Eva snorts into her bottle. “That was terrible,” she says, eyes twinkling at me. “I love it.”
Harlow leans past Eva to greet me, and the men both do the same, leaning forward to wave at me. It is too loud to carry on a conversation, so we do not try to speak. I enjoy watching and sitting with new friends. Once in a while, one of the women will lean close and we’ll exchange a few words, but for the most part, we just watch.
They drink, but sparingly, and I do not. I sometimes wonder how it would be, to drink. But I have not had alcohol ever in my life, and I think perhaps I am better off for it.
After a while, my radio hisses static in my ear, and I hear Inez speak my name. “Anjalee—something has come up. I need you in the booth, please.”
I bid my new friends farewell and return to Inez.
* * *
It is late,or early. The club closed, people left, and Kane found me, told me to go to bed and he’d join me later, he had work to do first.
I have been not quite sleeping, but not awake, either. Waiting, and dozing.
I feel him. He is quiet, stealthily so. I only hear the occasional rustle of his clothing, and then he moves into the bed behind me. His arm wraps around my middle. I find his hand, tangle our fingers, feel his bulk behind me, his strength surrounding me, and I fall asleep.
* * *
I wake alone,and there is a note on the pillow next to me.
Anj,
Rev, Chance, and I are working outside in the back parking lot behind the club. Back soon.
Love you.
Kane
I get dressed and leave his room. Two of the brothers, Solomon and Saxon, I believe, the blond ones, are on the couch together, bare feet crossed at the ankles, sipping coffee, watching a movie—something explodes, a busty woman in a tight shirt runs away from the explosion, rather bouncily.
I hear music from somewhere, and I follow the sound across the common area to a gym. It’s a large, open space, brightly lit, air-conditioned, filled with weight lifting and exercise equipment of all kinds. Racks of some kind, stationary bikes, bars, plates, the weights for lifting with one hand or one in each hand, large thick ropes, a wooden platform, a large punching bag. I recognize most of the equipment, even if I do not know what it is for—there is a gym in our building back in Mumbai, but I only ever used the treadmill. I often saw Pappa’s men using the equipment—the moment they saw me approaching the gym, they vanished, leaving me to walk or run on the treadmill by myself.
I see Myka alone in the gym. She wears very tight, very short shorts—black stretchy material which clings like a second skin to her hips, thighs, and buttocks, which are quite thick with muscle. She wears a lavender sports bra, flat-heeled white shoes, no-show socks, and nothing else. She has one of the bars with a single plate on either side. One entire wall is mirrors, which she faces. The music is loud, and she is quite intensely focused, so I do not think she sees me. I watch her, curious. The bar with the plates rests on the floor in front of her; her hands are coated in white powder, up to the wrists. She’s sweating profusely, panting hard, flat belly sucking in rapidly, chest expanding, skin sheened. Her hair is braided back, but flyaways wisp around her ears and stick to her temples.
She claps her hands together, rubs them vigorously, then adjusts her feet wider apart, toes pointed slightly outward. She bends at the waist, sticking her buttocks out, lowering into a gorilla-like posture, grabbing the bar with both hands. She shuffles her feet in minute adjustments, lifts her head and tucks her chin in—I see the moment she prepares to move, see her muscles tense, go taut. And then she explodes. With a grunted “Ha!”, Myka bursts upright, the barbell shooting up and landing at her chest near her shoulders, her elbows pointing outward, the bar clutched in her hands. A momentary pause, and then she explodes again, shouting with the movement, the bar going overhead, one foot stepping forward, her other heel lifting up while her toes stay planted. Overhead for a moment, the barbell drops back down to her chest and shoulders, her foot comes back parallel, and then she drops the barbell back down to the floor. The moment it touches the mat, she explodes again, repeating the sequence.
I am intrigued. It is a powerful, primal move. She considers each movement, intentional, thoughtful, and controlled. Nothing is wasted, but she does not hold back. When she explodes into motion, it is a concussive thing, accompanied by a harsh, breathy shout.
I watch her repeat the sequence ten times, and then she steps away from the bar, grabbing a towel from where it is draped over a nearby bench, wiping her face with it. Finally, she sees me.
“Anajalee, hi!” She grins at me, panting, sweaty. “Sorry, I’m all sweaty. What’s up, girl?”
I shrug. “I was watching. I hope I did not distract you.”
She shakes her head. “Nah. Once I start lifting, I get in the zone and I won’t get distracted by much of anything.”
“What was that you were doing?”
“It’s called a clean and jerk.” She indicates the bar. “You lift?”
I shake my head, eyes wide. “Oh no, certainly not. It would not be seemly for a woman to do such a thing, according to my father.”
She frowns at me, eyes scanning. “Sorry, but you don’t maintain a figure like that without doingsomething.”
“I was allowed to walk and run on a treadmill, but only alone.”
She shakes her head. “You want to learn?”
