In the mirror ahead, I catch sight of Jagger spotting someone on the bench press, standing too close, laughing at something.A woman in skin-tight leggings walks past, slows down, and says something that makes him grin.
It’s a jarring transformation.The man who sat quietly with me this morning is gone, replaced by a loud, arrogant version of himself I’d cross the street to avoid.
The treadmill’s speed climbs.My legs protest, but I push harder.Sweat drips down my spine and soaks into my shirt.
Forty minutes later, my legs are shaking, and my shirt is plastered to my skin.I slow to a walk and hit stop, grab my towel and water bottle, and head for the women’s locker room.
I push open the door.Three women stand near the sinks.Two are comforting a third, younger one.
The one in the middle I recognize from the gym floor—the one I saw with Jagger.Mid-twenties, pretty in the calculated way that takes work.The woman to her left is older, maybe thirty, ash blonde with severe cheekbones and arms that say she doesn’t just pose with the weights.Built like she could snap someone in half.
The third is younger, sobbing, early twenties, tanned blonde with curves packed into bright pink spandex, fake lashes, long, pointed pink nails with glittered tips, full lips.She glances my way, and her entire face twists.
The brunette meets my eye.“You picked a lousy time to come in here.”
I stop in my tracks, the door still settling behind me.The air is charged, vibrating with hostility I can feel on my skin.
“She sure did,” the pink gym bunny says.
I move to my locker and start pulling out my shower supplies.“Since you all know who I am, how about you tell me who you are?”
The brunette speaks first.“I’m Rosa.I work downstairs at the juice bar.This is Mercedes, Paco’s girl, and that’s Lucia.”
The youngest steps closer, bringing wafts of sickly sweet perfume with her.“Until you showed up, I was Jagger’s woman,” she spits.
My stomach twists.I don’t want to hear this.Don’t want the images in my head.
“That’s ancient history,” I say.
“Is it?”She steps closer.“Because he told me he’d vouch for me.Then one day, he just stopped coming around.No explanation.No goodbye.”
“Lucia, you know—” Rosa starts.
Lucia’s voice rises.“He’s real good at making you feel like you’re the only one.But there were others.So many others.”
Heat crawls up my neck.Not embarrassment.Anger.Not even at her.
At Jagger—for using women as props in his cover, all in the name of the job.
I want to tell her to move on, to find a man who won’t treat her that way, but I can’t.I can’t say anything.I have to pretend that I’m okay with the path of destruction this lifestyle causes.
“Lucia, enough,” Mercedes snaps.“She works for Marquez now, and she’s committing to Jagger.You know what that means.”
But Lucia’s not done.“Commitment doesn’t mean anything to Jagger, sugar.”
I don’t look at her.I keep my hands busy, but she moves into my space, blocking the locker door.
“You think you’re different because you’re upstairs in the office?”she sneers.“You think you’re untouchable?”
“Move, Lucia,” I say, my voice low and level.
“Or what?You’ll tell him?”She laughs, jagged and ugly.“You’re just a tool to him.A pen with a pulse.If someone else comes along, you’ll be just as disposable.”
I meet her eyes, and what comes out is calculated cruelty.It’s exactly what a paper pusher for a cartel would say, and the moment the words leave my lips, I hate myself for them.
“Jagger needed an upgrade,sugar.That’s why I’m the one with the ring.”
Her face goes red.“You smug?—”
