Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs, #5)(2)

We were four weeks out from our last deadlift day, and I knew that she could hit 200. She just wasn’t sure.

She nodded, still disappointed. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Let’s see if you can wave your magic trainer’s wand.”

She hinged from the hips and reached for the bar.

“Use the over-under grip,” I instructed. “It’ll keep you from feeling like the bar’s going to roll out of your hands.”

She nodded again, adjusted.

“This is gonna be a little easier because it’s not your max. So focus on the form. Count of three. One, two, three!”

The class, sensing something big was happening, stopped what they were doing and ranged themselves behind Doris. Watching, holding their breath.

She pulled. Face tight, the cords of her neck straining. The bar raised. Slowly, slowly it inched higher.

“Go! Go! Go! Pull!” I shouted.

“Pull!” The rest of the class echoed in varying pitches.

Doris straightened, fully extended and red-faced, the bar clenched in her hands. The class cheered behind her. She dropped it and bent at the waist.

“Why the hell are you guys making all that racket?” She blew out a breath, swiped her arm across her forehead. “Holy crap. I must be getting sick. That felt like a thousand freakin’ pounds.”

“That’s because it was 215,” I told her.

“Two what?” She blinked.

“Two hundred and fifteen pounds.”

“215? I lifted 215?”

I nodded, grinning.

“215,” she said again, a whisper to herself.

Josh grabbed her from behind in a tight hug. “215,” he repeated.

She squeezed his hands and calculated the weights in front of her. “Oh my god. That is 215! I lifted two hundred and fifteen friggin’ pounds!” She escaped Josh’s hold, turned, and threw herself at him. “I did it! Holy shit!”

“You did it!” He squeezed his eyes shut tight as he held his wife who’d not only survived but was living. I felt the arrow to my own heart and distracted myself by digging out my phone to commemorate the moment.

The celebration was Super Bowl-winning touchdown worthy.

The class passed her from lifter to lifter for a round of back-cracking hugs and celebratory high fives. All celebrating like it was their own personal victory while music thumped in the background.

“You lied to me,” Doris said, returning to me, hands on hips. Her face was flushed with happiness.

“Just a little,” I told her.

“You knew I was psyching myself out, and you mind-tricked me into making it happen,” she insisted. Her eyes were getting misty.

I shook my head. “You made it happen. Now, go stand with your bar so I can take your PR picture. You can send it to your heart’s family.”

Her lower lip trembled.

There were more than a few pairs of glistening eyes surrounding us.

“Don’t do it,” I said, pointing at her. “If you go, we’ll all go, and then it’ll be all over Bootleg that I make my classes cry. You’ll ruin my business if you cry.”

A tear slipped out of the corner of her eye as she came in for a tight hug.

“Thanks, Jonah,” she whispered.

“I’m really fucking proud of you, D,” I whispered back.

“Me, too.”

It was a good way to kick off the weekend. D’s personal record cheered me enough to temporarily forget about my own personal life for a moment.

The body that investigators had found and the questions it represented. Was my DNA tainted? Had my father murdered a teen girl? And what did that mean for those that came after? Me. My brothers and sister. What kind of legacy had he left us?

This was the good in the world. The Dorises and the Erics and the Mrs. Morgansons. They were the good. I’d spend some time enjoying instead of worrying about the things I couldn’t fix.

“You know, Jonah,” Mrs. Morganson said, sidling up to me as I wiped down the bars. “You really ought to think about opening a gym space. Set up shop, plant some roots.”

“I bet that June Tucker would be more than happy for another local investment,” Minnie Faye added, looking innocent.

“Is that so?” I said easily.

The thought had occurred to me.

But the bottom line was, I hadn’t decided if I was staying in Bootleg Springs or not. I’d been here a year. I had family here, a fledgling business with classes and personal training. But that didn’t mean that this West Virginia town was home. Once the Callie Kendall case was resolved, then I would decide.

Stay or go.

“Think about it,” Mrs. Morganson advised. “Your own space to set up any way you want. A set schedule. I bet a gym would do real well in Bootleg so folks could work off all that moonshine.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” I promised. “Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I’m gonna go celebrate D’s victory with an egg white omelet before my next class.”





2





Shelby





The Brunch Club served up fancy breakfast with steaming sides of hot gossip. Bootleg Springs residents bellied up to the restaurant’s sleek concrete bar or leaned forward in cushioned booths to catch up on the town’s latest rumors while enjoying goat cheese frittatas and fried chicken biscuits with mango chia smoothies.