My Remedy (Open Door Love Story Book 3) (4 page)

“Not his target demographic?” I ask.

“Well, he needs to keep them around to make any money, but they’re not into going to competitions and that’s what he really needs to make his name – athletes that want to compete.”

“Have you ever competed? What do you do? Like, pull-ups on those rings you were on or whatever?”

“Those are called muscle-ups and my goal is to do five in a row. I’ve made it to three. It’s all kinds of frustrating. But to answer your question,” he points at a white board with W.O.D. written at the top and then underneath it are a bunch of things I haven’t heard of before and then numbers and slashes.

“What’s W.O.D.?”

“It stands for Workout Of the Day. Every class does the same workout. So, today for instance, we did parking lot sprints and some stretching for our warm up and then we worked with the barbell for a bit, working on our backsquat one rep max, and then we did a quick W.O.D. because it’s a one rep max week – that means we try to work up to a heavy squat that we can only do one time. The W.O.D. today was row for ten calories, ten push-ups, ten sit-ups, ten kettle bell swings. As many rounds as possible – or AMRAP – for ten minutes.”

“You guys really love your, I was going to say anagrams but that’s not the right word.” I shake my head. “My short term memory sucks.”

“Abbreviations?” Duncan offers.

“Probably,” I say, laughing. I think now that he’s shared some about CrossFit that it sounds totally horrible. I’m not sure I ever want to do anything that involves squatting with a heavy weight on my back. People be crazy. Although, using exercise as a way to calm your mind does sounds pleasant. Not that it would work for me. I think I’m too far gone for something as simple as running around and doing push-ups to help my mind.

“What do you think?” Duncan asks. “Want to give CrossFit a try? Actually, there’s a free W.O.D. coming up. We usually go pretty easy on newbies during those. Only a couple people throw up.”

“Sounds delightful. I can’t do a push-up, though. Not even a girl push-up.”

“We scale everything. Hector or one of the coaches can always find a movement you can do in place of the one on the board.”

“That doesn’t seem so bad. Although, I have to say I’d rather be eating donuts and taunting your brother than doing push-ups right this minute. I haven’t eaten anything today.”

“Are you asking me to go to the bakery with you?” Duncan gives me a sideways grin.

“I’m saying I’m going to inquire about an apple fritter and you’re welcome to come along and grab a box of revenge pastries if you want.”

“I want.” His grin widens into a smile. “Revenge pastries. I like it.”

––––––––

“I
s it odd to you that there is a sports bar, a gym, a bakery, a natural grocery store, and a lawnmower service center all within one hundred feet of one another?” I ask as we cross Broadway and walk to the bakery.

“It is some pretty stellar city planning, I will give Beaverton that. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to get really wasted and then get my mower blades sharpened.”

“While enjoying a quinoa and chia seed salad?”

He makes a gagging face. “Let’s not get ridiculous.”

The Beaverton Bakery is a strange building. The actual bakery is in an old movie theatre, but the storefront is in a squat attached building that looks like it was built in the Eighties and then next to that the offices are in a Victorian style house with a sagging front porch. To demarcate that it’s all one business, they’ve painted it a gray blue that isn’t quite a nice color, but it’s not horrible. My guess is they had three buildings to paint and this color was on sale.

Duncan holds the door open and I walk past him into the waiting area. I take a yellow numbered ticket from the red machine on the wall and then compare my number with the sign above the cash register. My ticket says 99 and the sign reads 68. There are two other customers in the bakery.

“I have no idea why they insist that you take a ticket,” Duncan whispers. “They never update the sign and they just rely on the customers to know who is next.”

We step up to the display case full of goodies and I immediately begin to salivate. When I’m dry, I have an incredible sweet tooth. My brain craves sugar nearly as much as it craves alcohol.

“There are your apple fritters,” Duncan says, pointing to a heavily glazed monstrosity as big as my face. “Those are tasty, but my favorite are the maple bars with bacon and the honey buns. They are an immediate blast of happiness to the brain, let me tell you.”

“Do they have coffee here too?” I look around for a menu board or anything that tells me what the prices of things are.

“They have black coffee and if you ask extra nice they might give you a sugar packet and a little non-dairy creamer. People don’t stick around here much to eat. I think most people these days feel like enjoying pastries is frowned upon, so they get their baked goods to go and wolf them down in the car.”

“Forget that!” I say. “I’m going to sit at that table right in front of the window and cram a honey bun in my face.”

“I like the way you think!” Duncan gestures to his clothing. “You know you get bonus points in my eyes if you cram buns in your face while wearing workout gear. Just keep that in mind.”

“Got it. Points. Buns in face.”

“You really like to say buns.”

“So do you.”

“Buns.”

“Hon.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says the lady behind the counter, her platinum frizzy hair sneaking out from under her beanie. “Baby got back. What can I get you two? Just the honey buns?”

I can’t help myself. I turn to Duncan. “My anaconda don’t.”

He nods. “My anaconda don’t.”

“Jesus you two. You get what you get.” She rolls her eyes and takes two honey buns out of the case and throws them in a paper sack. “$3.52.”

I go for my purse, but Duncan holds up his hand and pulls his money clip out of his shorts pocket. “I got it.”

I take the bag and go sit down at the table in front of the window. The display was attractive twenty years ago and it makes me like this place even more. There are big trays of spritz cookies and loaves of banana bread simply lined up in neat rows. When you’ve got a good product, there’s no need for pizzazz.

Duncan brings over two black coffees and a handful of napkins. “We got the coffees for free because she’s secretly amused by us. Or she needs to clean out the pot and didn’t want it to go to waste.”

“I feel loved.”

Duncan hands me a napkin and I go ahead and tuck that bad boy right in the top of my shirt. I wasn’t kidding about getting it on with this honey bun.

“Ah, yeah.” Duncan tucks his napkin into the collar of his shirt as well.

I take a slo-mo bite to get started. It’s heaven in pastry form. Light and airy, and the honey glaze sticks to my lips. I quickly swallow that bite and take another, bigger one.

I’m about halfway through mine when I look at Duncan and he is watching me with a smile on his face. He takes a sip of coffee.

“You’re done?” I ask, but it sounds more like, “Yerden?”

He pulls his napkin from his shirt and daintily dabs at his lips. “I eat it in, like, two bites. I’m a honey bun animal.”

“Well, I don’t blame you. They’re the best thing I’ve had in my mouth in forever.”

And here’s what I instantly like about Duncan. He knows what I just said and he could make fun of me, but instead he says, “Word.”

“So, you said your dad owns a pizza place? Whereabouts?” Duncan asks, waiting patiently for me to finish chewing.

“In Boise. That’s where I’m from. I just moved to Beaverton a couple of weeks ago to work with my aunt and uncle at the kennel.”

“Cool. Cool. That something you’re planning on turning into a career? Why aren’t you doing the training apprenticeship?”

I shake my head and then take a hurried sip of coffee. “I have zero desire to be a dog trainer. I just needed a change of pace. Boise is a dead end for me, and I’ve always liked Oregon, and I don’t mind working with the dogs at all ... I don’t want to do it forever, though.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you want to do forever?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. This action makes his biceps look huge.

You. I want to do you forever. Ugh. Clearly I need more sugar. “I have no idea. I’m twenty. Did you know what you wanted to do when you were twenty?”

He narrows his gaze at me. “Hmm. I thought you weren’t old enough to be in my bar. Good thing you weren’t actually drinking or I could’ve gotten in a lot of trouble.”

I lower my eyes. “Sorry. I do stupid shit sometimes.”

He shrugs. “As we all do. Back to forever. Is there anything you’re interested in? What were you good at in school?”

“Not going.” I snort. He is easy to talk to and has so far been way lenient with my antics. I think telling him a bit about me, the real me, isn’t going to hurt anything. “You weren’t that far off, what you were thinking last night when you tried to stop me from driving.”

He waves the comment away. “We never have to talk about that again. I wasn’t thinking anything.”

I raise my eyebrow at him. “Okay, but I’m feeling like sharing so here goes. I’m working and living with my aunt and uncle because I’ve used up all my chances in Boise. I have been in and out of rehab since I was fifteen, but you know how the saying goes, I’m not much of a quitter. I wanted to drink last night, but instead I ... did what I did because I’m kind of a fuck up. I was supposed to be at a meeting and instead I went to a bar – a place I feel more comfortable.”

“Bullshit.” That’s all he says.

“Bullshit to what?” Apparently, I was wrong about opening up to him.

Duncan shakes his head. “You do not feel more comfortable in a bar hooking up with a skeezy dude than at a meeting. You just haven’t ever got to the point where you let yourself feel anything yet.”

“And you’re an expert on this why?” I ask, sitting up straighter in my seat.

“Because I’m a drug addict,” Duncan says plainly.

“Really? You?”

“Yeah, me, just like yeah, you. Cera tell you what happened to me in Afghanistan?”

I nod. “A little.”

“Okay, well, it haunts me. I got injured trying to pull my buddies from their Hummer, their bodies on fire, only parts of them coming when I pulled. It was ... horrific. But my body healed. I barely even have any scars left to remind me of that day ... physically. Mentally, it killed me. I wished I was dead. And when I was discharged from the hospital, I didn’t want to stop taking the pain meds they’d been giving me. So, I didn’t. I lied, and stole, and went to parts of town that were sketchy as hell, and I disappointed my family and it was a bad scene. Until Hector told me to get my fucking act together. That ruining my life was dishonoring my friends who had lost theirs. I went to rehab. Hector paid for private counseling because what I could get with my Veteran’s benefits was paltry at best. I did a thirty-day in-patient treatment program that I actually ... enjoyed is not the word. I didn’t mind being there. People fight being there, like you probably did?”

“Yes,” I scoff. “I hated it. You think that the counselors really care? I felt like they were trying to get me to feel like they were better than me because I have problems and they don’t.”

He furrows his brows and shakes his head again. “That wasn’t my experience at all. I mean, a lot of counselors are former addicts. I appreciated knowing they had been where I was and came out of it and made something of themselves.”

“Okay, I can understand that angle, that just wasn’t what ... it’s not hard for me to open up to people, not really, but I want the choice to open up. I rebel against the being forced to sit in a room in a circle or alone with some middle aged PhD and bare my soul. It’s a gross, dark place that I don’t want to visit, so why should they unless it’s just for kicks?”

“Um, because they want to help you get better.”

“Well, I got better. I’m sober now for the longest I’ve been sober since I started drinking. It’s been two months since I’ve had a drink.” No, it hasn’t, but it makes me sound like I’ve got it more together than I really have and I need to win this argument. “And,” I drawl, “I was in a bar last night, in case you don’t remember. I think I’m doing okay.”

“I don’t agree.” Duncan leans in, resting his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands. He looks at me. “You’re not addicted to anything else?”

“Besides stupid hook ups?” I shrug. “I guess not.”

“So, you could be surrounded by bottles and bottles of pills and not even think to take one?”

“Sure,” I say, nodding. “It’s not my thing. I don’t care. Pills make me go to sleep instantly. Where’s the fun in that?”

Duncan’s eyes go wide. “If it were me, I’d go after the pills like we both went after the honey buns. I just couldn’t handle it.”

“What you’re saying is, I was in a bar, a place that was full of my biggest enemy and I should’ve wanted to drink everything in the place?”

“That’s what I think.”

“That’s why you can work in a bar? Because you don’t care about drinking?”

He nods. “I never have. My dad was a horrible drunk who beat my mom. I never touch the stuff. It actually makes me a really good bar manager.”

“I can see that.” I finish my coffee even though it’s pretty bad. “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to at least come give the kennel a try? Even if you are a really good bar manager and owe your brother and all of that, it is a wasted opportunity.”

Duncan grins. “I’ll tell you what. I usually hit the noon meeting on my day off. You be my meeting buddy, and I’ll go talk to your aunt and uncle about maybe coming to work for them.”

“Okay, it’s a deal.”

He seems surprised that I agree so easily. Of course, I’ve never been to a meeting with someone I am kind of friends with before. If it sucks, I can go back to saying I’m going to meetings and then finding a better way to spend my time. In fact, I am already thinking of a million better ways for Duncan Fieri and me to spend our time together. One in particular involves his mouth on mine, my legs around his waist, and a very sturdy wall.