Chapter 7
Carter
The rum settles in my stomach, making me feel ill.
She wants to be friends.
We will never be friends.
She was to be my wife. My everything.
I suddenly realize I can no longer be anywhere near her.
This isn’t healthy. We are supposed to be over, yet we see one another every day at work. I’m paying for her hotel. Having my driver chauffeur her about town. I’m ordering her favorite pizza.
My mind is strong. My heart weak.
If I can’t be with her, I can’t be around her.
It’s that simple.
I sit at my desk. I run my hands through my hair.
She has to go.
Tomorrow, I will tell her.
I’ll give her two weeks to continue working at Barbells while she finds a job. Then she’s out. After we have our conversation, I’ll head to the airport.
I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Why not now?
I flip open my laptop. Put in my password, Sasha11. The eleven is because every so often, my computer demands I pick a new password. Wanting to keep Sasha, I just kept changing the number after her name.
I still don’t have the heart to erase her.
I type in sun, sand, waves. Pictures of gorgeous white sand beaches pop up. I click on one with aqua waters that recede to a deep turquoise.
Mexico. Perfect.
I’ve always wanted to visit Cabo. I’ll drink her away.
Maybe I’ll even make it out of my room and down to the beach. Come back to the city with a tan.
Then I’ll return to work. She’ll be gone.
And I’ll move on with my life.
I’ll be a bachelor for a while. Then I’ll start dating. I’ll find the woman I’m supposed to be with. One that wants me for who I really am.
A man in a brotherhood of doms.
There are plenty of fish in the sea, my mind tells me.
My gut replies, But there’s only one Sasha.
My fingers begin to type frantically. It’s as if my body has taken over, carrying out my plan for me.
Minutes later, I have a first-class flight and a hotel.
I triple check the information I’d typed in, careful to be sure I’d booked under my pseudonym, ‘Steven Mitchell.’ I don’t think Bronson would understand if I fucked up and broke our rule of never traveling under the name Bachman, or our birth names—the ones that were erased when we joined—because I was tipsy off drinking rum with my ex.
I could take one of our family’s private jets but I’m in the mood for anonymity—losing myself in the crowded airport, bustling amongst strangers.
That’s done; now, to wrap up the business side of things. I send a text and receive back confirmation that my driver will be at the gym at noon to collect me for my one o’clock departure. We know a guy at LaGuardia—I’ll fly through clearance.
I get my assistant manager to confirm filling in while I’m gone. Give him the number of the burner phone I’ll be taking with me in case he needs me.
I call Bronson—the man never sleeps. I tell him what’s up, get him to okay my absence. He gives me condolences on my breakup. He sounds sincere.
I call John. He’s encouraging. Tells me not to worry about a thing, he’ll cover for me at work, take care of my tasks. Tells me to get laid.
Never once says Sasha’s name.
I leave the office. She’s gone.
Good. Now I can lock up and get the hell out of here. I’ll go home, pack a bag, and try to get some rest. Then I’ll come back to work, tell Sasha I cannot keep pretending friendship is enough, and hit the airport. Cabo, here I come.
The rum mixed with the relief of having a plan to move forward with my life allows me a few hours of sleep.
It’s morning and I’m well-rested.
Bag in hand, I walk through the Village, headed to Barbells. The air is chilly, getting cold. I think of the hot sun warming my skin, curing my ills. I feel a smile spread across my face. I whistle as I walk. It’s going to be a good day.
I walk into my gym. It’s buzzing like crazy. Tons of happy, healthy people mill about. Sweating, laughing, pumping iron. My assistant manager running around, eager to please and already enjoying taking my place. Pride wells in my chest. I’ve done a decent job here. I deserve a little break.
I’ve told the girl up front to send Sasha to me as soon as she’s in. I’m waiting in the office. I’m leaning back on the desk, trying to look casual.
My heart races.
The walls of my office are closing in on me. Trapping me in a cage of memories. I’m ready to get the hell out of here.
Maybe I’ll move up my driver. Have a few drinks at the airport while I wait for my flight. Liquid lunch.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
I clear my throat. “Come in.”
The door opens.
My heart rate slows. It’s Leslie. The woman who works at the front desk. “Sasha just called. She’s going to be late. I thought you’d want to know.” She gives me a long look with her blue eyes. Her cheeks pinken. I’ve found her to be a bit shy in my presence.
“Thank you.”
She gives me a nod and leaves. She closes the door behind her.
I can’t wait in here, I’ll go crazy. I leave the office, mill about the gym. The spin class is going strong. Every single elliptical and treadmill is occupied.
I stop by the front desk. I’ve recently hired two staff members. I should get to know them before I go. Leslie, and her friend, Tiffany.
Tiffany has red hair, freckles, and is super outgoing.
I hired her because I knew she’d be great at phone calls and greeting members.
She’s got an easy, fun way about her that gives a solid first impression.
She’s on the phone now, and I listen to her as she explains our membership dues to a customer.
She’s personal and helpful and by the end of the call, she’s signed the client. I made the right choice.
She hangs up the phone and looks to me. “Hey, Mr. Bachman! We just got another member.”
“I heard. Great work. And you can call me Carter. Everyone else does,” I say.
“Oh—okay. I wasn’t sure so I was just playing it safe.” She gives me a smile.
I smile back. “How are you liking it so far? Everyone treating you well?” I ask.
“I love it here! The only problem is everyone is so fit.” She sticks out her stomach, patting it. “I turned down a doughnut this morning for the first time in a year!”
I chuckle.
She begins to tell me a story of her first attempt at a barre class.
We give all our employees free memberships—that’s how I got half of my workers in the first place.
Tiffany is not one of those looking for a free gym.
She hasn’t worked out a day in her life.
She’s comical and before I know it, she has me laughing.
Really laughing. And it feels good. She reminds me of a friend I had in high school.
I lean on the desk and ask her what her next attempt to exercise will be.
She says, maybe walking to the doughnut shop to get the cream-filled she missed out on this morning. I laugh.
I sense someone eyeing me. I glance over my shoulder. It’s Sasha.
Her eyes are shooting daggers at Tiffany.
I know what’s coming. I’ve seen it before.
Only this time, she’s going to be way out of line.
I’m not hers to claim.
Sasha approaches the desk. Jealousy flashes across her face so quickly I almost miss it. “Tiffany, right?” she says. Her tone starts sharp, then she visibly reins it in. “I processed your paperwork. Welcome to Barbells.”
Tiffany looks between us. “Thanks. Your boss was just convincing me I won’t die if I try another class.”
Sasha’s mouth tightens at the word boss, but instead of taking the bait she says, “Start with mine. I’ll modify everything. No shame, no scales, and nobody apologizes for taking up space in my room.”
Tiffany’s face brightens. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Five-thirty tomorrow. I’ll save you a bike in the back.”
I stare at Sasha. She has every reason to be jealous and every opportunity to make a new employee pay for it. She chooses not to.
It is a small thing. With Sasha, small things are rarely small.
She tugs her arm to free it but I don’t loosen my grip. I open the office door. I pull her into the room. I dump her in the chair that sits across from my desk. I close the door, locking it.
She’s fuming. Her arms cross over her chest.
I stand behind the desk, directly across from her. I let the incident with Tiffany slide. Sasha won’t be working here much longer, so it’s irrelevant. “We need to talk.”
She’s not meeting my gaze. Her shoulders hunch as she slouches down further into the chair. “I’m under contract. You’re not firing me.” Her voice is so quiet, I’m not sure I heard her right.
“Come again?” I say.
“You. Can’t. Fire. Me. I knew when Leslie said you were waiting to talk to me, that you were going to try and get rid of me. But you can’t. I’m under contract.” She peeks up at me. Her gaze quickly falls back to her lap.
“What contract?”
“The one you made me sign when you first hired me,” she says.
I calculate the time that’s passed. “Two years ago? That thing can’t still be good.”
She raises her chin to meet my eyes. “It was for three years. A commitment made in exchange for paying off a percentage of my student loans. I still have six months left.” She’s not budging.
We Bachmans are wealthy. We try to be generous.
I’d forgotten all about the program I’d created to help kinesiology students fight their way out of debt.
Sasha was the last person I took on. I scanned my mind, thinking over the terms of the contract.
They were solid, locking the employee in for the entirety of the term.
I’m infuriated she won’t leave. And I’m livid with myself because now there’s a deep welling brewing in my chest at her stubbornness—a feeling of wanting.
It makes me more unsettled. I take a breath.
I run my fingers through my hair. “Then I release you from it. I’ll call my lawyer and have him draft a document stating—”
She speaks calmly, calculated. “I don’t want to be released. I want to finish out my time.”