Page 82 of For a Goode Time Call…
I blinked. “What?”
He snorted. “We’re establishing baselines, here, babe, keep up.” He glanced at Mom. “She always this slow on the uptake?”
“Listen here, gorilla man—” I started.
Mom just patted me on the shoulder. “Go all in, Cassie-Lassie. Give this all you’ve got. And trust him.” And then she left.
What?
“What?” I echoed my own thought out loud. “Mom?”
She waved as she exited the doors. “And have fun!”
I watched her drive away. “Now, what the fuck?”
Bax tilted his head. “She did tell you where she was taking you, did she not?”
I nodded. “To meet you. I didn’t know we’d…I don’t know. Start before we’d even said hello.”
Bax reached out, took my hand, and shook it. “Name is Baxter Badd. Call me Bax. I’m your new trainer and rehab coach. You’re Cassandra Goode, car wreck survivor, bum leg as a souvenir, dancer and, apparently, dumb blonde.”
I yanked my hand out of his grip and reached out to smack him.
Or, intended to. He caught my hand with a strong but gentle grip, a playful grin on his face. “Ah, ah, ah. We’re not in the ring. No hitting.”
“You—you—!”
“Just joking. Making sure you’re paying attention.”
I put my face close to his. “Call me dumb blonde again and I’ll rip your dick off.”
His grin widened. “Ooh, baby. Talk dirty to me.” He frowned. “Well, actually, don’t. I’m married, and I love my wife. But, for real, that’s how you play the game around here.” He clapped his hands together. “So, let’s get started.”
I sighed, flapped my arms out wide and let them slap against my thighs. “Alright, might as well just go with it. Work your magic, Mr. Badd.”
He squatted in front of me, glanced up at me with his hands hovering around my bad leg, but not touching. “Quick look, in a purely professional and therapeutic way. So, you know, don’t knee me in the face when I touch your leg, ‘kay?”
I shot him a sour look. “I’m not a prude, Bax.”
“You’re plenty touchy, so you never know.” He spoke absently, his fingers now prodding my scar tissue, kneading the muscle.
I frowned. “Touchy? I’m not touchy.”
“You’re uptight as fuck, babe.” He grabbed my wrist and placed it on his shoulder, which felt like putting my hand on a marble statue. “Balance on your good leg, please. Need to test your range of motion.”
I rolled my eyes and balanced, without his shoulder, without so much as a wobble. Glad to know I’ve still got that much left, at least.
“Nice,” he muttered. “Solid core foundation.”
I snorted. “Mom may have told you I was a dancer, but I’m not sure she qualified it quite correctly. It wasn’t a hobby, it was a profession.”
I demonstrated, by extending my bad leg in front of me, lifting it toward the ceiling, arching over backward into a full backbend, into a handstand, held there for a beat, and then continued forward, landing on both feet…
And promptly falling sideways as my bad leg collapsed, dumping me onto the mat.
“Well, that was impressive,” Baxter said, plopping onto his butt next to me.
“Until I fell,” I muttered, staying where I was, lying awkwardly.
