Driving Her Wild

“Should I get on with it, or...?”

She abandoned her nose, spreading her arms to showcase the rather obvious fact that she was dressed in her bra. “I’m kind of changing, here.”

“Oh jeez. Sorry.”

“Never mind.” Steph wasn’t modest. She’d changed in far less private venues than this, and once a warm-up banished the January chill from her muscles, she’d be back down to her bra for training. “Just shut the door and get on with it.”

He did, sidestepping the mess he’d made of her clothes. “I won’t look,” he assured her, busying himself with the box. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

She checked to make sure the bleeding had stopped, then tugged on a long-sleeved compression top. She cast her hapless assailant a glare as he crouched to organize TV components on the carpet.

He looked like every guy she’d taken shop class with in high school, the very epitome of Massachusetts working-class guyhood. Sandy brown hair that managed to look messy despite its short cut, caramel-colored Carhartt pants, work boots, a forest-green tee whose front Steph was positive would bear the logo of a contracting company. The cotton was pulled taut between his broad shoulders, but she was through being seduced by such sights.

She knew this guy too well already. He’d have a truck parked along the curb outside with a Sox decal on one side of the rear window, Pats on the other. He grilled a perfect burger and owned a large, happy dog, and played touch football with his buddies on the weekends, come rain or snow. His name was Ryan or Mike or Pat or Brendan. Brendan Connolly, Doyle, Mc

“I’m sure it’ll do.”

She crossed to the room beside the gym’s office and closed the door. There was no lock, so she pushed her bag against it, rooting through her workout clothes, swapping her winter coat and jeans for warm-ups and a jog bra. She tugged on the latter, untwisting the straps as she dug for a top. Then—bonk.

The door was shoved in, whacking her in the nose.

“Ow, Jesus!”

No matter how many times she took a punch there, the startling, white pain of it never got easier. She cupped her hands to the spot as she straightened, suddenly face-to-face with one of the construction guys. His recognition dawned slowly.

“Oh, sorry. Did I just thump you in the head?”

“Yes.” She drew her fingers away. When his blue eyes widened, she glanced at her palm, covered in blood.

“Holy shit. I’m sorry. Uh, here...” He muscled his way through the half-open door, toppling the contents of her gym bag, tools from his canvas belt clattering and clanging against the metal frame. He unbuttoned his flannel work shirt, offering it to Steph.

Not wanting to drip blood on her own clothes, she wadded it against her nose.

“Sorry,” he said again. “I didn’t know anybody’d be in here. I’m supposed to wire your new TV.” He nodded to a big box leaning against the wall, splashed with a picture of a flat-screen. “I’m the electrician.”

Preoccupied with pressing her bridge, scouting for a break, Steph didn’t reply.