The CEO and Her Driver

Chapter 10

5 AM is the worst and best time of day. The world is quiet, and sometimes, you need that silence to think clearly. Sometimes you need to get up before the sun does because it means you have the entire day to be productive and have ZERO distractions. But it's also the WORST time of day because it's 5 AM and you've slept three hours... 

My alarm sparked to life, blaring my morning playlist. I groaned as Fifth Harmony's "That's My Girl," began, shooting adrenaline through my veins as it coaxed me away from sleep. I stared at the ceiling for a beat, trying to decide if pretending the world didn't exist was an option so I could sleep for another five minutes... or another few hours... or days.

The day isn't going to wait for me to get my sleep-deprived, lazy butt out of bed, is it?

Rolling out of bed, I stumbled to my feet and instantly tripped over a pair of flats, hitting the ground, butt first. Ten points deducted from the Slytherin house!

After throwing the shoes across the room, and on my somewhat more graceful second attempt at standing, and after fumbling in the dark— because lights are for suckers— I found my workout clothes. Pulling them on, I headed out to my living room balcony, the loud music following behind me like my own personal theme music. 

The cool air clung to my skin as the morning fog settled around me, making it impossible to see anything more than five feet off the balcony edge. The world was washed away, leaving a blank canvas of possibilities and hidden secrets. 

If I hadn't been listening to an R&B girl group, the whole thing would have come off as early morning creepy as I was shrouded in dense fog. Pulling my black hair out of my face with a hair tie, I stared at my target, wrapping my knuckles in protective tape as I flexed my fingers, itching to get started.

Then bouncing from foot to foot, loosening my muscles, I launched at the punching bag set up on the left side of my balcony. I rammed my fists against the bag, the contact sending it swinging back on contact. I took up a fast, sharp rhythm, landing hit after hit to the beat of the music, melting into years of training with each small twitch the bag made. 

The bagwork was a dance that kept my anger at bay, made me feel like I was in control of a world that always tried to take me down. So I did what had come to be part of my morning routine, I punched. 

I punched away my grief over my parents being taken, my exhaustion over working too many hours and sleeping too few, my fear of relationships, and my anxiety over dealing with drama with a rival fashion company that had sniped my models the day before. 

I just wanted to design clothes that made people feel beautiful. So why did every beautiful dream come with so much ugly baggage? Just let a girl work!

Once I could no longer feel my knuckles, rage, and pain evaporating into a numbness that matched my hands. I switched to my legs. 

The routine had its perks other than working through emotional issues that a therapist was better suited for, but would frown upon being the subject of said punching, or would frown upon me punching others. Which was fair I guess. 

Bagwork gave me an edge. It had proven useful when I had been threatened, giving me a way to fight back. Something I hoped wouldn't need to be used again anytime soon. 

By the time I was done, showered, and changed, I was calm and ready to take on the day. 

I had just made it to the curb, fully caffeinated when Tate pulled up and I spotted something utterly ridiculous in the front seat. And no, it wasn't Tate. I knocked on the front passenger's window, eyeing what he had done. Tate rolled down the window, grinning from ear to ear.