Page 6 of Mechanic Next Door
5
Peach
My eyesscan over the schedule of classes pinned to the bulletinboard.
I need adistraction.
I’ve only used my gym membership once. It’s less that I’m paying to use the gym and more that I’m donating money to keep the gym open for other people, people who actually utilize theirmemberships.
“What are you looking for?” the receptionist asks mesweetly.
“Something…different,” I say. I’ve never been one for working out. I get enough physical activity living in a house like mine. It always seems that I’m up on the roof laying some shingles or sweating out in the sun when I’m gardening. Swimming is probably my favorite physical activity. I look back fondly on the summer after senior year. Thomas and I practically lived at the lake. And aside from my grandmother’s old jazzercise tapes, I’m allset.
“Keep reading,” the receptionist says. I look at her over my shoulder and see her smilingmischievously.
Hm. I frown as I read the names of the classes. Cycling, aerobics. Nothing here is calling tome.
Then my eyes find something that makes my belly flip over and goosebumps plump over my arms. Yes. I’ve found the class I am going to be taking today, and it’s starting in fiveminutes.
Pole dancing. Hoo boy. A trickle of excitement runs up my spine and singes the hairs on the back of my neck. A shiver breaks through me and a crazy big smile spreads on myface.
I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect gift to fall into my lap at a more perfect time. I turn on my heels and walk past the front desk, the receptionist giving me a smile. She knows where I’mheading.
I am heading to Studio D, where the pole dancing class is taking place. I step inside and I’m met with a world of wonder in the form of mirrored walls, steel poles running the height of the studio, and ten or twelve women of all ages, colors, shapes and sizes ready to get their freak on in the safety of our neighborhoodgym.
I guess it would be too much to ask for this studio to be located in the front of the gym where the windows are, and I don’t blame whoever chose this studio, tucked into a back corner, to hold this class. We can’t have people walking past here with their groceries or walking their dogs to get an eye-full of what’s going to happen inhere.
Though I wish Thomas could get an eye-full. Oh, do I ever wish that I could show him some of the moves I’m going to be learning heretoday.
“Alright, class,” the instructor says, clapping her hands together. She is tall and thin, a far cry from my petite, curvy frame. I could work out from now until kingdom come and it wouldn’t change my proportions or the size of my bones, and I’m okay with it. This is mostly just for fun. Maybe a little bit to tone up and get fit for the summer, though I don’t expect just one class to change my entire life in the span of forty-fiveminutes.
I just need something to shake off this feeling inside me. I could go home and touch myself, but that’s not working as well as it used to. Maybe this class will douse some of the fire that’s growing insideme.
We each take our place at a pole. I’m nervous, not because people are going to see me in a vulnerable state, but because I’m going to be seeing myself in a vulnerable state. I’m a little bit shy about my body. Thomas reminds me all the time that I’m beautiful, but lately I’ve been feeling a little unsure in my skin. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t call me beautiful as much as he used to. I consider grabbing my gym bag and bolting for the door, but I resolve to keep my feet planted on the floor. They’re going to be doing all sorts of things in a few minutes, so for now I keep them where theyare.
The instructor puts on some music and goes through a few standard stretches. I follow along. I took a Zumba class last year, so I’m right at home here. But then things start to heatup.
“We are going to start with some simple moves,” the instructor says, her hand wrapped around the poll as she walks around it in a wide circle. We go through a few steps. She instructs us to get up on our tip-toes and reach up with our dominant hand to grip the pole tight. We quickly go on to moves that are a little bit more involved. They include sliding our hands down various lengths, stepping on one foot or the other, and moving our hips slowly while we spot, catching our reflection in the mirror with eachturn.
I start to loosenup.
I start to like what I’m seeing in themirror.
I freaking lovethis.
The instructor makes the music a little louder and tells us all to keep going, play around, experiment with what we’ve learned. I can’t help but imagine what Thomas would say if he were here. I don’t know what he’d do. I have a pretty good idea that if he saw me like this, in a room full of people, he would tell me to quit what I’m doing and walk away with my handsup.
But what if I somehow got him alone in this room with me? Got down and dirty with him somewhere private, somewhere he could flirt and tease me and not have to worry about consequences? Oh, the idea is dazzling. I spin around the pole slowly, thinking of Thomas in here, his eyes drinking me up, every curve, ever arch, every spin designed to make him crazy. If he could be locked up in here with me, would I be able to make him do something tome?
I’ve tried. I’ve begged him to come down to the lake with me and gotten him to agree, only for him to spend all his time sitting on a rock and peering out over the lake as soon as soon as my pants come off. Yesterday was the only exception. Yesterday I got him to get a little closer to me, and I had to go and ruin it by getting into one of my bad moods and walking away. I’m going to have to try harder to get him to come out to the lake with me moreoften.
I let the restlessness inside me control my movements. He’s sitting against the mirrored wall, his knees bent, one on the floor and one tucked up against him with his elbow hooked on it. His broad, thick forearm is clenching and unclenching with every frustrating tick of his fingers, every fist he shows me. His eyes are narrowed on me and his jaw is clenched, and when I spin around the pole with my grip on it, I imagine running my fingers down its length, his eyes moving to follow me every little inch of theway.
He’s looking at me the way I want to be seen. He’s looking at me like a potential sexual partner. He’s looking at me the way a man looks at a woman who he needs, wants - hell, as a man looks at the woman he just can’t livewithout.
I can’t live without Thomas. It hurts to think he could live without me. And my inability to live without him encompasses every aspect of my life. In every way. I feel like he is myperson.
Then why can’t I behis?
