Run to Love (Triple R Book 1) (2 page)

That didn’t sound sexual at all … holy shit!

I shifted in my tennis shoes. “Um … okay, Jude. Same time, five a.m.?”

“Great!” He held out his hand for a shake but mine was all sweaty.

“I’m all sweaty,” I said, rubbing my hands on my gym shorts and then waving them to dry.

He caught my hand on the way back down, forcing a shake anyway. A manly rumble released from his chest when he grasped my hand.

Probably just disgusted by the clamminess. I warned him.

“It was great to meet you, Presley.” His eyes softened as his hand lingered over mine.

I stepped backward toward the locker room, and he released my hand. “Thanks, Jude, and good luck to Ninja at making his way around the house safely today.”

“I’ll let him know you send your best, and…” He stepped forward, closing the distance again. Lowering his voice, he leaned toward me and his hot breath filled my ear. “Although Ninja doesn’t want the truth getting out to the slinky Siamese next door, I bet you won’t blow his cover as a stud,” he whispered. “He is neutered.”

I giggled and blushed. “I promise I won’t say a word. See you on Friday.”

He backed away and raised his voice. “Yes, you will, Presley. Have a good week.”

I turned and entered the locker room with a smile on my face.

Damn, he was too cute, and he likes animals. Like, my perfect guy … if only I weren’t the most imperfect girl. I bet he wants a perfect girl.

Wish I were a perfect girl.

Chapter Two

“Jude, here’s the form you need to fill out for Princess’s session.” Emerson waved the piece of paper petulantly. I wondered how Emerson could even stand herself. The minute I met her, her demeanor told me she was a miserable human being.

But hot … miserably hot.

“It’s Presley, not Princess, but I have a feeling you already knew that.”

“Well, Presley definitely wasn’t a princess when she started here.” Emerson blew her cheeks out and puffed up her body, indicating that Presley put significant effort into getting healthy and fit.

“Then I think we should support her outstanding success. Good for her!” I walked to the other side of the large circular desk.

Emerson rolled her big blue eyes at me. “Whatever. You just want clients.”

I shook my head while filling out the in-depth paperwork. “Okay, what do I do with the form once I’ve filled it out?”

“It goes in the inbox on Blake’s desk. He likes to keep track of the progress of his best clients. Since Princess bought the 100-session package, she’s considered a VIP.”

Avoiding further conversation, I went to the office of Blake Carr, manager and owner of Run-Ride-Rock Gym, or Triple R, as the Omaha’s workout scene nicknamed the popular and fully-loaded gym. 

I knocked on his open door and raised the form. “Hey, Blake.”

He pointed to the corner of the desk. “Welcome to the team, Jude. Glad you made it in early this morning, shows me how much you belong here. I saw you out there with Presley. Thanks for jumping in for Mitch.” Blake’s cell phone screen lit up and the metal buzzed across his desk. He glanced at it, a slight exasperation clouding his eyes.

              “No problem. I set her up for a free follow-up session on Friday. I’ll have an actual plan designed now that I know her needs better. She does a great job, excellent form and amazing effort.”

“Mitch used to say the same. She’s also an incredible car salesperson. Sold me on my Ford SVT Raptor before I even drove it.”

“Interesting.” Presley’s innocence and nervousness would have screamed wallflower career choice, not outgoing salesperson.

Blake chuckled. “Yeah, she could rattle all the specs, packages, and engine info off the top of her head. It was quite impressive. I gave her a twenty-session trial as a thank-you and she’s been a loyal member for almost two years. Lost some significant weight. Not that she wasn’t attractive before, but now…” Blake tipped his head and raised an eyebrow.

I did the same in agreement. Presley made the word “beautiful” feel inadequate, with all that blushing and her fluttering eyes, and she was as sweet as Mom’s homemade strawberry jam. “Well, if I need a vehicle, I’ll be sure to visit this Jessen Auto Mall.”

And Presley.

Blake’s phone buzzed again. “Love my kids, but it’s never a dull moment being a divorced dad with three pre-teens on spring break … at home … alone.” I backed out of the room as he answered, “Hello, Jayson, what’s Brighton done now?”

In the break room, I nabbed bottled water from the fridge, stopping to look over the local paper’s sports section.

I only had one sibling to deal with—Zane. He’d gone to the University of Nebraska at Lincoln, UNL, for degrees in logistics management and business, then moved to Omaha for a job. After a weekend visit, I discovered the city was a good fit for what I wanted to do. I moved here to live with him on his offer. I didn’t mind living with my twenty-four-year-old brother. He’s entertaining, to say the least.

Zane worked for Union Pacific Railroad as a night train dispatcher, completing twelve-hour shifts for three nights in a row and then receiving five days off. The rotating schedule seemed to work, especially for the two young ladies who lived in the south side of the duplex he owned, whereas we lived in the north side. The beautiful tenants spent a lot of his off-time with him—both of them—in his bedroom. I didn’t suppose they were having in-depth conversations about trains, but I didn’t really care to know what they were doing either. I did know Mom wouldn’t be too happy about the alternative arrangement. However, Dad would probably get a real kick out of it.

Chuckling to myself at my younger brother’s open views on sexuality and relationships, I exited the break room and turned the corner back to the gym floor. I shuffled to stop as Presley glided toward me. In her skin-baring workout clothes she took my breath away, but now … now Presley stunned me to muteness with her beauty. She wore a skirt that showed off her mouthwateringly toned calves and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck that teased the curve of her round breast, plus the heels she wore made the sway of her hips all the more eye-catching. Each piece was simple. Simply sexy.

Presley’s long, straight, and shiny-as-polished-onyx hair, combined with her polished-to-a-sparkle emerald eyes was a powerful fusion of sweet and sensual. Her dedication to exercise had created a tight and sculpted physique covered in a creamy layer of the palest skin I’d ever seen, almost translucent. She and Mitch had struck the perfect balance—tastefully toned with alluring curves. Personally, I would have worked a little more on her glutes to create a nice bubble butt, but I found most women preferred less over more in that department.

Taking in the whole picture, it was inevitable that my body would respond. And it did. 

Control yourself.

As she approached, her eyes crashed to the floor. She shoved mirrored aviators onto her face, masking those striking green globes.

“Bye, Presley.” My tongue felt like a foreign object in my dry mouth.

“See you Friday, Jude,” she said, swaying out the front door into the morning sun.

Might need a cold shower.

I walked to the desk.

“Hey, Jude.” Emerson rolled her eyes for no reason at all. She huffed. “We had a call-in for a personal trainer. I set the WOM up with you, ten a.m. today.”

“What’s a WOM?”

“West Omaha Mom. The women who come in to keep their bodies all tight and perky so their rich hubbies don’t go looking elsewhere.”

I doubted her assessment that the women from Omaha were that insecure. If they were like past clients, they wanted to stay healthy for themselves and their families.

“Oh, well, thanks, Emerson.” Not wanting to make small talk with her, I turned to walk away.

“Hey, Jude, you want to get a drink this weekend?” she inquired all sweet and demure.

And there it was, the change of attitude.

I’d met Emerson the week before on a tour given by Blake, and she’d immediately struck me as someone who used her womanly charms to get what she wanted. After working at a bar, I could smell-out her saccharine type, and I was immune to her kind of flirting. 

“I work a second job on the weekends, sorry.”

“Really?” She stretched the word. “Where?”

Shit!

I’d backed myself into a corner.  “Two Fine Irishmen,” I mumbled.

“I love that bar! I live around the corner from there. I’ll just stop by and you can buy me a drink. They have a band this weekend?”

“I think so.” The more questions she asked, the less I wanted to say.

“You work Friday night?”

“Yeah.”

“Sounds interesting.” Emerson went back to work, adding, “It’s a date, Jude,” as I walked away.

“It’s
not
a date, Emerson.”

She giggled. “We’ll see.”

I would invite my new friend, Kanyon Hills—he’d told me his dad had a warped sense of humor when it came to giving him his name—along on Friday and ask or beg him to run interference with Emerson. I’d met Kanyon a few weeks earlier, and I wasn’t quite sure what his kind of woman was. The two times we’d enjoyed beers and conversation, the females had flocked to him and a couple of males did, too, which made him squirm a little, but he’d handled the propositions with class. Overall, his tastes seemed … eclectic. The first girl he’d taken home was a redheaded bombshell 90 percent covered in tattoos. The second was a pearl and pink sweater-wearing sorority girl who couldn’t stop giggling. He might be willing to do a little colleague-blocking for me on Saturday.

I texted Kanyon during lunch to see if he wanted to meet for a beer after work, and he suggested Crescent Moon. I hadn’t been there. As a recent transplant from Iowa, I was still getting to know Omaha, so I agreed.

The rest of the day at Triple R went well. My ten o’clock signed up for the twenty-session package, twice a week for ten weeks, and Angie wasn’t a “WOM” like Emerson said. Tired of personal trainers who didn’t listen to what she wanted, Angie was just plain frustrated. I understood that attitude. She quickly bored by a typical routine, and she wanted something new every session. The challenge intrigued me.

Normally, new personal trainers stalked the gym floor like hyenas waiting for fresh meat to show up, but Blake insisted that Triple R would never be high pressure. After observing the workings of the gym, I believed him. The clients appreciated not being constantly accosted and in return they signed up for complimentary trials from the new trainers, willingly. I guided two free spontaneous half-hour sessions during the afternoon, and one signed up for additional sessions. Training without commitment didn’t bother me. I’d rather be busy and helping someone to better themselves than sitting on my ass in the break room.

I headed out from Triple R after a twelve-hour workday, four thirty a.m. to four thirty p.m. Physically I was spent, but mentally I was pumped. Two clients were in the books, and two more appointments were booked for tomorrow, mostly thanks to Emerson. I had a bad feeling that having her as an ally might be a necessity considering she answered the gym phone for the mornings and afternoons when most people called in to set up visits and trainer interviews. Wonder how close I need to keep Emerson so she continues offering my services to call-ins.

At home, I showered and dressed in jeans, a long-sleeve t-shirt, leather jacket, leather boots, and my expensive but totally worth it Dennis Kirk Arai silver and red Defiant Character helmet. I rode my bike to the bar. It was a laid-back, don’t-give-a-shit kind of hangout with a kickass beer list. I chose a draft of a local brewery’s lager. It was okay. I had both enjoyed better and spit out way worse in the past.

While I waited, my phone buzzed with a text.

Kiera:
Hey! How’s Omaha? Have you eaten your weight in beef yet?

I chuckled.

Kiera Maxwell was my first long-term girlfriend. We’d met a month into our freshman year of our undergraduate degrees, and I’d enjoyed those four years of college by her side. I really thought she was the one—marriage, house, kids, the whole picture-perfect life. But we ended as quickly as we began. While I decided to stay at ISU for my master’s degree, she moved to Chicago for her dream job. There was no way I was going to ask her to stay. The dream of moving from Iowa and finding the perfect job was bigger than her dream of us.

Saying good-bye was more of a physical separation than an emotional one. Over time my feelings had morphed into only friendship. We’d stayed in contact, texting or talking at least once a week, and I’d had seen her a few times. A little friends-with-benefits action ensued, but neither of us acted like starting something up again was of any interest.

Jude:
Hey? Hay is for cows. That’s what the Nebraskans say. Don’t think this Idiot Out Wandering Around will ever be a true Cornhusker but I like the scenery.

That was what Nebraskans nicknamed Iowans. IOWA—Idiots Out Wandering Around. I never found it totally offensive. The designation spoke more to their lack of creativity and humor, but unfortunately and occasionally, I kind of fit the humorless description.

Kiera:
You never pay attention to the scenery! You are 100% directionally challenged. I sure remember that time you got us lost in Chicago. I’ve never been that scared in my life. Roll ‘em up!

Yep, that’s me.

Jude:
Just showing you where NOT to go in Chicago. Glad I helped!

Kiera:
Whatever! :-) I think I may be coming to Omaha for consulting soon. I’ll keep you informed, maybe we can get together?

Jude:
Sounds good. Later.

Kiera:
Hugs <3

Kanyon arrived about ten minutes into my first beer and promptly ordered a porter beer, dark as blacktop and almost as thick as asphalt. The cute waitress called Kanyon by his first name like he was a regular at the establishment. Delivering his drink, she threw him a flirty little smile.

Kanyon worked in sales at the Ducati store on Industrial Road. The week after moving here, I went to look at what I knew I could only afford if I sold both kidneys on the black market. We struck up a conversation about our bikes. His collection made me almost hate him. Six bikes, including a ‘48 Harley Davidson Panhead
and
an ‘08 Indian Chief Vintage, and of course a collection of three Ducatis. My collection was one … one bike—a 2005 Kawasaki Vulcan 1600 Mean Streak with Vance and Hines performance exhaust pipes. I bought the chrome and black bike after working my ass off for a home-builder my final summer of college. We met up later for a beer to finish our discussion. He was a cool guy and since my brother wasn’t a motorcycle enthusiast, it was good to talk to someone who shared the same hobby.