Chapter 2: The Third Wheel Interruption
The gym doors hissed shut behind Matt, sealing out the murmur of downtown traffic. He’d been thinking about the scent of lemon and vetiver for two days, a stupid, persistent detail. He swung his bag off his shoulder, his eyes scanning for the clean lines of a grey tank top, the dark knot of hair.
He saw Leo first.
His manager was planted like a redwood near the check-in desk, arms crossed over his chest, wearing his standard uniform of expensive jeans and a faded concert tee. He wasn’t looking at Matt. He was staring hard at Dasha, who stood before him, her posture a study in still, cold elegance.
Leo’s voice, low and carrying, cut through the ambient whir of machines. “…just saying it’s a hell of a coincidence. This place isn’t exactly on the beaten path.”
Matt froze, his grip tightening on his bag strap.
Dasha didn’t flinch. She offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Is there a problem with my membership?”
“No problem,” Leo said, his tone easy, predatory. “Just making conversation. You’re new. He’s here. Let me guess, you just happened to be a fan?”
It happened fast. Leo, in a gesture meant to be casual, reached out and closed his hand around Dasha’s wrist. It wasn’t violent, but it was a claim, an interrogation. Matt felt a jolt of something hot and sharp in his gut.
Dasha looked down at Leo’s hand, then back up at his face. Her expression didn’t change. But her laugh was a short, brittle sound. “Of Renaissance chiaroscuro? Absolutely.” Her voice was perfectly clear. “Of prople who presume? Not so much.”
In one fluid, surprisingly strong motion, she wrenched her wrist free. The movement was so swift and decisive Leo’s hand hung in the air for a stunned second. Her gaze, icy and dismissive, swept past him and locked directly onto Matt.
He felt it like a physical touch. The challenge in her eyes was unmistakable, but beneath it, he saw a flash of something else—a raw, humiliated anger that made his pulse hammer against his ribs.
“Matt,” Leo said, turning, his face rearranging into a mask of concerned familiarity. “There you are. We were just having a chat.”
Matt didn’t look at Leo. He was still caught in the pull of Dasha’s stare. She held it for a three-count, letting him see the storm behind the brown. Then, with a control that seemed superhuman, she smoothed her features into polite neutrality. She gave a slight, mocking nod in Leo’s direction. “Your guardian was vetting the morning crowd. Thoroughly.”
She turned and walked toward the locker rooms, her stride even, her head high. Every line of her body screamed a furious, contained dignity.
The second she was out of sight, Leo exhaled, shaking his head. “You see that? Did you see how she reacted? Defensive. Classic.”
“What the hell was that, Leo?” Matt’s voice was quiet, dangerously low.
“My job,” Leo said, moving closer, dropping his voice. “I got here early, saw her. Recognized her from that gallery opening you skipped last fall. Waldorf Gallery. She’s the owner. Dasha Waldorf. She’s connected, arts scene, runs in donor circles. Not some random fitness junkie.”
“So you grabbed her?”
“I was making a point. This isn’t a public gym in the valley. It’s a forty-minute drive from her gallery, from her listed address. She’s here, in this specific, overpriced dungeon, at the exact hour you’ve been coming for the last three months. You do the math.”
Matt stared at the spot where she’d vanished. The blessed quiet, she’d said. The only hour that belongs to me. He felt a surge of defensive anger, but it wasn’t for himself. It was for the violation of that simple, hard-won space. “Maybe she likes the equipment. Maybe she likes the quiet. Did that occur to you?”
Leo snorted. “Everything’s a calculation with people like that. Access is currency. She’s smart, she’s got a brand to maintain. An association with you? That’s a fucking windfall.”
“She didn’t ask for a picture. She asked for a spot. She didn’t even use my name until I asked for hers.” The memory was stark, a clean piece of evidence in the messy courtroom of his life.
“That’s the play, Matt! That’s the advanced play.” Leo ran a hand through his hair. “The ‘I’m-not-impressed’ routine. It’s designed to make you curious. To make you question. It’s working, isn’t it?”
Matt finally looked at his friend, saw the genuine worry etched in the lines around his eyes. Leo had pulled him out of predatory contracts, navigated him through scandals that weren’t his, been the one constant in the surreal parade. His protectiveness was a suit of armor Matt usually wore gratefully. Today, it felt like a cage.
“You grabbed her wrist,” Matt repeated, the image sickeningly clear.
“To get her attention.”
“You got it.” Matt shouldered his bag. The desire to lift weights, to lose himself in the burn, was gone. It was poisoned. “Don’t do that again. To anyone. Ever.”
He moved past Leo toward the exit. He needed air that didn’t smell like chlorine and accusation.
“Where are you going?” Leo called after him.
“My hour’s up,” Matt said without turning back. “The world’s making its demands.”
He pushed out into the bright, indifferent morning. His car was a low, dark shape at the far end of the lot. And there, leaning against the driver’s side door of a sensible, slate-colored sedan, was Dasha.
She had changed into a tailored trousers and a simple white blouse, her hair now down, falling in a dark wave past her shoulders. She looked like a different person from the woman in the tank top, yet exactly the same. She watched him approach, her expression unreadable.
He stopped a few feet away. The asphalt heat rose between them.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. The words felt inadequate.
“You don’t.” Her voice was cool. “He does. But I don’t expect to get it.”
“He’s protective. It comes from a good place. Usually.”
“I’m sure.” She pushed off the car. “I just wanted to say, before this becomes a thing… it’s not a thing. I’ve been a member here for eighteen months. I come Tuesday and Thursday mornings before my staff meetings because the trainer who used to work my preferred evenings quit. The calculus is pretty simple.” She met his eyes. “I don’t need a windfall, Mr. Bomer. I have my own.”
The use of his surname was deliberate, a wall rebuilt. She turned to open her car door.
She got in her car, started the engine, and drove away without another look. Matt stood in the empty space she left behind, the echo of her laugh—sharp enough to draw blood—still ringing in his ears. He looked down at his own hands. He hadn’t realized they were clenched into fists.