Flirting with the bad boy: A love at the Gym Novel

  Flirting with the bad boy

  A love at the Gym Novel

  Amy sparling

  Contents

  1. Kris

  2. Lanie

  3. Kris

  4. Lanie

  5. Kris

  6. Lanie

  7. Kris

  8. Lanie

  9. Kris

  10. Lanie

  11. Kris

  12. Lanie

  13. Kris

  14. Lanie

  15. Kris

  16. Lanie

  17. Kris

  18. Lanie

  19. Kris

  20. Lanie

  21. Kris

  22. Lanie

  23. Kris

  Also by Amy sparling

  About the Author

  1

  Kris

  With one hard twist, I finally loosen the rusted bolt on the frame of this old Harley. I reach up and wipe the sweat from my brow, then turn the wrench until the old threads give away and the bolt breaks apart, dropping onto the floor of the garage.

  This old bike will require a lot of work—who am I kidding? It’s already required a lot of work—but I’ll get it restored and running one of these days. It might not take as long if I’d actually bring it to a nearby motorcycle shop and let the pros do it, but the time doesn’t matter to me. This is my project. It’ll just have to take as long as it takes, getting worked on here and there in the short number of hours I have available each week.

  I still can’t believe my luck at finding this old thing. A 1975 Harley Flathead, in all its rugged and dilapidated glory, was right here in the garage, buried under and old canvas tarp behind a shelfing unit filled with tools and all my grandmother’s craft supplies. I spent my whole life knowing my grandfather used to ride a motorcycle back in his glory days, but like everyone else, had assumed he didn’t own one anymore.

  My grandmother passed when I was ten years old. Granddad held on longer, living until I had just barely turned eighteen. When he died of kidney failure, it was a surprise to everyone that he’d left his entire estate to me. The only grandkid. Not my mom or my uncle who are his actual kids. But me.

  My uncle has always had a gambling problem, selling off everything he owns and borrowing money until he has no friends left, so it makes sense that he didn’t get anything from my grandparents’ will. And my mom? Well, I guess that makes sense, too. She all but abandoned me when she married some guy the year I was in kindergarten. And when that didn’t work out and she remarried another guy two years later, I saw even less of her. Once again, in fifth grade, my mom met Paul, who she deemed the “love of her life” and moved off to Colorado to live with him. I stayed here at my Grandad’s house, not wanting to leave my school behind. I think, in a way, Granddad didn’t want me to leave him behind either.

  So I guess since my mom prioritized her various romantic partners over me, her son, my grandad felt she didn’t need the house.

  I shudder to think that I’ve become exactly like my mom. Not the multiple marriages and unwanted children, but the fact that I’m terrible at love. At relationships. I can’t even find love or a relationship.

  I can find dates, sure.

  As if right on cue, my phone dings with the familiar chime from the Crush dating app. Someone has just messaged me, looking to make a connection after reading my online profile. I spray some grease on the next bolt on this old bike frame and slide the wrench onto it. The phone alert can wait for now. There are more than enough girls on that app and I’ve probably already dated half of them. None of them turned into a girlfriend, or even a second date. No one even came close.

  My knuckles turn white as I grip the wrench, trying to work loose the next stubborn bolt. They say hobbies are a great way to distract yourself from all the other problems in your life, and it does work sometimes. Just not all the time. Maybe some problems are too big for a hobby distraction.

  I take off the remaining bolts and then curiosity gets the better of me. For all I know, my soul mate could be on the Crush app, waiting for my reply. That’s probably just some wishful thinking, but I can’t shake the idea. I want a soul mate. I wipe my hands on my jeans and then reach for my phone.

  The notification is from a woman named Carly. According to her dating profile, she’s twenty five, a dental hygienist, and fairly average looking. Not beautiful, not unattractive. Just… average.

  I don’t know why I let a sliver of disappointment creep into me as I stare at her profile. It’s actually a good profile. She seems sane, and educated, and doesn’t have anything in her photos that makes her look like she’d be a bad person to meet. So many girls post obviously photoshopped pictures to make themselves look better, or their photos are all taken at some raging party where they look like the kind of party girl I want nothing to do with. This girl Carly doesn’t have any of that going on. She seems nice enough. But the disappointment lingers anyhow. I think it’s because deep down, every time someone reaches out to me on this app, I secretly hope I’ll get this burst of—well, I don’t know—something. A feeling? An intuition? A thumping of my heart?

  Something that tells me this new girl is the girl. My soul mate, if you want to use terms like that. The one. The girl I’ll fall madly in love with and propose to and marry and live happily ever after with.

  But of course that never happens. I should be used to it by now. I should be expecting it to not happen. Instead, every time I look at my matches, I get just the slightest bit disappointed because I want something I just won’t ever get.

  For the millionth time, a little nagging intuition in my gut tells me I won’t be able to find what I want from a dating app.

  I look through Carly’s profile again. Her message is simple, and also lets me know that she’s probably a decent, nice person.

  Hello! You seem interesting. I also live in Roca Springs. Want to get a smoothie at that place off Main Street?

  My tongue slides over my lip as I read the words, thinking them over. I’ve gone through phases lately, where I’ll go on a date with a new girl each night, and then I’ll just stop cold turkey for a few weeks. Lately, I’ve been dating. It keeps the loneliness away.

  So I guess it won’t hurt to try one more date, despite not feeling any kind of cosmic connection to this woman.

  I type out a reply, telling her I’m free any day this week before five, which is when I go to work.

  She replies back instantly.

  How about tomorrow? :)

  I take a deep breath. Sure. Why not.

  2

  Lanie

  My heels clack loudly on the black marble flooring in the Arctic Protein lobby. I like the sound, the clack, clack, clack that announces my presence the moment I walk in. It makes it easy to pretend I’m some high-ranking attorney with a terrifying demeanor that makes people sit up straighter when I enter a room.

  Instead, I’m not even close to being someone that confident and powerful. I’m no lawyer, or big-shot. I’m the office manager of my family’s business that researches and makes high quality protein powder and nutrition drinks.

  And the word “manager” is used kind of loosely in my job title, because I don’t manage anyone. I just hang out and do all the boring admin type stuff around here that my dad and brothers don’t want to do. The great thing about having a dad who owns a successful business? You just get handed a job after college. No scary interviews or resumes for me.

  But the bad thing about having a dad who owns a successful business?

  You have to work with family.

  There’s someone standing in front of my office door.

  “You
r hair is purple.”

  Speaking of family, my oldest brother Julian is staring at me as if he thinks I owe him an explanation for my hair.

  “It’s not purple,” I say, pretending to look at something important on my phone. “It’s lavender.”

  “I don’t care what color it is, it’s not the right color.” Julian is tall and broad shouldered like my dad, but of my three brothers, I’m the least scared of him. He’s much more mature than my other two brothers.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m not a little scared of him. My brothers love me but they are extremely overprotective. It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty four years old. They still treat me like I’m twelve.

  “Right color? What’s a right color?” I say, lowering my phone and walking past him on my way to my office. I let the sound of my heels give me some fake confidence. A kick butt attorney wouldn’t let her older brother criticize her hair.

  “Well, let’s see,” Julian says, falling into step with me. The heavy clunk of his work boots starts to drown out the clicking of my heels. It annoys me more than it should. “You were born with blonde hair, and that’s the kind of hair you’ve always had, and now it’s slightly purple. Why?”

  I roll my eyes, stopping when I reach my office door.

  Lanie Archfield, the silver plate next to my door says. Office Manager.

  Manager of nothing, I think dryly to myself. I spin on my heel and look my brother in the eyes. “It’s this new shampoo that slowly makes your hair a pretty color every time you use it,” I explain, even though it doesn’t matter and I shouldn’t have to explain myself to him. “We have other employees with brightly colored hair, so my subtle lavender isn’t a big deal. Plus, it’ll wash out if I stop using the shampoo.”

  “Those other employees aren’t high ranking employees,” Julian says, following me inside my office even though I don’t invite him. “They’re retail or warehouse workers. You’re upper management. You have to make a good impression.”

  “I do make a good impression,” I say, standing tall. I’m dressed really nice today, in a cream blazer and matching skirt, and outfit that helps prove my point.

  Julian heaves a sigh. “I’m just looking out for you Lanie.”

  “No, you’re being annoying,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

  “Morning, losers!” My brother Jack calls out as he passes by my office door. Then his shoes screech to a stop on the tile and he backs up, his eyes raking down my body.

  “What are you wearing?”

  James, Jack’s identical twin brother suddenly appears. “What’s going on?”

  Jack and James are also my older brothers, but they’re younger than Julian. Our parents waited two years between having each kid. Why two of them were twins… I don’t know. There aren’t any other twins in our family. Maybe my parents had some bad karma coming their way. Or maybe I did. Maybe I was born with bad karma because my three older brothers have done nothing but hassle me my whole life. They say it's because they care about me, but really they just like being annoying.

  I put my hands on my hips. “What is wrong with my outfit? I look great.”

  “You look too great,” Jack says, shaking his head. “It’s like you’re walking around trying to get guys to check you out.”

  I roll my eyes. “I am professionally dressed.”

  “That skirt is too tight,” James says. He and Jack are leaner than Julian, but they have the same light brown hair that’s cut short. All three of my brothers are much taller than me.

  “Julian!” I stare at my older brother, giving him a look. When he doesn’t do anything, I groan and roll my eyes. Men can be so oblivious. “Julian, stick up for me!”

  He just runs a hand down his mouth and heaves another sigh. Ever since he married Rebecca a year ago, she’s really knocked some sense into him. Sense like: it’s not okay to slut shame a woman for dressing attractively.

  “I think she looks fine,” he says. Guess that’s better than nothing.

  Jack shakes his head. “No, she looks like she’s going to attract the wrong kind of guy.”

  James nods. “Only guys with bad intentions will be hitting on you in that outfit.”

  “No one is going to hit on me at work!” I say, way louder than I mean to. But I’m so sick of this crap from my brothers. “I sit in my office all day long and barely talk to anyone and I even eat lunch in here, so will you just shut up about my stupid clothes?”

  “Wow,” James says, eyes wide as if he can’t believe his baby sister just snapped at him. “We’re just looking out for you, sis.”

  “You’re just being annoying is what you’re being.” Ah, crap. Now my lips are quivering and my eyes are getting hot with fresh tears and I do not want to cry in front of them. I don’t want to cry at work at all. A kick butt attorney wouldn’t cry at work and I’m not going to, either. I point toward the hallway. “Will you guys just leave, please?”

  To my surprise, they do actually leave. They don’t apologize like they should, but they leave. That’s progress, I guess. Usually my brothers can spend fifteen minutes complaining about how I dress or how I look or which guys I have a crush on. I’m impressed that they finally listened to me.

  But then five minutes later, James pops his head back in. “Is your hair purple?”

  I just glare at him until he leaves.

  Yeah, my hair is slightly lavender. I don’t even know why I did it, to be honest. I was scrolling through Instagram and saw an ad for this shampoo that slowly deposits a hint of color into your hair every time you use it. It seemed fun. I bought it on a whim and now I’m using it, and it is fun. I like the soft, subtle color I see whenever my formerly blonde hair falls in my face. I think it makes me look adventurous. Fun. Like someone who knows how to go out and seize the day.

  That’s the kind of person I wish I could be. So maybe, just maybe, doing this to my hair and walking with my confident attorney heels will somehow infuse some of that personality into me. Maybe it’ll make me the woman I want to be. One who is flirty and fearless and fun. Not some boring, sheltered girl whose brothers never let her do anything. I’m not a teenager anymore. I’m a woman.

  My office phone rings.

  “Arctic Protein,” I say. “This is Lanie speaking, how may I help you?”

  See? I’m not a teen. I’m a professional freaking adult.

  * * *

  At the end of the day, I slip out to my car about five minutes before I usually leave just so I can avoid another talk by my brothers about how tight my skirt is or how great my legs look in these heels and that’ll only make men stare at me, or how purple hair doesn’t look good on me. For all I know they might start complaining about my lip gloss being too sparkly, and how sparkly lip gloss might attract a man to kiss me like some kind of moth to a flame.

  And God forbid a man kiss me!

  My brothers would die if someone kissed me. They would just straight up die.

  Ugh.

  My best friend Suzy is meeting up with me at a local food truck for dinner. It’s not just any old food truck—The Golden Grill has permanently established themselves on the side of the road. The county passed some pointless law a while back saying food trucks must be permanent and not drive around, so the Golden Grill simply bought some land, made a small parking lot, set up a bunch of picnic tables, strung up some patio lights, and called themselves a food truck restaurant. As long as it’s not raining outside, they’re the perfect place to go for dinner. Lately they’ve even added some outdoor games like cornhole, horseshoe, and tetherball, as well as added a stage for local bands to play on Friday nights.

  It's a pretty cool place, and the tacos are to die for.

  Suzy is already here when I arrive, sipping on a frozen margarita from a Styrofoam cup. She waves me over from the picnic table near the cornhole boards. If no one is playing, sometimes we play a game even though we aren’t good at it. Cornhole is this game where there’s two wooden boards set up like a ramp and the
y have a hole in them. They’re spaced about twenty feet apart. You stand near one and your opponent stands near the other, and you face each other. You have these little bean bags that fit in the palm of your hand, and you toss them toward the board across from you. If your bean bag goes in the hole, you get a point. We don’t really know all the rules, and some of the people who come to the Golden Grill get annoyed when we play it our own way. But we just play for fun. And in my opinion, a silly little wooden game with bean bags should only ever be played for fun.

  “I already ordered for you,” Suzy says, taking another sip from her drink. Her bright red lipstick leaves a mark on her straw. “You want the usual, right? Because that’s what I ordered.”

  “Sounds great,” I say, dropping my purse on the table and sitting across from her. I inspect the wooden picnic table seat first, because I don’t want to get dirt on this gorgeous cream-colored skirt.

  “Girl, you look amazing,” Suzy says. She looks me up and down but in a much different way than my brothers did. “New outfit?”

  I nod. “Seventy-five percent off at the outlet mall.”

  Suzy and her perfectly groomed eyebrows look impressed. “Score.”

  Suzy and I have been best friends since kindergarten. She’s absolutely beautiful. She’s always been a little chubby, but she carries it well and she’s never bothered by her weight, unlike everyone else I know. She’s also a total fashionista. She dresses better than people on TV shows, and her fashion sense is just amazing. She’s also a skilled makeup artist, so she always looks pretty. While I’m not a tomboy, I’m also just not good at fashion or makeup. Suzy helps me as much as she can, but I’m pretty hopeless at it. That’s why I am particularly proud of this discounted outfit I bought last weekend. I look good.