12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
I spent the morning designing a series of test business cards for a professional tree-trimming business. He wanted a redwood in full-color and toyed with raised print matte or gloss so I made a few for comparison, providing that one-on-one service only a local store could offer.
He liked the matte finish with the raised print because everyone likes the matte finish with the raised print, and his competitor had the shiny business cards. He wanted to be, and I quote, “a cut above the rest.” I couldn’t make this shit up .
I quoted him the price for a gross of his beloved cards.
“I can get it cheaper if I order it online,” he replied.
If I had a nickel every time I heard that.
“I’m not sure online can offer you a unique design. You say you want to be ‘a cut above.’ Online is going to offer templates everyone else uses, imprecise printing and cutting, and a glossy sheen that reeks of ‘I undersell my work.’”
“Can you do a price match if I find something similar online?”
No way, dude. Between my boss and me, we had mouths to feed. And I had to save money to sign up for a new gym. “I assure you, we are priced competitively. As a local business, we know how hard our neighbors are working to make ends meet. And so are we.” I laid on the guilt. That would do it.
He ran his fingers over the raised pine needle detail in the corner. If I hadn’t peaked at a possum cartoon, tree-trimming business cards might be my magnum opus.
“What’s the minimum amount I can get?”
I sold him a box of 500. I guilted him enough to reward my hard work with the minimum amount, the story of my life .
Tina emerged from the back. “Got a sale. Good for you.” She drummed her fingers against the counter. “Saoirse, I’ve been putting off this conversation.”
I didn’t work for Tina for almost a decade without knowing the direction of her conversations. She was having to pull the drawstrings of the business ever-tighter as more and more local businesses printed their crap online. I knew when I accepted the job working for The Mighty Pen Printers that I was working for a dinosaur circling a tar pit. But it was one of the few jobs in Gorda Vista that at least applied my background in art and design. The last time a conversation began like this, I threw myself into my ItsyBizzy store, hoping I might break into entrepreneurial success. Alas, a few boxes of merch had collected dust and Chris’s ire.
“I’m thinking of running the shop exclusively online. Turn this place sort of into a showroom by appointment. Which means, I might be reducing your hours here and, consequently, making pay cuts.”
Without having to pay for hormone injections and other pregnancy treatments, her news was way less soul-crushing than it would have been a few years ago. Unlike the other washed-up creatives polluting the area, I had an agreeable landlord, and until I ever remarried, I had that sweet, sweet alimony for a few more years anyway. I had a backup and a plan for survival to claw out of the tar pit. The wine and paint store a few streets over could use a teacher of drunk women painting sunset landscapes. I could do my part in being exploited by the gig economy. This was life in the tar pit when society devalued art but still demanded it. “You have to put food on your table too.”
“And it may be just offering a lousier health insurance plan or—” She stopped and stared at me. “You’re taking this very well.”
What can I say? My current cardio regime made it harder for my pulse to get worked up.
As if by cue, my sister sent a million texts to my phone. Apparently, Mom joined an adult tap-dancing class at the senior center.
Good for her .
But she got into an argument with the instructor over the choreography.
Of course.
Now Mom was never going to return. And Fiona had to listen to Mom complain over coffee about how she still had zero friends to go shopping with.
Yeah, Mom, stop being mean .
And Fiona would have to go with her to go to an arts and crafts expo because Mom was crying.
I texted back.
If I send you fifty bucks, will you get me the ugliest thing you find at the expo?
Not the feedback she was looking for. She left me a message that was prime evidence my potty mouth was genetic and not something born from my personal dysfunction.
I showed up fifteen minutes early to Starla’s class to claim two bikes in the cool kids’ row. Workout outfit: overpriced bike shorts and matching sports bra set I recently bought in lavender. The T-shirt? A cartoon raccoon and cat frolicking in a field of catnip, a detail missed on maybe the one keen observer who also noticed there was a pile of cat toys behind the raccoon. The message scribbled over the scene? I could play with my pussy all day. Not a metaphor for the sex toy arsenal I currently possessed. In my defense, Chris thought it was hilarious until I wore it to a dinner party. A few art experiments and a chemical burn later, it became an unintentional crop top .
The design might work up Perry. He’d be the type to say I couldn’t wear something like that in public, the kind of adult that Chris eventually became—or maybe always was but was less fearful to express near the end of times. And frankly, I wanted Perry to sputter and sweat so hard, he’d regret ever interrupting my reps!
I warmed up on the bike, and more people arrived, to the point where I had to insist that the bike next to me was reserved for a friend. I suddenly grew self-conscious over whether the friend would show up, or I would look like the asshole in the cool kids' row, reserving a bike that everyone wanted.
Perry finally arrived, wearing the standard dad workout wear: practical white shoes—the ones that hadn’t been ruined by mowing the lawn—white crew socks pulled up past the shin, compression shorts layered under dark gray cotton ones, and a navy T-shirt for a 5K charity run that happened two years ago.
He mounted the bike. I stopped him to adjust the seat and handlebars just like I’d been taught and repeated how he should roll his shoulders back, keep his back flat, push his hips to the fat part of the seat, and engage his core. And like the me of the recent past, he did practically none of that and needed a bit of hands-on coaching. Light, barely touching hands because Perry—gross.
We got a good warm-up going on, and then a voice boomed over the speakers. “Hello you party animals. Starla is sick, but I got a good ride for you today. Who’s ready?”
Beau. As in rhymes with O . As in Oh shit .
Hey brain! Come up with an excuse. My shoes are too narrow. That’s the ticket.
I reached to touch Perry’s shoulder to gain his attention. “My shoes—”
“Woo!” Perry forced a high five on me.
Dammit, I couldn’t leave now. I’d be the world’s biggest jerk if I snuck out and witnessed that dopey little grin of his deflate. I shifted back onto my seat and began pedaling. Beau stared daggers in my direction.
“I’m Beau Bishop, and we’re going to get hot and bothered. This evening’s theme will be taking off our clothes. But you don’t have to if you’re not feeling up to it. In fact, that big knob between your legs can add resistance if you turn it right. If it’s too hot for you, you can always take a little off by turning it to the left.” Beau mounted his bike front and center in the room. “We got some runs, some climbs, and yes, I will hit you with some HIIT but only with your consent. First,” he said, swallowing the mic, “a little foreplay.”
Christina Aguilera’s “Dirrty” played over the speaker. I rolled my eyes.
“This guy is funny,” Perry said with a chuckle.
This guy was insufferable.
During the warm-up, Beau talked about how he was a toddler when Britney and Christina kissed Madonna on television. He polled the class to see if we were more Britney people or Christina people. The class split evenly. Some even conversed over the music about their choice, as if they were in a serious geopolitical discussion. I dance more to Britney. Christina can belt! The next song was “We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off.” Beau announced a medium climb.
“I understand if we’re feeling a little sheepish. Add more to your resistance. You might be putting on more, but things are getting harder. Get out of your seat and climb.”
If I could stand on my pedals and slowly clap for his performance of the year, I would. My quads and hamstrings were primed for the worst to come. And like damn clockwork, the opening chords of Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” roused the class into a chorus of cheers. I had to take this personally. I’d be deluded if I didn’t. Beau glowered straight at me. And like someone who had to keep their chest forward, bum back but not arch their back, I was torn between wanting to slap him or mount him like a bicycle.
Fine. I cranked my resistance to the highest range he announced and picked up my pace to match his. It was going to get hot, alright. The chorus kicked in. “Bring the sweat, can you take your speed to 100 to 120!”
My legs vibrated to the point of jelly, whipping those pedals around. I was going to 130, hitting a personal best purely out of spite.
“How do you do it?” Perry grunted and wheezed.
“Sing to the music. You’ll start breathing better.” I panted out the advice as sweat poured into my eyes.
Then Shakira’s “Underneath Your Clothes” kicked in, a flat road track. “You don’t want to give it your all yet. Take this moment to drink water, wipe yourself down with a towel. We do get a little messy when we’re excited.”
The major climb track arrived with a brutal contrast to Shakira’s ballad, Methods of Mayhem’s “Get Naked.”
“Take a look to your left and a look to your right. We’re all going to get closer by the end of this ride. Share some intense intimacy as we get absolutely filthy.”
My thighs burned as I pushed through the molasses-like resistance. I was full-blown mouth breathing, tasting the iron of my unconditioned lungs.
“Remember to breathe through your belly. If you remember to breathe deep, I can take you to your limit, make you feel things you never have before.” He growled that out. I’d like to say after that there wasn’t a dry seat in the room, but of course, we were sweating. Scowling Beau tingled over my body, practically zinging right to my clit.
He wanted to play games? He got it. I whipped my sweaty shirt off. I had ascended to a new level. The brave woman who wears nothing but a sports bra and shorts to the gym. I pretended to have to adjust the straps to give my boobs an extra bounce.
Beau licked his lips. “We’re going to try some choreography. To the beat of the music, you are going to touch your butt to your seat and pick it right back up, aiming your hips toward your handlebars.” He ran his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “Show me what you can do with those hips.” The entire class hip thrust back and forth to the beat of the song. At this point, Perry kept himself firmly planted in his seat and leisurely pedaled, rocking the something is better than nothing philosophy.
The next song in the cavalcade of millennial perversion continued with Ginuwine’s “Pony.” Beau smirked, peacocking for everyone in the class. “I know what you’re thinking when this song plays.” He stood up on the pedals and lifted the hem of his shirt to show off his Adonis-like abs. One of the ladies in the front row almost tipped her bike over in a frenzy, as if Beau was a boy band member.
Maybe that shit would have excited me a month ago when I believed glimpses of him were all I could get. But I knew he could do better. I toweled off, dragging the terry cloth over my cleavage, tit for tat. Or more tit and tit .
Lowering his shirt, he directed us to push through another burst of cardio. My heart thundered in my chest. The blood in my body zig-zagged in my veins. Should it go to my limbs or to my aching pussy?
“Give it your all. Those limits are white noise. It’s just you and the music, baby. You got this! Yes! Yes! Yes! Good girl.”
I braced against the handlebars and bit into my lip as a moan escaped my throat.
The music changed to “Versace on the Floor.” Beau’s voice lowered. “We’re on the other side. We need a cool down, a stretch, a shower.” He led the class through a stretch.
“I’m Beau Bishop, and I’m subbing for Starla. I hope you have a good night.”
Father Fuccboi took us to church and got the women to speak in tongues. I was a quaking puddle of a human being.
“Do you want to go somewhere after a shower?” Perry asked.
I waved a wet noodle arm in his direction. Waiting for the ability to use my limbs like they were supposed to work was the consequence of pushing myself to highest resistance and speed. I panted out, “I made plans after this.” Not quite a lie. Putting on a deep conditioner mask on my hair and slugging my face with all sorts of salves and creams was on the docket. He didn’t know how flexible an activity I had planned.
“Right. That may have been too much excitement for one night.” He wiped down his bike, coating the dark spots of sweat with a green solution. The gym should mention it was also ever-good at its branding. Perry held the two ends of the towel, which was draped over his neck. He looked up into the fluorescent lights above wistfully. “Thanks for suggesting this, Sir. I needed it. See you around.”
I nodded .
Members of the class thanked Beau on their way out, Perry among them. Beau nodded breathlessly, smiling through the endless line of gratitude. I finally gained enough command over my body to retrieve the cleaner and wipe my own mess off the bike. I shuddered, the response of someone feeling watched. And I was being watched. Beau frequently broke eye contact with the dwindling throng of fans to linger his gaze over me. Maybe that was why I slowly left the bike. Not some lactic acid buildup or a need to cool down, but rather a desire to feel the pull of his thrall. His puppy-dog eyes became more—what do they say in my romance books?—like orbs of lust.
He gathered towels and wiped down bikes that still had marks of sweat. I dismounted from my seat, draping my crop top over my neck. I smoothed over the sweaty tendrils that had stuck to my face like tentacles. “Is Starla actually sick?”
He shrugged and moved from row to row, grabbing stray towels, which he off-loaded into a cloth hamper near the exit.
“Seriously, Beau, what was that class?”
He took off his mic pack and earpiece. “A bit of fun.” The way he wiggled out of the band which held his mic excited me. The way he could have taken his pants off in my bedroom if I hadn’t completely chickened out. “Didn’t you come with a friend?”
I followed him into the storage closet. He put his mic pack on a platform to charge. “Friend is even a little generous,” I said. “We went through a shitty thing together. We’re like war vets nodding across the room together. We know why we have the thousand-yard stare.”
“You were smiling.”
“I’m Midwestern. I’ve been raised to believe it’s my job to smile at people.”
“I’m in customer service. I know a customer service smile when I see one. And you smiled at him.”
“Are you twelve? I’m not the one preening and glistening to get the attention of sweaty middle-aged people. I’m smiling? You essentially fucked a whole room without actually fucking them.”
He grabbed the ends of my shirt as if pulling on a bridle and crashed his mouth into mine. I tripped into a rack of small weights. He licked inside my mouth; I responded by sucking on his tongue. I tasted the salt of his sweat and swooned, taking a few weights with me. Directing me with my makeshift harness, he pushed the tiny one-pound and two-pound weights aside. The divots for the weights prodded into my ass. He broke away to slam the closet door shut.
The anxiety loop threatened to return. “Beau, we—”
He put his fingers to his lips to shush me. “I don’t want to listen to reason. I just want.” He embraced me, his hands rubbing the small of my back. “Don’t you? Want?”
His thigh rubbed right at my apex. The friction made me mindless. Marching from the aerobics class in the next studio thundered through the closet walls. As if the universe was aligning, the pop song demanded that I take a chance . You know what? Fuck it. “Yes. God, yes.”
I sprang up from the rack, and we staggered into the dark of the closet like a couple of teenagers playing Seven Minutes in Heaven. Lit only by the light shining through the crack under the door, I shoved him into another shelf of workout doodads. He sat back on a giant yoga ball. With the height discrepancy, he buried his face in my chest, licking at the sweat of my cleavage.
“I’m so sweaty and stinky.” Not exactly the paragon of sexiness.
He squeezed one boob and nipped at the other through the Spandex of my bra. “I fucking love it. ”
I took fistfuls of his sweat-soaked hair and held his head against my chest. Salt, the raw smell of him drove me wild, as if I was trying to hump him on a yoga ball.
His touch glanced at my inner thigh. “Can I touch you?” He traced his fingers along the outline of the V of my crotch, right across that needy nub of mine with only a centimeter of fabric stretched over it. “Right here?”
“Yes,” I breathed in his ear.
He struggled at first with the tight fit of the Spandex but dipped his hand past my waistband. His skillful fingers parted my seam and mixed my sweat and arousal together in strokes.
“I knew you’d feel like this. That you’d get so wet and ready for me.”
“Mostly sweat, you cocky—” He tapped my clit, and I whimpered.
He tapped a few centimeters to the right, then the left, a dull but wicked sensation that nudged me to the edge.
“I’m a cocky what?” He didn’t wait for an answer, his fingers went for it, straight for my clit.
I clawed at his back, finding next to nothing to hold on to as sweat slicked his skin. I lifted the hem of his shirt for something to grab on to. My knees knocked into the rubber ball. “Keep going. ”
He changed speed and pressure. Just as I dug my fingers into his back, he changed his hand into a hook and entered me. “Ride me like the good girl I know you are.”
The pressure was glorious. I cried out and bit into his solid mound of a shoulder to stifle myself. Shit, we were in a closet at his job, and I was riding his hand shamelessly. I got a good rhythm. The class on the other side of the wall quieted down, which emphasized the sound of my stifled moans, the squelch of me fucking his hand, and his heavy breathing. And because he’s Beau and perfect, he added a thumb back to my hard bead at the top of my pussy. I was getting massaged inside and out.
“Look at me,” he growled. “I want to see that pretty face when you come.”
I lifted my head off his shoulder and looked at the shadows of his face. Of what I could make out, the dark cast of his gaze had just as much of a command on the squeeze of my inner walls as his hand. Beau Bishop wasn’t just a sunshiny himbo; he was a wolf. I bit down on my lower lip and studied him, his predator glare. I ground my hips faster and faster, and my first duo orgasm in years seized and shook my limbs. I held my lips together so tightly that I frayed my vocal cords to mute the sound .
Never breaking eye contact, he released his hand from me and pulled the band of my shorts back in place. He raised his fingers to his lips, glistening with me, and he sucked them clean. “Delicious, sexy.” When he was done with me, he smiled that infuriatingly smug grin.
I kissed him again, sucking on his lips and tongue, tasting my personal tang. Jesus, I knew my way around my lady parts, but Beau found something new. I lowered my hand to the band of his shorts.
“What are you doing?”
My hands shook, as they had when I did not know my way around men’s pants. The sterile sex with Chris had put me out of practice. “I’m returning the favor.”
He grabbed me by the wrist and twisted it behind my back. “I can’t be fucking around at work.” He lifted me to my feet and kissed me again. “Shower? Your place?”
I nodded. And I was scratching the hair mask, eye mask, face mask, and tea plans.
That self-satisfied smirk said he knew exactly what he was doing. “Go on now. I’ll linger back here a little longer. Wouldn’t want anyone getting the right idea. I’ll meet you back at yours? ”
I opened the closet door. The bright lights painfully shrunk my pupils. I tarried, still wobbly a bit from Beau’s magic hands. But something else called me to stay there, as if it was completely natural to want to cuddle after having a mind-blowing orgasm. “Beau, that was—”
“I know! I’ll see you soon,” he shout-whispered.
I looked at myself in the giant mirror at the front of the studio. I resembled someone who’d spent an hour in the sauna and peed her pants. I draped my crop top over my arm and raced out of the gym to my car.
I hit my head against the steering wheel. My personal trainer had given me the best orgasm of my life in a closet on top of a yoga ball. And now a shower. He was going to shower with me. A laugh emerged from my lower belly and prickled my chest until I sat a whole minute in hysterics. Beau Bishop rocked my world.