Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(23)
But the drive to get my workout in overpowers my rational thoughts. Of course. So I powerwalk. And I’m already to the gym doors by the time I think of turning around again.
The building is empty. Which, despite the earlier creep out, is nice and convenient. No one to worry about hitting on you or judging you. I don’t really enjoy gyms in general, but there’s no way to fit exercise equipment in our small dorm room. This is when I miss living with my parents. Wherever their current home may be.
Although the tradeoff of not having to deal with their constant analysis of me is a huge benefit in favor of living on campus.
I set my water bottle and gym bag on the floor in the corner, then set the speed and pace for the treadmill. I plug my ear buds in and scroll through my playlist on my phone until I find Adagio for Strings, Op. 11a. One of my favorite classical pieces performed by the London Philharmonic Orchestra. I need the soothing help of classical right now.
Which is just odd, I know. Most people want an upbeat, motivational tempo, with lyrics to help them kick ass during their workout. But I’m always wound tight. My heart rate feeling as if it’s forever climbing with the ever-pressing anxiety. When I get my twenty minutes to myself to just be me, I want to float away. Walk my mind completely away from my own thoughts.
As I walk, I let my mind drift, lost in the orchestra. Relaxing. My heartbeat ramps as the stress melts away like hot butter through my pores. Sweat drips down my back, and I imagine every disgusting thing I’ve eaten today liquefying and being purged from my system.
Something touches my arm, and I yelp. Then my legs go weak and my feet no longer keep tread on the walker. I land on my butt and am pushed right off the machine. One ear bud is lost, and I quickly move the wire from the track so it doesn’t get sucked under.
“Jesus, Arian.”
I know that smooth voice. My head whips up. Ryder stands above me, his dark hair falling forward over his creased forehead, eyes squinted in laughter, and his hand extended.
“Give me your hand,” he says, wriggling his fingers. When I don’t move, my heart still knocking hard against my chest—whether from the scare or his presence, I’m not sure—he groans and reaches down to grab my arm.
“I got it.” I yank my arm free and push myself up. Then I look at him while I pat my aching butt. “You scared the shit out of me. What are you doing here?”
His features change instantly. From concern to amusement. He shakes his head and begins walking toward one of the weight sets. “I don’t know, Arian. Probably the same thing you’re doing here.” He looks back at me and raises his eyebrows challengingly.
Yeah, well. Okay. I get a grip on myself, putting my fingers to my neck to check my pulse. Then I climb back on the machine and set it to a slower speed so I can bring my heart rate down properly.
“Damn. You were really giving that machine a workout,” he says as he lifts a weight from the stand. He adds it to the bar. “Like it had wronged you in some way. I have to admit, I feel a little better knowing it’s not just me that gets your wrath. Inanimate objects be damned, huh? We all pay for the ire of Arian.”
Ugh. This guy. God, but he’s so cute in his dumb sweatpants and tank. I divert my gaze and look down at the monitor of the treadmill. “Ari,” I say. “That’s what I go by.”
Despite my attempt not to look at him, I still witness his head jerk in my direction. “Ari.”
I release a heavy breath through my nose, calming. Centering. “Yeah, well, if you’ve finally decided to address me properly, and not like I’m something to be devoured…” I cringe. Did I really just say that? I should have clarified the carrot cake. I absolutely do not look at him. “Then, I guess you can call me what everyone else does.” I shrug.
A small smile hikes one corner of his mouth. “I like it. I like it even more that you’re the one offering it to me.”
“It’s just a name.”
He laughs. “It’s a great name. Beautiful, and fitting. I mean, it’s not as great as say, Ryder, of course. But hey, still an awesome name.” He smiles, and I roll my eyes. “You always downplay stuff. Why is that?” He cocks his head, paused, hovering over the bench before adding another weight. How much does he bench? My gaze travels over his flexed biceps, wondering… When I don’t respond, or can’t, because I don’t really know the answer, he says, “Anyway. I see we have this much in common.”
“Great names?” I’m suddenly incapable of saying more than two-or three-word sentences. Like my brain got knocked out through my butt and sucked into the treadmill during the fall. Or maybe I’ve finally worn myself out, too tired to deal with his head games.
No, I doubt that. He makes me too hyperaware. I’m always forced on guard.
“Well that, too, but I was talking about working out at night.” He puts the clamp on the bar and then straddles the bench. “I usually have this place all to myself.”
“Sorry I encroached on your turf.” I hit the button to slow the walker even more.
“Damn. You’d think for someone who just got one over on the most notorious pranksters of college football, you’d be flying high right now.” He wraps his fingers around the bar, adjusts his grip to get a proper hold. I can’t help but notice the way his muscles tighten, his sinewy arms strained as he lowers himself to the bench. Why do all the *s have to be the hot ones?