Page 51 of Hammered (Dad Bod Contracting 1)
“Absolutely. But it wouldn’t have been what it should be, and that’s exactly what he said to me.” I sniffle. “And I was such a bitch about it.”
“Okay, a couple things, here. One, stop beating yourself up. He’ll understand. If he was willing and able to stop you both while under the influence, that means he’s really into you. So he’ll understand. Second, you need to sober up before you try to talk to him about it.”
“I’m trying. I ate, and I’ve had a boatload of coffee, and a lot of water.”
“You do know what the best cure for a hangover is, don’t you?”
I groan. “Don’t say it.”
“You need to sweat it out.”
“That sounds like a special circle of hell.”
She laughs. “I know, but trust me, it works.”
“I hate you.”
“Can you drive, or are you still too fucked up?” she asks.
“I don’t think I should. I’m still a little unsteady.”
“Okay, then just wait for me. I’m working at the gym across town today. I’m done with this client, and I have some time before my next one, so I’ll come over and kick your ass.”
“I don’t wanna,” I whine, only partially joking.
“I know, but it’ll do you good, and you’ll feel better when I’m done with you.”
“Fine,” I grumble. “But I’m gonna hate it.”
“You’ll thank me later. Now get that big beautiful ass of yours into workout gear. I’ll be there in fifteen.”
“Big?” I squeal. “You think my ass is big?”
Audra sighs. “Imogen. This is not news to you. And it’s a good thing—I guarantee you your sexy Mr. Tighty Blackies harbors a deep and eternal appreciation for the size and shape of your derrière.” I hear gym noises, and then parking lot noises, and then her car door open and close and the dinging as she starts the car. “But, if you’re really feeling self-conscious about it, come into the gym with me a few times a week and we can work on toning it up.”
“It’s not just my butt that needs toning, unfortunately,” I lament.
A laugh. “No, it never is. But fortunately for you, your best friend is a master personal trainer. Commit the time and effort to me, and I’ll have you in killer shape in no time.”
“If by killer you mean kill me, then yes,” I say, in a droll tone. “Love you,” I intone in a nasally drawl.
“What would you do without me?”
“Let’s not find out,” I say.
Audra arrives ten minutes later. She’s decked out in workout gear—hot pink Lycra capris, a thin white hoodie zipped less than halfway up, sleeves pushed up to her elbows, nothing on beneath it but a royal blue sports bra, and cross trainer shoes that look like Jackson Pollock got hold of them—an explosion of colors in drips and stripes and dots and smears. She pops her trunk and pulls out two black kettlebells, closes her trunk with her elbow, and carries the weight to the middle of my front yard. I’m in all black—full-length yoga pants, black sports bra, black tank top, and my trusty old New Balance running shoes.
For the next forty-five minutes, Audra tortures me to within an inch of my life, all with a single 25lb kettlebell—she makes me swing it, hold it and do squats, press it over my head, bend over and row it, sit and do twists with it, stand and just hold it as long as I can. She doesn’t allow me any rest, either, or very little. Just enough to catch my breath, and then she’s slave-driving me on to the next movement, until I’m whimpering from exhaustion and sweat is dripping in buckets from every pore.
When she finally tells me we’re done, I collapse onto my back in the grass, gasping raggedly.
She sits down beside me, barely breathing hard and with a dainty sheen of sweat on her forehead. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I rip a handful of grass out and toss it at her. “You suck.”
She just laughs and tickles my nose with a blade of grass. “You secretly love it, don’t you? That feeling of exhaustion after a hard workout is addicting, isn’t it?”
I laugh. “I don’t know about that, Audra. I mean, yeah, I do feel better now, so it works as a hangover cure, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be addicted to working out.”
She just pats my thigh. “We’ll get you there.”
I sit up, groaning a laugh at the soreness in all my muscles. “I can’t believe I got that drunk,” I say, grimacing at Audra. “It was so not cool of me.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Imogen. You were excited and nervous, and it’s been over ten years since you’ve had to worry about how to figure out a relationship with a new guy. Overindulging a little in response is perfectly normal.”
“So should I just, like, call him? Or have him come over so I can apologize in person?”
