ESCAPING TO THE GYM
1088 Words
After 30 minutes of acting like I wasn’t thinking about booking it out that front door every time I walked past it I finally had enough of the awkward tension…
“Alright, I’m heading back to organize the chaos that is my living room,” I said, stretching like I hadn’t just emotionally dry-heaved for the last 30 minutes minutes.
Blair gave me that look—like the kind your mom gives you when she knows you're full of s**t but chooses peace anyway. “You better call me later.”
“Obviously,” I said, already backing out the door.
The second I stepped into my apartment, I exhaled like I’d just escaped a hostage situation. My body was buzzing from TJ's proximity, my brain was already trying to ice the fresh feelings I didn’t ask for, and my soul just wanted a goddamn nap.
I had survived:
An accidental porn intro.
A naked couch delivery.
Feelings. EW.
And now?
I was alone. Exactly how I liked it.
...Right?
Right?
I turned on some background noise (Lo-fi beats because my trauma is too tired for lyrics), poured a glass of blackberry wine, and got back to unpacking. Because if there’s one thing trauma-trained girlies do best, it’s stay busy enough to avoid actual emotions.
My place finally looked semi-functional and not like a box factory exploded. I, however, looked like a s*x-exhausted goblin who had been fed exclusively on pizza and spite.
Hot.
Clearly, it was time to sweat out my sins—and what better way than to use the Vaughn Tech private gym I now had access to? Nothing like overpriced equipment and air conditioning that smells like rich people to distract you from your mental breakdown.
But first? Shower. I’m not layering gym sweat on top of “I banged the delivery guy” sweat like I’m building trauma lasagna.
Post-shower, I threw on black yoga pants, a sports bra, and my “Cardio is Hardio” tee. Blair says the pants make my ass look like a lifestyle brand. She’s not wrong. Hair in a bun, face bare, dignity nowhere to be found—perfect.
I grabbed my gym bag and hopped in my brand-new Range Rover. One of my few big splurges post-inheritance. Because if I’m going to relive childhood trauma, I’m at least doing it with heated seats and Apple CarPlay.
The drive was fast—probably a record for New York—and I badge-scanned my way inside Vaughn Tech like I owned the place.
The gym was empty. Hallelujah.
It was all polished floors, chrome machines, and more LED lighting than a Kardashian’s skincare closet. Quiet. Private. The kind of rich-guy gym where even the towels looked smug.
I popped in my AirPods and let Lizzo convince me I was thriving. Hit the mats. Warm-up. Then treadmill.
Each step was less about fitness and more about trying to outrun the absolute clusterfuck of emotions TJ stirred up inside me.
Ten minutes in and I was already regretting the decision. But after some weights and an imaginary boxing match with my past, I felt... okay.
Sweaty, exhausted, but okay.
Until I made the mistake of texting Blair as I walked toward the elevator, still in my own little world.
I was mid-text—asking if Matt had turned her into a s*x-captive-turned-fiancée—when I collided with a literal wall.
Except it wasn’t a wall.
It was a suit.
A man.
A very expensive, very solid man.
“s**t! I’m so sorry—” I rubbed my forehead and looked up... and instantly wanted the floor to swallow me whole.
Jace Vaughn.
The hot, ice-eyed CEO.
And I had just smeared my post-workout forehead sweat on his suit like I was trying to baptize him in bodily fluids.
He smirked. “You okay?”
His voice was... ugh. Like s*x dipped in espresso. Rough, smooth, all of the above. Unfair.
“Oh my god, I—I didn’t see you. I was texting and walking and—" I was spiraling. He was just staring. And not like a normal amount of staring. Staring.
“You’re the woman from the restaurant,” he said. “The cinnamon pancake incident.”
Awesome. Now I was not only the brunch girl with the chaotic friend, I was sticky forehead gym girl too.
“That’s me,” I mumbled, right as I noticed the actual sweat mark on his expensive suit.
Kill me.
I reached up to dab it and—of course—he caught my wrist.
Firm. Gentle. Intimate. Infuriating.
“It’s fine,” he said. “Looks like we’re even now. Embarrassing brunch for a sweaty elevator crash. Karma’s got jokes.”
I blinked, trying to reboot my brain. His hand didn’t move. His thumb brushed my wrist like it belonged there. Like it was normal. Like I wasn’t actively combusting from the inside out.
“Name?” he asked.
“Rory,” I squeaked. Squeaked. Disgusting.
He nodded, like he was trying to file it away. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the building before.”
Oh God. He thinks I’m trespassing.
“I start Monday,” I blurted. “Marketing assistant. Jacob hired me. I have a badge and everything. I’m not like… squatting here, I swear.”
His lips twitched into a smirk. “Well then,” he said, “I suppose I’ll be seeing you around.”
I stared. I forgot the elevator. I forgot what air felt like. I forgot what words were.
Then—thankfully—ding. Elevator opened.
We both stepped inside.
I jabbed the button like it owed me money.
“You going to the parking garage too?” I asked, mostly so I wouldn’t implode from the silence.
He looked at me sideways. “Yes, Rory. I am.”
Why did he say my name like that?!
The elevator doors opened and I practically tripped out.
But then—“Rory.”
I turned.
He stood there, the doors slowly closing behind him, and said, “Good luck on your first day. And for the record… caramel frappes are the best thing on their menu.”
Winked.
Got into his Aston Martin.
Drove off like he didn’t just verbally impregnate me.
I stood there for a full ten seconds, stunned, before pulling out my phone and frantically calling Blair.
Pick up. Pick up. Pick up—
Because we had so much to scream about.
- Writer
