Kincaid reached out and patted Taryn on the knee. “Oh, honey, you’re cute.”
“No one resists the unicorn,” Liv said with a wry smile in the rearview mirror. “Don’t even try.”
Kincaid neighed like a horse and dipped her head, even though she’d tossed her unicorn horn in the trunk, and the other women laughed.
Taryn rolled her eyes, but inside, warmth spread through her chest. Her friends were being lighthearted with her, but she got the message loud and clear. We care. We’re here. And we’re not going to let you get away with not taking care of yourself. Get it together, girl.
Now she just had to figure out if she actually could.
* * *
Early Tuesday morning, Shaw bounced on the balls of his feet, getting his blood pumping and his muscles warmed up. He’d already gone through a series of stretches, but he needed to make sure he was fully limbered up. Yesterday’s unofficial grand opening had done a number on him. The buzz from the charity race had worked, and they’d had a steady stream of sneak-preview invitees coming by for demonstrations, tours, and intro workouts.
Shaw had given countless demos on the obstacle courses for their potential customers to prove the challenges weren’t impossible and then had coached a number of newbies on how to safely get started. Even though he’d worked hard to get his body back in top condition over the last year, the obstacles were no joke. He’d fallen into the pool twice when he’d lost his grip, the foam pits half a dozen times, and he’d tumbled down a ramp on another challenge. His muscles had protested when he’d rolled over in bed this morning, begging for a few more hours of rest or a hot tub.
He’d forced himself up at dawn, though. The morning workout was nonnegotiable. Both the doctor and therapist had told him after he’d gotten arrested that anger was like a hungry monster living inside him, and he had to keep it tamed. Intermittent explosive disorder. Three words scrawled onto his permanent medical record that he couldn’t erase—or even deny after how he’d acted. The main doctor had said it was probably a genetic predisposition, that he would need to stay on psychiatric medication to keep it in check. Shaw had tried that for a while. But the meds had just made him feel sick and…numb. He’d already watched his dad get lost in pills, seeking that numbness. Shaw had accepted that something was broken inside him, but he didn’t want to live life feeling like a hollow shell.
So he’d visited another doctor, one who wasn’t sold on Shaw’s treatment plan and who was open to alternatives. She’d told Shaw physical activity and stress management techniques could be as effective as medication in some people with anger problems. In other words, if there was a beast inside Shaw, he could exhaust the motherfucker and keep it leashed. Exertion had become his medicine.
Shafts of early-morning sunshine angled through the gym skylights and reflected off the pools, making the walls look as if they were in motion. Soon, the place would, hopefully, be filled with more potential members, but for now, it was all his. He leaned over and turned a knob on the wall, dialing up the volume of the music as he faced down the tumbling floor in front of him. Pearl Jam’s “Not for You” screamed through the speakers. A concert for one.
Shaw stretched his arms and shoulders one last time and eyed the expanse of blue floor in front of him. Floor exercise had never been his favorite event, but there was nothing like good, hard tumbling first thing in the morning to get his mind in the right place. Well…there was one other good, hard activity that could have a similar relaxing effect, but that wasn’t an option these days unless it was by his own hand. Flipping through the air would have to do.
He stood at the corner of the floor, centered his focus, and then took off in a run. In one fluid motion, he went to the floor, his palms landing against the mat, and propelled himself into the tumbling pass. The world blurred around him as his body went through a routine that had been burned into his muscle memory. It wasn’t as elaborate as the one that had qualified him for the World Championships—an event he’d had to drop out of after Long Acre. His body was over a decade older and the risk of injury higher, but it was still a challenging pass that took all of his concentration. His feet landed at the far corner of the floor mat, and his momentum carried him into taking a big step back.
Stick the landing. The berating voice was familiar. His old coach still lived inside Shaw’s head. He took a rib-expanding breath and made another pass, ending with a full twisting layout. This time, he made it to the corner, and his feet only bobbled the landing with a tiny step. Better. Though he used to be able to make the layout a double with no bobble at all.
His muscles complained with the effort, the aches from yesterday making themselves known, but Shaw wasn’t near stopping. The harder he practiced, the more those pains would ease and his thoughts would quiet. He could start his day in that place of peaceful exhaustion.
The song hit its angry, cathartic peak, the gritty vocals echoing around him, and Shaw fell into the rhythm of the music. Run and tumble. Stick the landing. Sweat dripped down his back, and his breath came in shorter bursts. Any stress he’d been feeling when he’d awoken this morning faded into the background.
He’d have to stop soon. Rivers was probably in the office by now and readying the place to open the doors. Shaw would need to shower and get prepared for work, but he couldn’t resist a few more passes. He pushed his body to find a little more.
When he stuck the landing cold on the last pass, something loosened in his gut. There it was, that little high that came with hitting his limit. Mission accomplished. He rode that buzz and reached for the towel he’d left nearby. He wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes and then pulled the rubber band from his soaked hair to scrub the towel over his head, missing the ease of his former short haircut, even though Rivers regularly reminded him that the military cut hadn’t been doing him any favors. You’re ruining a good face with a buzz cut. Give a woman something to hold on
to. Rivers hadn’t yet gotten it through his head that there would be no woman.
“Looks like you could use some water.” A female voice behind Shaw cut through the opening of the next song and his thoughts like a blade.
He stilled, startled for a moment, and then spun around. He’d expected a stranger, maybe a new hire. Rivers had brought on a small team of part-timers who were training this week. But the familiar face that greeted Shaw had his ribs cinching. Big brown eyes and a face he’d thought about way too much since leaving the hospital Sunday night.
What was Taryn doing here? Shaw turned down the music, trying to piece the puzzle together and not show his reaction on his face. “Uh, hey. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there. I thought we were still closed.”
“You are.” Taryn’s gaze dipped to his bare chest. He’d only thrown on a pair of running shorts since they were easy to tumble in, but for some reason, he felt bare naked standing there. He liked the way she was looking at him a little too much. He draped the towel over his shoulder, and her attention quickly jumped back to his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Rivers said it was okay to come out here.”
She looked so out of place in her tan slacks, pale-green top, and heels. All cool sophistication in the thick, chlorine-scented air of the gym. Smart. Lush. Beautiful. His hands flexed at his sides, the lyrics to the song he’d been blasting whispering through his head. Not for you.
“I hope that’s all right,” she said tentatively.
He realized he’d been staring and silent and dragged his focus back to where it needed to be. “Um, of course. How are you doing? You look better.”
She smiled. “I hope so. Hospital blue really isn’t my color.”
He winced. “I mean…”
She shook her head. “It’s fine. I know what you mean. And yes, I’m feeling a lot better. I got some rest and only worked a half day yesterday.”
“That’s good to hear.”