As the Wicked Watch(18)

Z laughed. “I didn’t tell you about this guy I met who works at the CBOT?” That’s the Chicago Board of Trade, which meant one of two things: Either he has money or he’s pretending to have money.

“Do I need to put him through my approval process?” I asked. “Do you know his birthday? I can have Joey run a background check.”

Zena laughed. “It isn’t even that serious. Trust me.”

I know what you mean.

“We’re just meeting for a nightcap . . . at his place.”

A nightcap. Is that what they call it now?

“Didn’t you say you just met this guy?” I asked, playing the big sister now.

“He’s cool. I’ve been over to his place before. He’s not an ax murderer, Lois Lane. Your job makes you paranoid,” Z said.

I rolled my eyes. “My job should make you paranoid,” I said. “Chicago might have a serial killer on the loose targeting Black women.”

“Huh?” Z said, head down, eyes wide and peering over her glasses.

“Yeah.”

“Oh shit! I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“It hasn’t been confirmed. My source at the medical examiner’s office has suspicions, though,” I said, and instantly regretted opening that can of worms.

I was saved by another chirp from Zena’s phone. And just like that, the sneaky grin was back.

“Go have your nightcap. I’ve got this,” I said, and went for the check.

“Uh-uh!” Z said. She reached inside her purse and dropped two twenty-dollar bills on the table, acting like the big sister once again. I didn’t protest. I thought about inviting her over for brunch tomorrow with the rest of my crew, something I’d decided to do at the last minute, then thought better of it. Amanda was going to be there, and Z and she don’t click.

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll walk out with you.”

Once outside, before I could say another word, Z held up two fingers and hailed a cab and flashed those same two fingers toward me in a peace sign.

“Good seeing you, Jordan,” she said. “You’re killing it with that hair, girl. Love you,” and she disappeared into the taxi.

I turned in the opposite direction and started to walk home in the dark past midnight, ironically, after admonishing Z to beware of her new man and a potential serial killer on the loose. My spirits were up, so mission accomplished. But I still wasn’t ready to be alone.

I could use a nightcap myself.

I pulled out my phone and texted Thomas. ARE U UP?

Thomas is a personal trainer I met at the gym. He heckled me one day as I was doing squats. I was on my last set, barbell heavy across my shoulders with twenty-pound weights on either side, when he stepped into my peripheral vision. His chin rested against his right hand as he shook his head disapprovingly. I looked at him.

“What?” I said, slightly irritated, as I carefully returned the barbell to the slats.

“Did you run track in school?” he asked.

Ordinarily I would have said, “And you are?” but I didn’t want to invite more interaction. I’d seen this shtick before—trainers trolling the gym trying to reel in new clients.

“No, why do you ask?” I said.

“Because you look like you’re running the 440 relay.”

“Excuse me?” I laughed.

“For real, you’re crouched down like you’re in position to grab the baton,” he said, demonstrating.

“No way,” I said.

“With that posture and stance, you’re going to end up needing ibuprofen,” he said. “Your left leg is too far back, and you’re leaning too far forward. You could mess yourself up doing that. Here, let me show you.”

As I watched him demonstrate the proper technique, it dawned on me that I’d seen him at the East Bank Club before. There aren’t many Black trainers at this trendy, exclusive gym.

“By the way, my name is Thomas.”

Here we go. I didn’t want to be rude.

“Hi, I’m Jordan.”

He didn’t say, “I know who you are.”

Interesting.

I sized him up. Thomas wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense, but his physique was hard to overlook. He has that V-shaped torso men spend hours lifting weights and surviving on protein shakes and red meat to obtain. Before he went too deep into his sales pitch, if that was what this was, I put on the brakes.

“Look, Thomas, thanks for showing me the proper technique. But if you’re looking for new clients, I’m sorry. I don’t have extra money right now for a personal trainer. I hope to someday, though.”

I expected him to say, “Okay, nice meeting you,” but instead he said with a grin, “You know, squats can get boring, but they don’t have to be. Let me show you something.”

Hello? Did he not hear me?

He removed the twenty-pound weights, grabbed the barbell, and eased up behind me within an appropriate range but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

Hold on. Wait a minute.

“Is it okay if I spot you?” he asked.

“Why’d you remove the weights?”

“Because what I’m about to show you requires a little more balance,” he explained. “Until you get used to it, don’t use the weights. The bar itself weighs twenty-five pounds. I don’t want you to injure yourself.”