The music hit a fevered pitch, the thundering bass stealing every breath and every sound. My lungs burned. My mouth was so dry I was unable to form words. I told myself I would follow Irina to the locker room after class. That I would give her the backpack full of money and tell her I never wanted to see her again. Whatever had happened between her and Patricia had nothing to do with me. I cried out in relief when the music stopped and the women in front of us dismounted their bikes. Irina turned to me as she patted her face with her towel.
“You will be in touch when it is done.” She swung a leg over her stationary bike, threw her towel over her shoulder, and headed for the door before I could catch my breath to speak.
“No, wait!” I called after her. I brought my foot over the side of the bike, tripping over Delia’s backpack. My legs buckled out from under me, and I collapsed in a sweaty, clumsy heap on the floor. The cyclist in front of me turned, extending her hand to help me to my feet. I lost sight of Irina as she slipped into the hall. My knees were weak as I rushed to the exit, the backpack heavy against my cold, drenched shirt. By the time I shuffled out of the room, Irina was gone.
I trudged to the water fountain, eyes closed as I gulped mouthfuls of coppery cool water past the lump in my throat. Cupping some in my hand, I splashed my sweat-drenched face, wishing I would wake up and find this entire conversation had been a bad dream. The woman who’d hired me to kill Harris Mickler was dead—the one person who could both implicate and exonerate me—and I wasn’t sure how to feel about it. The only thing I was certain of was that Irina Borovkov was every bit as dangerous as her husband, and I still had her money. I wasn’t sure what would happen to me if I didn’t finish the job. Or, for that matter, what she would do to me after I did.
Every bone in my body groaned as I straightened and turned around, face-first into the person waiting behind me for the fountain.
The man gripped a racquet in one hand and held the hem of his shirt over his face with the other as he mopped sweat from his brow. A tight, tanned abdomen glistened beneath it. My throat closed around any coherent thought as his shirt fell back in place and Julian Baker raked back his curls. His cheeks were flushed with exertion, his honey-blond hair tinged dark with sweat.
I lowered my head, letting the hair that had come loose from my ponytail fall over my face. GMU was only a few miles away. And like an idiot, I hadn’t even considered the possibility that I might run into him here. Or what might happen if I did.
I shifted sideways away from the fountain as he moved to let me by. We accidentally stepped on each other’s feet.
“Sorry,” I muttered as he steadied me.
“No, don’t apologize, it was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” His hand was gentle on my upper arm. I averted my gaze as he tipped his head, trying to make eye contact. Turning tail and running would be suspicious … and rude. But if he figured out who I was—if he could place me here, in the same class with Irina Borovkov—then his next conversation with Detective Anthony could be （as Irina would say） very, very bad for both of us. Maybe he hadn’t noticed which room I’d come out of. If I walked away right now, maybe he wouldn’t recognize me.
“Spinning, huh? Killer class,” he said between ragged breaths, gesturing loosely toward the room I’d just come out of with the tip of his racquet.
“You’re not kidding.” I turned away, my face angled down and sideways as I rushed toward the locker rooms.
“Wait,” he called after me, jogging to catch up. “Do I know you?”
“I don’t think so.” I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. I was hot and blotchy and probably beet-red, my limp brown hair and the sleepless bags under my eyes on full, hopeless display.
“Are you sure?” he asked, following a few steps behind me.
I paused, torn between stealing one last look at him and running away. His smile was soft and his face was kind, and he was sweaty enough for me to see the outline of every muscle through his clothes. “Pretty sure I’d remember you.”
“It’s just … You look kind of familiar.” His voice was close behind me as I reached for the locker room door. Close enough that I could smell the clean sweat coming off his skin, his breath still a little heavy with exertion.
I should not turn around. I should definitely not turn around. Vero was right. Communicating with Julian was dangerous and foolish. Especially now that Nick had been to The Lush asking questions. Julian was the one person who could positively identify me if he figured out who I really was. And yet, part of me wanted to turn around and confide everything to him.