I cock an eyebrow. “Cereal was invented because John Harvey Kellogg believed Corn Flakes would stop Americans from sinning and masturbating.”
Her laugh quickly turns to choking as she swallows down the wrong hole and coughs to clear her throat.
“H…how do you know that?” she asks, still laughing.
I shrug. “This is a really good school.”
Her chest shakes as she laughs harder, and I slam my hand through the locker room door. “Come on,” I tell her. “We’re already late.”
And the coach isn’t the one keeping time, either. The last thing I need this morning is a super-sized cunt convo with our team captain. I had my dose last night.
Heading into the weight room, the sounds of barbells clanging and weights dropping fill the air, and I snatch one of Becks’s Thin Mints and stuff it into my mouth. She smiles and veers left, tossing the still half-full package into the trash can as I move ahead, down the center aisle, and toward the elliptical.
“¿Cual es son tu pasa…tiempos?” I mumble to myself, feeling eyes on me, but I refuse to look. “¿Tiempos?”
I jump on the machine, purposely not making eye contact with anyone, other than to check Becks and watch her pick up some baby weights in front of the mirrors, only actually completely three or four reps before she takes a selfie or starts talking to someone. She’s gotten messed with on account of me from time to time, and I like to make sure I know when that’s happening.
She would be a good friend, if we had anything in common.
For now, we enjoy a camaraderie—the types of friends who navigate toward each other when our real friends aren’t around. When there’s a party and we need someone to talk to. Or someone to eat lunch with.
We don’t call each other or text, but I’m glad I have her and a few like-minded individuals who make this place a little more bearable. Becks has money, but she doesn’t use it as a shield to fling mud like Clay Collins and her friends.
After thirty minutes of cardio and moving through three more Spanish lessons, I walk over to a weight machine, adjust the notch for forty pounds, and pull down the bar behind me, working my shoulders.
“It’s not hot yet,” I hear someone say behind me. “But it will be.”
I tap my earbuds, trying to initiate the next lesson. Did it pause? No sound comes through.
“None of those dresses are hot,” Krisjen Conroy says. “I would’ve burned mine if it wasn’t an heirloom.”
“Heirloom or not, I’ll burn the damn thing before Gigi Collins tries to force it on my daughter someday.”
Clay. And that awful debutante gown I’d love to burn for her, but it was ever-so-amusing to see her trussed up in it last night.
“Is Callum escorting you?” Amy Chandler asks her.
“Someone has to.”
I shake my head a little, like that will drown out their voices, tapping my earbuds again. What the hell?
“Come on,” Krisjen says. “He likes you.”
“And you’re about to go off to college,” Amy pants as she runs. “Live it up.”
I tighten my fists around the bar, my arms wide as I bring it down slowly and then back up.
“I’ll live it up,” Clay says in a low voice, taunting. “With someone who makes sure the only way I can leave his bed when he’s done with me is by crawling. Someone with a chest like a brick wall, and a cock, not a weewee.”
A laugh bubbles up from my chest, but I stifle it quickly. I hate her, and I hate that I laugh at her sense of humor, but I also hate her boytoy, Callum, and the joke was at his expense, so I’m excused. My jaw relaxes.
Amy continues the fantasy. “Someone who smells like a sea god and is named…”
“Gabriel,” Clay adds.
“Gabriel.” Krisjen sighs, sounding dreamy.
“But ‘Gabriel’ wants an experienced woman,” Amy warns her.
“Gabriel doesn’t want to break me of another man’s lousy technique,” Clay fires back. “He’ll teach me everything.”
My teammates laugh at each other, and I just roll my eyes as I head for the chest press and lie back on the bench.
This Gabriel sounds like a gem. He’ll make her into a real woman and teach the fragile little damsel how to take her man with silence and a smile. God, she’s pathetic.
A picture of Clay Collins, naked and willing as she wraps her arms and legs around some beefy, sweaty, misogynistic shit-for-brains plays in my head, and I suddenly feel like I have hair on my tongue.
Without thinking, I lower my eyes from the ceiling, looking straight over at her. Her blue eyes are already on me as she runs on the treadmill.
Why is she staring? Strands of loose blonde hair bounce against her face, her skin glowing with a light layer of sweat, and for a moment, I can’t move.