Lacey Luzzi: Sprinkled: A humorous cozy mystery! (Lacey Luzzi Mafia Mysteries Book 1) (12 page)

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Morning came much earlier than I expected, like it does six out of seven days of the week. My alarm went off at six.

It went off again at seven twenty.

The third time it chirped was around nine forty.

The last time it rang was ten thirty two.

I got out of bed at eleven forty six.

I groaned and stretched my legs, thinking the gym could wait another day.

Slipping into my humongous, comfy yellow sweatshirt, I padded into the living room thinking that a nice, frothy sugar bomb cappuccino and a toaster strudel sounded much better than exercise. Except that as soon as I made it to the living room, I felt a set of eyes on me, and I looked over to see Clay’s smirk from behind an obnoxiously large pair of glasses. Based upon the lasers shooting from his eyes where normally his pupils would be, I guessed they did more than help him see things.

“Whoa, whoa. Trying to blind me?” I put my hands up to block the glaring beams of light.

He switched off his glasses with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Forgot.”

I shook my head and unearthed my toaster strudels from the depths of the freezer. I set the coffee pot to gurgling and pulled out some milk to froth, and I was just starting to feel human and even rather bubbly, when Clay had to speak up and ruin everything.

“Gym didn’t work out again, huh?”

He wasn’t looking at me anymore, but I could sense his smile, even with my back to him.

“Actually, it did. I have a very nice trainer. A girl, as a matter of fact. She’s buff just like Jillian Michaels and doesn’t even yell at me all that much.”

“Right. What’s the name of your gym?”

I wracked my brain for the name of the nearest gym. I’d sworn off the LA fitness around the corner. Actually, I’d been explicitly told not to come back when I complained that I hadn’t used my membership for three months, so why should I pay for that lost time?

I mumbled something illegible as the toaster barfed up my strudel. I iced it with the dinky package of sugar provided by the company before I reached into the underbelly of the fridge and uncovered a half-used jar of fluffy white frosting, which I lathered on generously. I filled my coffee mug with milk, added some creamer, a few spoonfuls of sugar and a dash of flavored syrup. I topped it off with a splash of coffee.

I carried my feast to the living room and sat down opposite of Clay, flicking the TV on in the background.

“So, you liked this girl?” he asked.

“Wha grrrll,” I asked, food taking up the majority of my mouth’s ability to speak.

“The trainer.”

“Yeah, why?”

“I was thinking. I just – do you think, do you think she’d take me on, too?”

I looked over, frosting gluing my teeth shut. “What?
You
want to work out? Since when?”

“I just thought…”

“That’s fantastic!” I exclaimed. “Of course she can take you on. I was going to go back tomorrow. I’ll tell her about you. She’d be perfect for you. Not too mean, not too nice, just right.”

Clay gave me an embarrassed smile. “‘ppreciate it.”

I finished the last of my strudel as Clay went back to furiously typing on one of his three keyboards. I licked my fingers with loud slurping noises – something normally reserved for times when I was home alone, and pounded the rest of my coffee. It was only as I was adding to the nice leaning tower of Pisa we had going in our sink that I froze. I realized my enthusiasm for Clay joining me at the gym to work out meant that I needed to actually find a trainer for him to meet. I headed to my room to look up some trainers, stat.

As I walked down the hall, Clay called out, “Why don’t I just come with you tomorrow?”

“Why?” I asked. “I mean, sure, but I don’t think there’s any rush, is there?”

Clay shrugged. “I just figured why not get started while I still want to go? You know, before I decide I’m too lazy again.”

The look on his face, a little bit helpless and a little bit sheepish, wrenched my heart. “Of course you can come tomorrow. I think it’s great you want to get healthier, Clay. Really great.”

I finished the trek to my room and threw myself face first on the bed. I let myself bask in anxiety for a few moments. Then, I stood up, pulled on my sports bra and yoga pants (ugh, the tight kind), and faced myself in the mirror, pulling my hair into a slick ponytail.

Of course I
could
always just tell Clay that I’d over slept four alarms and skipped the gym, but that would be selfish. It’d discourage Clay from ever starting a gym membership, just when he’d worked up the courage to go. Also, it’d be admitting he was right and I was wrong, which was moderately annoying. So, the only obvious solution was to find a gym, hire a trainer that was female, resembled Jillian Michaels, was neither mean nor nice, and was looking for two out of shape clients to add to her roster.

I sighed. I just couldn’t catch a break these days.

I hustled out of the apartment, shouting something about running errands. I made the mercifully short walk to my Kia and roared off, typing in ‘gym’ to my GPS.

The first stop was a tiny hole in the wall Curves which boasted only women clientele, which wouldn’t work as Clay was quite obviously of the male flavor. The second, a 24-hour fitness featured male meatheads, with muscles larger than my skull and an air of obnoxious cockiness I could smell from the parking lot.

The third place and last place was the winner. A modest gym with equipment that looked semi-familiar, a mix of families, single people, old people, and nobody that looked like a professional weight lifter. These were the average joes I wanted to join ranks with; blending in here would be a cinch.

I walked happily up to the desk, satisfied with a successful phase one of my plan. A middle aged woman that looked like she belonged in the ‘senior citizens’ check box surveyed me at me as I approached. She resembled a frog with large blue eyes that bugged out from her head, hair more orange than a glass of Sunny Delight, and cheeks that flushed with the slightest effort of a smile.

“Hi there, you must be new,” she said in a thick Minnesotan accent, her vowel’s rounder than a hula hoop and longer than most people’s sentences. “I’m Marge. Marge Zelinski. What can I help you with today?”

Her ample body jiggled as she moved. I felt all the more confident I was in the right place. Nobody would look in my direction if my arms moved a bit more than I liked while I waved or if my thighs weren’t Stair Mastered to perfection. Yet – I corrected myself.

“Hi there, I’m looking to get a membership here at…” I looked at her nametag.

Marge Zelinski, Customer Relations, Maple Community Center.

“Maple Community Center,” I said. “I’ve been looking everywhere and I think this gym will be the perfect fit for me.”

“I think so, too,” she said. “We’re a great place for beginners.”

I pursed my lips. Was it that obvious?

Realizing her mistake, she backpedaled, flushing a shade of red I’d never seen aside from beet juice containers.

“Not that you’re new,” she said. “But in case you were, I just wanted to let you know we have one free training session with a personal trainer for every new gym member. For all levels of athletes. Would you be interested in something like that? Not that you need it.”

“Oh, I absolutely would!” I smiled brightly. I leaned over in a confidential whisper. “And I am new – well, I’m like second hand new. I haven’t gone for awhile.”

“I know how that goes,” she whispered back loudly. “I stopped going twenty-seven years ago when I got married, and haven’t quite managed to get back in the swing of things.” She laughed. “And I even work here.”

She was gasping as she opened a drawer and withdrew some paperwork.

I scrunched my nose in what I hoped was a sympathetic look, telling myself to never let twenty-seven years go by where I didn’t step into a gym.

“We have only one trainer available right now,” she said. “You’ll love him.”

“Oh, no,” I said. I shook my head. “I’m really sorry to be a problem, but I was honestly hoping for a girl. One who looks like Jillian Michaels, preferably.”

“I’m sorry,” she clucked her tongue. “We really only have one person available. But I assure you he is excellent. A professional. But let me tell you, if he wanted to be less than professional with me…” She crooked her eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, I don’t…?”

“He is a
hunk
,” she said. “Believe me; you won’t want a girl trainer after you meet this man.”

“I think I
do
actually want a girl,” I said. “Just feel more comfortable that way. You know, I hate being yelled at and everything.”

“Oh, Anthony doesn’t yell. He’s really excellent. Everyone that goes to him loves him.”

“Then why does he still have availability if he’s so popular?” I didn’t mean to sound snarky, but I
really
didn’t want Clay to know I’d lied.

Her expression turned a little stonier. “Well, I can put you on a waiting list for the other trainers, but you might not get an appointment with one of them for months. It’s your choice. We just had a free, no down payment signup, and with the rush we are just chalk full and he’s new, still developing a roster.”

She passed me the paperwork with an expression that would’ve been appropriate if I was signing my life rights away. I inhaled. Maybe I could tell Clay that the girl trainer didn’t have an opening for two, so I’d switched for him.

“Sure, I’ll take Anthony.” I smiled. “He sounds fabulous.”

“Perfect.” Her yellowed teeth were more pleasant to look at behind closed lips. “He’s in today. Would you like your free training session right now? You can pay for the membership and I’ll just let him know you’re here.”

“Oh, no. Really, that’s okay,” I said feeling suddenly nervous. But I was much too late. She’d already disappeared into a mysterious back room where I suspected the delicious-looking monstrous pretzels were made and the employees snuck their lunch breaks.

I signed my name quickly, ignoring the amount listed for the monthly payments. Though it was minimal, I really didn’t have money to be spending anything other than the essential. Plus, I if I started working out, that meant I’d probably live longer, which then meant that I had to conserve my money for a lengthier life span. Any way I looked at it, signing up for the gym was a terrible idea. Except for Clay, I reminded myself. He had enough money to live long and eat a lot.

Do it for Clay
, ran through my head over and over again as I signed the papers, feeling like I was indeed signing my life away. As I dotted the last “I” in Luzzi, I sensed a presence behind me. A very huge, very solid figure.

I turned slowly, and came face to face with the sexiest man I’d ever seen in my life.

Except, this was the third time I was seeing him.

My mystery man was much taller than I, at least six foot three, with muscles that bulged beneath his black, extremely tight under-armor long-sleeve. When he moved, a slight ripple started at his wrist and turned into a tidal wave of muscle by the time it reached his bicep. His six pack was visible through the flimsy material, showing broad shoulders and a thick chest, tapering nicely into a thin, tight waist. As he breathed in and out, the shirt contracted nicely around his figure.

Despite his lumbering size, his movements were smooth as silk and precise, the opposite of the meatheads at 24 hour fitness. He moved with a grace I envied and wore black sweats that somehow made his legs look athletic and sturdy instead of lumpy and shapeless (like mine did in sweatpants).

“Lacey.” His voice was low and menacing, his breath fresh and minty with a bit of a lemon twist.

I nodded, realizing my eyes were wide, but not able to do anything about it. He tilted his head, and I noticed a tattoo across the base of his neck, off to the left side. In somewhat shaky writing, the word “Italy” was scrawled across his neck in a greenish black font. I opened my mouth to comment, but was distracted by his fierce black eyes. They popped against his tan complexion, a scar on the outside of his left eye, adding instead of detracting from his already masculine features. His jet black hair was thick and just wavy enough to be stylish, and I found myself envying how one person could have hit such a winning gene pool.

“I hear you didn’t want to work with me.” He spoke so low I had to lean forward to hear his words. His presence was so intimidating I wouldn’t have asked him to repeat himself to save my life. Not that I was disappointed. He smelled so lusciously manly, a bit of outdoorsy lumberjack mixed with the clean, fresh scent of a spicy aftershave.

“I, uh. Well, see…” I looked up at him for a hint of a smile.

Nothing. His scar twitched, and for a moment I worried that I’d offended him. I got the impression he was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of – ever.

“Sorry, I didn’t-” I gestured limply.

“It was a joke.” His voice was flat and unemotional; there was not a smile on his lips and certainly not his eyes.

I nodded. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“Sorry.”

He cocked an eyebrow, the first facial expression he’d had.

“I mean, sorry I’m sorry. Well, sorry I’m not sorry. Know what? I’m not sorry.”

“You should be.”

I looked at him curiously. By now, Marge had returned and I looked at her helplessly.

Anthony must have caught the look I shot her.

“Another joke,” he rumbled.

“Sor-” I clamped my mouth shut. I slid the paperwork back to Marge along with some cash and my Visa. I realized all too late I’d unloaded my seven hundred buckaroonies into my piggy bank at home, and was left with chump change. “Here.”

She looked at the cash confused. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

I leaned over, wishing she’d have been more discreet. I spoke low. “Could you please use the cash that’s there…” I fished out a few coins from my pocket and added them to the pile. “And then put the rest on that card?”

She pursed her lips. “There’s a minimum transaction for the credit card, and I’d need to do the whole thing…”

She looked genuinely sorry, so I retrieved both the cash and the card. “I’ll write you a check.”