched for the right word–it was curated . It had a unity to it, the reflection of one distinct personality. Every object had been considered.
It was a nice place to be.
By extension, the personality she presented to the public was also carefully curated. Everything she wore, her hair, her makeup, every detail had been considered. Was that a positive quality, or negative? Was it a healthy expression of an aesthetic nature, or was it a superficial and materialistic approach to life?
That was a very important distinction, and it was something he needed to find out.
He had dated lots of women, but no one quite like Nessa. Even when he was a teenager, his girlfriends had tended to be sporty and natural, generally more interested in academics and social issues than new cocktail bars or Paris Fashion Week. They were often pretty and well dressed–at least he thought so–but that wasn't the main attraction.
He'd met Nessa at the benefit, so the first thing he knew about her was that she cared about animal welfare. But there was no denying that the second thing he perceived that night was that every eye in the place, male and female, was watching her–and she left with him . Heady stuff, easy to get caught up in–even for a minister–and totally, one-hundred-percent incompatible with his life.
The more he got to know her, though, the more he genuinely liked her. Like her place, she was nice to be around.
Don't stress , he told himself. You're a pretty good judge of character. This won't take long to figure out.
The trick was to do it before any hearts could get broken.
"Did you find everything?" Seeing her fresh from the shower, with scrubbed skin and her hair in a towel, felt somehow privileged, like sharing a secret. The urge to pick her up and carry her back to the bedroom was almost irresistible.
"Yes, it'll be ready in a minute," he managed to reply in a normal tone. "Hey, I think I saw that towel in one of Nessa Martini's videos!"
It was just gentle teasing, but she looked at him uncertainly.
"It's just a plain white towel," she said, a defensive note in her voice, "but a little bit better because it has this scallop stitch."
"I like it. It seems to me that everything you do is a little bit better." The tension dissipated; he could see her shoulders relax.
"Is that what you're wearing to work out?" she teased him in return, gesturing at his boxers.
"Yes, at my gym, we have casual Saturdays," he shot back, deadpan.
"I'm going to be overdressed, then."
"Not for long." Finishing the final pour-over at the stove, he turned back to face her, and his desire was very apparent.
"Wow," she whispered faintly. "I, uh, I think I'd better go get dressed–we're already late."
"Right. Let me grab my pants and shirt–my gym bag's in my car. If I walk in there wearing last night's clothes…"
"I get it. They'll figure out you're not my personal trainer and I'm not your new client. My keys are in the bowl on the table," she told him, pointing toward the front entry. “Let yourself back in the building.”
As he used the stairs to get his legs pumping and to save time, he marveled at the night. A few minutes alone would do him some good.
That dress she wore at the beginning made her look like a Warren Jeffs bride. Yeesh . As he grabbed his clothes out of the car and sprinted back to her building, he got a whiff of himself, sex and sweat and coffee all rolled into one.
The guys at the gym were going to smell her all over him.
Good.
As he keyed into her apartment, halfway to the bathroom, she called out from the bedroom.
“Sorry to make you late! Just need a minute for light makeup!”
“No problem.” A master at quick changes, he was in his workout clothes in under a minute, neatly folding last night’s clothes into his bag. They’d need a good drycleaning anyhow.
“Ready?” she asked, holding a giant Stanley water bottle, the color a perfect match for her spandex shorts. His brain stopped working as his eyes combed over her, words long gone, his gym shorts about to tent horribly.
He was going to have to beat the guys at the gym off her with an Olympic lifting bar.
And he would do it, too, if someone provoked him.
“Oh, boy,” he said as they departed, Nessa taking the lead, her firm ass begging for his hands.
This might be a mistake.
When they walked into the gym, it was 7:45. The regular early-morning guys would already be halfway through their workouts, he knew, and his absence would have been commented on, rudely. Vince's Beast Mode Strength Training was one big, open, cavernous space, with equipment along the walls and in a row down the middle. Big mirrors on the wall reflected every movement.
Vince didn’t advertise but the place was full. The only way you knew the place existed was a simple sandwich sign on the sidewalk with the word GYM, and an arrow pointing to the entrance.
Such was Vince.
Their arrival now was not going to go unnoticed, and for an uncomfortable moment, he wondered why this had ever seemed like a good idea.
Nessa was a woman who stood out in a crowd, as he was well aware, and there was no crowd here to hide behind. Not that he wanted to hide. Of course he didn't. She was gorgeous, he thought, out of his league–out of all their leagues put together.
But there weren't very many female members of this gym, and the ones there were, well, they didn't wear lipstick to work out. Also, they didn't dress any different from the guys. Whereas Nessa was wearing lavender spandex shorts (that color was called lavender, right? Or was it lilac?), a tight white top with a lot of straps, and a thing that covered her arms but not much else, kind of like a sweater with no body. Her sneakers were extremely white.
"We can just leave our bags over here," he told her. Hers looked like it was made of some kind of coated canvas; he knew he'd seen the pattern before. Something told him it had been delivered unexpectedly to her door and had then been featured in more than one post or video.
Or both.
This time, though, it would be hypocritical to disapprove–his own black mesh bag had turned up at his doorstep soon after his followers crossed the 100,000 mark. There'd been no good way that he could think of to feature it in a training video, but he hadn't returned it, either.
"What's your routine?" he asked. "What do you usually start with?"
"Oh," she said, looking around, "usually I lie down and try to center myself. You know, get rid of all my negative energy."
"Huh. Pretty much all we have here is negative energy," he said, glancing at the guys. They were all, to a man, glancing back.
"You've got to change that immediately!" she said, alarm in her voice. "For thousands of years, the successful practice of yoga has begun with emptying your head of thoughts that block your chi."
"Empty heads won't be a problem, either. I think yoga is different from what we do here. Let's approach this another way: Is there any certain area or muscle group that you'd like to work on? To build strength or just tone up a little?"
"You're the famous expert on this–what do you think?" she asked, smiling up at him. "Are there any areas where you'd like to see some improvement? Firmer, or more definition? Bigger? Smaller?" She turned around slowly–teasingly?–for emphasis.
A heavy weight hit the floor somewhere off to his left, the noise resounding. To his right, someone experienced a coughing fit. Other than that, it was remarkably quiet. No conversation, no banter, no friendly insults, not even a grunt or a groan. Just the repetitive sound of metal striking metal, or the occasional mechanical adjustment.
Odd.
Then the office door banged open. Vince emerged and walked by them carrying a case of protein powder like it was a box of tissues. Dropping it on a stack next to the kitchenette–a sink, coffee machine, refrigerator, commercial-size blender, in an inset in the wall–he paused on his way back.
"The minister of muscle," he greeted Matt. "Preaching planks today?" Turning to Nessa, he gave her a friendly smile. "Welcome. I'm Vince. You training with this guy?"
"Maybe, we'll see. Today is just the free introductory offer. I'm Nessa."
"Like I said, welcome. Help yourself to water from the fridge. You'll be okay–I don't know about his spiritual guidance, but he's pretty good with the physical stuff."
"Oh, I know all about how Matt handles the physical stuff," she said in a tone of voice that made Vince do a double take as he walked away.
" 'Help yourself to water'? " a guy on a quad machine said to Vince in an aggrieved tone. "Why does it cost me a dollar?"
"Because you're not wearing a white sleeve thing," Vince shot back. "It's a special I'm running today."
"Tell you what, let's start with upper body," Matt suggested. "You probably have to lift heavy things at work sometimes, right? Everybody can use strong arms."
" The better to hold you with ," he heard somebody say in a low, goofy undertone, and there were a couple of snickers.
"All right, all right," Matt announced. "Enough with the cracks and the looks. Guys, this is Nessa. She's a friend of mine, and for some reason, I thought I'd show her what I do in my spare time, so here we are. I like her. Don't scare her off."
Even the mechanical noises had ceased now. A burly, dark-haired man in maybe his mid-thirties dropped his barbell and approached, wiping the sweat off his neck with a towel. His bulging neck, shoulders, and arms were more than just the result of casual workouts–this wasn't a guy who sat behind a desk all day.
"Don't worry about that, Draper, you can scare her off all by yourself." Grinning, he added, "Hey, Nessa, I'm Brian. You live in Boston?"
"Here we go," Matt muttered.
"Yes, Southie," she answered.
"Southie! Unbelievable! I work in the South End!"
"Really? Where?"
"Don't ask!" Matt pleaded, under his breath and a little too late.
"Boston Fire Department, Company 3," Brian said proudly. "We have a big response area and"–he leaned in–"we also respond to special calls. If you give me your contact info, I can let you know my shifts. You'd be a very special call. Or maybe it's easier if I just put my number into your phone."
"Brian." Matt felt his name in his throat like a growl.
"Public service, Draper. You can be in charge of her soul, but we're saving mortal lives every day. Can't be too careful." This was directed at Matt but he never took his eyes off Nessa.
"That's okay, I have your number in my phone already. It's 911, right?" Smiling sweetly, she deflected him.
Nicely done, Matt was thinking, when she reached for his hand to underscore her message.
"Where do we start?" she asked him. Even Brian got the message.
"Have fun, you two," he said cheerfully, and went back to his bench.
Gradually, general conversation returned to its normal, comfortable level. The two adjacent treadmills were open, and Matt headed for them. On the way over, he stopped at a rack and picked up a weighted vest and a pair of ankle weights for himself plus wrist weights that he handed to Nessa.
"We can both warm up at the same time," he explained. "I'm setting your treadmill to a beginner level, but if it's too slow, you can adjust it here, see? Just don't try to do too much, too fast. Same with the weights, if they're too light, you can move up to heavier ones next time."
"Next time?"
"You don't look like a quitter to me."
"So far, you've been amazingly good at figuring me out."
But have I? he wondered. I'm still stuck on some pretty fundamental questions.
Once he'd strapped on his ankle weights, he pulled on the vest and started his own treadmill. Keeping one eye on Nessa, he could see she was striding along nicely, ponytail swinging, the base at a low incline. The run he'd programmed for himself started slowly, of course, but picked up speed fairly quickly until he was at a good clip, breathing harder and working up a sweat. She seemed fine, occasionally giving him a sideways glance and a smile, and he was pleased; the worst thing would be for her to overdo it, ache or get hurt, and never want to return.
For now, all was under control. Which was an unfortunate thought, because the minute he thought it, he heard a voice behind him.
"How much weight you got there, Draper?" Brian asked. "Like, forty pounds?”
"To start." Matt kept it short, not wanting to engage in whatever this was about.
"That's like a three-year-old–what if you have to run carrying an adult? Be three times that, at least."
"I hardly ever have to run a long distance carrying an adult, Brian," Matt responded, giving him a look that said C'mon, man.
Undeterred, Brian continued, "What if there was a fire, or like, an explosion? Could happen, you never know. Can't always sit back and wait for us to get there and rescue everyone. Lives are on the line."
Nessa reached forward and adjusted her treadmill setting so that she was walking very slowly; she was clearly listening to every word.
“You want me to run wearing a hundred pounds of weights?" Matt asked, incredulous.
"Not your whole run, no! Just, like, a hundred yards."
"That's a football field!"
"Nah, not even. Teenagers do it every Saturday afternoon–pretend you're a running back."
"This is stupid," Matt declared, but a challenge–especially when thrown down in front of Nessa–was a challenge. He went back to the rack and loaded up with weights, then returned to the treadmill, moving somewhat slower as carried an extra seventy pounds now.
"Matt…" Nessa tried, at a standstill now, and he looked over at her, but it was too late to stop him. He stepped onto the machine.
But his eyes lingered on her for a split second, assessing.
"What do you weigh?" he asked.
She moved close to him and cupped her hand over his ear. “One ten,” she whispered.
Unfastening the vest, he dropped it on the floor, then bent down and unstrapped the weights on his ankles. Turning to the treadmill's screen, he frowned at it, then began programming. Brian stood back, watching quietly, arms crossed across his broad chest.
"What are you–" she started, as he jumped down next to her, but he turned his back.
"Just go with it, okay?" he said quietly over his shoulder, the one facing away from Brian. He squatted slightly. "Piggyback. Use my hand to step up. Trust me."
She didn't hesitate.
Once she was aboard and balanced, arms around his neck, two steps put them both on the slowly moving belt. As the speed gradually increased, his pace matched it.
"You okay?" he called back–the jouncing could not be comfortable for her–and her giggle close to his ear was the only response. He took it as a good sign.
By now, he couldn't hear much over the sound of his own breathing, so he didn't notice the other guys abandoning their routines and gathering around Brian until he looked up and saw the small crowd reflected in the mirror. Vince, who could sense the adjustment of a mat from inside his office with the door closed, was among them.
At this point, quitting was not an option; he kept his eyes on the distance display and jogged on. Fifty yards… sixty-two… he thought about real first responders doing this in real emergencies. Seventy-four yards… he thought about servicemen running in the desert with boots and hundred-pound packs on their backs… Eighty-nine yards… he pictured Derrick Henry chugging toward the end zone with half the defensive line hanging off him. Ninety-eight, ninety-nine…
The treadmill's speed decreased as it shifted into cool-down mode. Three more strides and he stepped heavily onto the blessedly unmoving floor, panting, Nessa sliding down to stand beside him. Excitement seemed to get the best of her, because she reached up and kissed him.
Instantly, Brian was shaking his hand and thumping him on the back, his lips sliding off Nessa’s, mouth suddenly sad at the loss of connection.
"Chaplains one, firefighters zero," he said admiringly. "Wait–that can't be allowed to stand." He bent over and gestured to Nessa. "Jump on! I have a title to defend!"
At the look of horror on her face, Matt intervened, cutting him off with body language while chuckling. "Get your own special-teams coach, Brian. Nessa's under contract."
Vince handed him a bottle of water. "Quit fooling around out here–one person on a machine at a time! Don't make me put up a sign. Somebody gets hurt, my insurance goes through the roof." Shaking his head, he headed back to his desk–but he was grinning broadly.
A smattering of applause and pats on the back followed as, entertainment over, the onlookers dispersed.
"I guess that was a little, ah, immature?" he said sheepishly to Nessa. "Not sure what came over me, but thank you for being such a good sport about it."
"Sure, of course." Her smile was a little bit dazed, and he wondered briefly if the repetitive impact had caused any neurological damage.
"You're okay, right? Look, I know you didn't get any strength training, but what do you say we call it a day here? I'm kind of worn out. Tell you what, I'll buy you a smoothie at the place next door. You deserve a reward for subjecting yourself to that."
"I'm fine, and that sounds good."
"Guess you got up early for nothing."
"Oh, no. No, getting up early today was not for nothing." They smiled at each other.
Grabbing their bags, and with a general wave, they headed for the door. Unlike their entrance an hour ago, almost everyone waved back, no longer strangers. Brian bowed from the waist, honor due. Matt noticed a couple of the guys hunched over their phones, typing, but nothing unusual about that, right? Just how it is, everyone always checking their messages.
No one wants to be left out of breaking news on social media.