The Divorcee Murder Club

Treinta ~ 30

                 It’s been a long day working clients into pools of sweat while helping them achieve their fitness goals. Sometimes I get asked why I like training people so much, and honestly, it’s a rewarding experience that calms the storms brewing in my chest. Seeing someone’s body transform through hard work, week after week, and witnessing their low self-esteem turn into badass confidence fulfills me. 

Plus, it makes me feel like I haven’t let my mother down. My career is something she can be proud of, and I am too. 

When I exit the gym, fog rolls down the skyscrapers like an exploded bag of flour, and I like evenings like this, where twilight is hidden by the ocean’s exhale of mist. Despite my childhood being filled with memories of Chuck abusing my mother, I have good memories too. Whenever I was sick, my mom would comfort me with sopita de pollo and fresh, warm cookies from the oven. Then she’d spread vapor rub on my chest to clear my stuffy nose, and we’d watch a movie. 

So, weather like this makes me want to go home, pull on my sweats, and pop some cookies into the oven. Perhaps even make my mom’s chicken soup recipe. So, I text Mindy to see what she's up to.

Mindy: I'm working until 8:00 PM with my new clients.

Me: The Abramovitz?

Mindy: Yeah, I'm at their mansion, and holy heck, is it cool! We're discussing plans over appetizers and drinks. I wish you could join us.

Every hair on my body stands erect as I come to a halt and accidentally bump into another pedestrian. Blinking a few times at the screen, I refocus on the message and try to ease the rapid percussion of my heart. Little does Mindy know, they have her cornered in their den of ravenous wolves. But I have to play it cool. She doesn't need to know I'm involved with them.

Me: Nah, you wouldn't want me there. I'd probably embarrass you while you're in badass babe mode.

Mindy: Strangely, I don't think my clients would mind. They're pretty chill. One of them might even be drunk already and she's only had one glass of wine. Lol.

Me: Let me know when you're done. I think you should come over tonight :)

Mindy: Ok. Chat later. XO

Tucking the phone into my pocket, I can't help but furrow my brows at Mindy bonding with the Sisters while they merrily giggle over cocktails. Instinct tells me to head over to Golden Gate Park, barge into their home, toss Mindy over my shoulder like a hairy caveman, and get her the fuck out of there. But what if that's what they want me to do? What if this is another test, and they're fucking with me?

The ding of a trolley steals my attention, causing my gaze to land on the trail of brake lights from cars traveling down Market Street. It's as if the flashing red warns me to stop spiraling with these wild thoughts. Blowing out a breath, I shake off the fact Mindy is sitting across from a couple of snakes.

That's a worry for later.

But it’s too late to distract myself with picking up the documents from Franky because, according to her, she has a hot date and doesn't want me to interrupt her sexy time. So, I decide to meet Jackson for beers instead. We need to catch up anyway. A lot has happened since the last time we spent time together, and now that he’s looped into our plans with the Sisters, I need to give him an update.

When I enter the brewery, I spot Jackson’s shiny bald head at the bar. He looks like he belongs in a GQ magazine, with his elbow propped on the counter, a pint glass mid-air, and light glinting off the amber liquid as he takes a slow sip. 

Idris Elba has nothing on Jackson. 

“Yo…” I slide onto the stool next to him.

“Sup.” Jackson swivels to face me and points at the chalkboard bar menu against the wall. “I wasn’t sure what to order you, so I got the Blonde Bimbo.”