Page 20 of Paths
Tipping her head, she mulls it over a second before she finally sighs and fesses up. “Fritos.”
I don’t know why I’m surprised, but after two days of harassing her about food, I didn’t actually expect her to say anything. “Fritos?”
“Yes, but not the regular ones, the Flamin’ Hot ones. Are you happy now? Can we finish?” she asks, frustrated.
I don’t even try to keep from smirking when the words fly out of my mouth. “You like it hot.”
As she shakes her head ignoring me, her hands return and I get her touch back. I thought about taking my shirt off before she got here so I could really enjoy it, but I didn’t want to look like a freak. I know I’m definitely toeing that line by hanging around her at work for hours. She doesn’t even know I’ve been stalking her on the surveillance system.
“Your range is improving already,” she says, lifting my arm with one hand while her other is warm on my side.
“Hot Tamales?” I keep on. Since I can’t take my eyes off her face, I get to watch her immediately grin, her beautiful features more relaxed with me than they’ve ever been.
She keeps ignoring me and I lose her touch when she moves to her bag, pulling out an enormous rubber band. She ties one end to the knob of the closet door. “Come here.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice. When I get to her, I let her position me because that means I get her hands back.
“Hold this,” she instructs. “I want you to lift from the side, but when you lower your arm, do it slowly. Let those muscles constrict on the way down, too.”
“Mexican food? Spicy Chinese?” I keep on as I lift my arm as high as I can, letting her direct me on how slow to release.
“You’re relentless.” She smiles without looking away from me. Stepping back, she keeps up her torture. “Do twenty of those.”
“Twenty? You like it hot and painful. You’re into some weird shit, Maya,” I tease, hoping to get her to smile again.
I get my reward because she does, and it’s beautiful. Her eyes flare as she does her best not to laugh when she asks, “What’s your last name?”
“Cain, why?” I’m only a third of the way through her reps, and I can’t lie, it’s uncomfortable.
She crosses her arms, looking up at me, her smile genuine. “Grady Cain. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
I look down into her light blue eyes, and enjoy her sincere expression. “It’s because you’re into the pain. Stick with me, I’ll show you how hot can feel good. But if you really need pain with your spice, I’ll do my best.”
I’m almost done with my reps, and as much as it’s starting to burn, it doesn’t keep me from enjoying the blush creeping up her face. Even with her blush, she doesn’t sound embarrassed when she shifts her weight and counters, “I’ve definitely never met anyone like you.”
I finish, letting out a breath of relief, but she doesn’t let me enjoy it for long.
“Now, stand facing the door and do the same thing but pull backward. Then we’ll do the opposite with your back to the door and you can pull forward.”
I turn to face the door and mutter, “Maybe I got you all wrong. I think you’re into inflicting pain on others. When do I get to feel good?”
“Trust me.” She tips her head and crosses her arms, leaning her shoulder into the wall to sit back and watch. “It’ll pay off in the end.”
I look out of the corner of my eye, and don’t lie when I say, “It better.”
She laughs, and I can’t disagree. So far with her, the pain has been worth it.
*****
Maya –
I just got back from a much needed run.
After Grady’s PT session, I can’t remember the last time I’ve needed to run so badly. I’ve been running since middle school. Like everything I ever took an interest in, my mother didn’t mess around.
When I chose to play the flute in the school band, normal school classes weren’t good enough for me. My mother hired a flutist from the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra to give me private lessons twice a week, not to mention all the hours she forced me to practice. Attaining first chair and keeping it all four years at my private high school was no problem. She made sure I was the best. The scholarship offers were proof enough.
I was in the seventh grade when I received some lame award for writing the most creative story and she knew I was going to be the next Hemingway. Many, many hours of creative writing lessons later, I finally rebelled. That hokey award was just that, hokey, not to mention a fluke. I sucked at writing and refused to continue.
