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March 2017

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MAKE U SWEAT (Excerpt 2)

Make U Sweat

EXCERPT TWO

Robbie Jo’s Story – The Right Moves
Where am I?

I rolled over and slowly stretched my limbs trying to determine if there was another body in bed with me. Neither my arms nor legs collided with any body parts, but it didn’t feel like my bed. Mine was a queen and the sheets were much softer and smelled like Downy, and every morning when I woke up it smelled like coffee, because Reece always set the coffee timer. She’s good like that.

The urging of my bladder forced me to move, forced my eyes open, which I immediately regretted. I guess I forgot to mention the headache I’d woken up with. A headache brought on by a night at the Tiki Lounge. At least I hadn’t gotten into a fight…hhmmm.

I searched my hazy, booze-soaked memory, trying to assure myself that I really hadn’t gotten into another fight. Otherwise, my favorite bartender would have my ass, and I’d be banned from the Tiki Lounge for life. And at twenty-five, I had a lot of life left. My bladder struggled to get my attention again, and I finally sat up, looking around through painfully gritty, hung-over eyes.

Just outside the bedroom door was a hallway, a tiny one, with two doors, and it seemed to open up into a living area. Ignoring the indignant cries of my long-lost modesty, I hopped out of bed and stuck my head in the first one, coming out a winner. Once I’d relieved myself of most of last night’s tequila and beer, I washed my hands and face, avoiding my own reflection in the mirror as I scrubbed off the last of the previous night’s makeup, then headed back to the bedroom to take stock.

There was only one set of clothes on the floor–mine–and the bedroom was sparsely finished: just a double bed and dresser, all devoid of personal items and homey touches. The bathroom hadn’t been much better, with a shower curtain that looked like it had come from the Dollar Store, a few bare necessities and a bottle of Hugo Boss.

Since the apartment was still quiet, I slipped into my panties and went exploring some more, the rumble of an ancient air conditioner covering my footsteps. I found him on the living room couch, one arm thrown over his head, his face turned into the cushions, but there was no disguising Cash McBride and his angelic face. His bare chest was liberally peppered with scars, including a thick, rather ugly white one that ran for about six inches along the curve of his ribs.

“Well, good morning to you too.” The sound of his voice, thick with sleep, made my cheeks burn. As if he’d known exactly where my eyes were heading.

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