Dead Lift Read Free Page B

what I’d say if Starr refused to let me in again. Thankfully, the desk attendant was a new girl who waved me in when Jeannie flashed her temporary membership pass and introduced me as a guest.
    I hastily filled out a name-address-phone number card and Jeannie tucked her fancy membership pass into her bag.
    “I don’t see why they make you bother with that card.” Jeannie crossed the lobby and headed for a wide corridor across the room. “It’s not like they want to recruit you.”
    Before I could answer, she stopped and looked around, confused. “I have no idea where anything is.”
    Tone Zone’s floor plan was sectioned into specialized fitness studios that opened off a series of serpentine halls. We found a sign directing us to Yoga and Pilates, Indoor Cycling, Cardio and Strength Training, Aerobics and Kickboxing, or Dance. Below it, a wall-mounted map showed our current location relative to larger facilities like racquetball courts and the indoor pool.
    Jeannie tapped a glittery, salmon-colored segment of the map, representing the spa. “I’m there.”
    I read the list of available services out loud. “Tanning, massage, waxing, facials, body treatments, manicures, pedicures, permanent make-up, lash extensions, and hair.” Underneath each item, more specific services were listed in smaller, curlicue letters.
    “This is wrong on so many levels,” I said. “The spa takes up more than half the square footage of the building.”
    “So?”
    “People need exercise, Jeannie. Not lash extensions.”
    “These people need lash extensions.”
    “I hate that glittery map and those stupid curly letters.”
    She grabbed my shoulders and spun me to the left. “Treadmills are that way. Go melt your inner grump. When my friend Emily comes back, tell her she can find me relaxing in the spa, admiring long lashes.”
    Wordlessly, I trudged down the hallway in the direction she’d indicated.
    Behind me, she said, “Remember to meet at the nail salon a little before one.”
    I checked my watch—11:45—and waved acknowledgement without looking back.
    The corridor I thought would lead to the Cardio and Strength Training Room dead-ended at a smoothie bar, where a woman waited for someone to blend her drink. A form-fitted singlet clung to her narrow waist; little shorts with stripes on the sides showed off her solid butt and thighs.
    “Excuse me…”
    She turned, dabbing a thick, white towel at her temples. Sweat had broken through her foundation make-up and the towel was spotted with little streaks of beige. One of her penciled-in eyebrows had wiped away. I tried not to stare but that was impossible.
    “Can you tell me where to find the cardio equipment?” It also bothered me that the tint on her face didn’t match the natural skin tone on her neck.
    Dark eyes, slightly pulled up in the corners, made a quick pass over my clothes and hesitated at my shoes, still caked with mud from my last run.
    Behind her, the blender stopped. She turned her attention to the girl behind the counter without answering me. Then, with no payment or “thank you,” she picked up her drink and stepped away. The club probably ran a tab for its members, I figured, but I couldn’t come up with an excuse for not saying thanks.
    She nodded toward the hallway behind me, as if offering to show me the way, and I followed, hoping I hadn’t misinterpreted.
    After what felt like minutes, but was probably ten seconds, I buckled under the oppressive silence. “This is my first visit.”
    She strode forward, about a step ahead of me, and carried her lime green smoothie without taking a sip. We came upon a set of double doors inset with glass, through which I was relieved to see treadmills and elliptical trainers lined up on one side, free weights and nautilus machines on the other. With her available hand, she opened the door.
    “We’re a first-rate club,” she said, as I passed into a room that smelled like hand sanitizer. “Please observe the