IT WAS ANOTHER GORGEOUS DAY IN SANTA MONICA, THE SKY GEMSTONE-blue and the temperature hovering close to eighty, despite winter being around the corner. Zack parked a few blocks from Color Theory and walked down Bay Street toward the ocean, pausing to glance up at the spindly, graceful palm trees stretching high above him. For a time, the sheer beauty of this place—the air that smelled of flowers and sea salt, the dazzling plants spilling from yard after yard, the views of the sun-sparked Pacific—had never failed to lift his spirits. Before his life had gotten so complicated, he’d been in love with Santa Monica. Florida seemed laughable by comparison, the equivalent of a crass, boozy ex-girlfriend.
Lately, though, his feelings toward Santa Monica had changed. The splendor of his surroundings was no longer a balm; in fact, it often seemed to be taunting him. Who could possibly have real problems, in a place like this?
Zack could.
Turning onto Main Street, he nearly collided with a trio of young women riding electric scooters on the sidewalk. They were dressed for the beach, long hair fluttering behind them. One carried a foam boogie board under her arm as she steered her scooter with one hand.
“Excuse me,” said Zack. “Scooters are supposed to be ridden in the bike lane.”
The woman with the boogie board braked and hopped off. “Sorry! We totally didn’t see you. We’re just learning how to ride these things.”
“Consider learning with helmets,” said Zack.
“Haha. You sound like my dad. Oh my God, they’re so fun though!”
“No need to bring God into it,” said Zack, knowing how curmudgeonly he sounded, not caring. “Just pay attention.”
“Sheesh, dude,” the woman said, adjusting her giant sunglasses. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the cabana. Wanna come chill at the beach with us? I bet it’ll put you in a better mood.” She flashed an inviting grin.
Her friend, a short-haired brunette in a tank top that read Oh, hi, pointed toward the large backpack she was wearing. “We’ve got supplies. Beers, chips, and guac. Weed.”
For a short, hot beat, Zack imagined saying yes. He could almost feel the word pushing its way from his mouth, like a bitter drink he could not swallow. What if he did it: turned in the opposite direction of Color Theory and followed the girls with their beer and pot down to the ocean? What if he turned off his phone and never set foot in the gym again, simply stopped showing up to teach, never logged into the accounting system installed on the computer in the back office?
What if he never made another transfer to Regina?
Would his life really be any worse for it? Would he be at any more risk than he already was?
Then he thought of Andres, the two of them tossing a ball at the beach, his nephew’s bad leg dragging behind him. A line from St. Thérèse flashed to his mind—A soul in a state of grace has nothing to fear of demons—and he felt himself moving past the girls, stepping around their scooters and long legs and backpacks stuffed with substances, not allowing himself to look at the willowy geometries of their bodies.
“Thanks for the invite, ladies,” he said over his shoulder. “Unfortunately, I’ve got a pesky thing called work. Enjoy the beach.”
“We’ll be at lifeguard station twenty-six until sunset!” one of them called to his back.
Zack didn’t bother answering. His fingers shot to the rosary around his neck, and he took several long, slow breaths, focusing inward, shutting out the girls, the bell-bright sound of their voices and the sheen of their golden skin. Pretending they didn’t exist.
Yes, he thought, reaching the entrance of Color Theory and trying to stay calm as he gripped the metal door handle, running away at this point would make everything worse. His situation was, after all, about to improve. Forty-eight hours had passed since the Version Two You! event, and so far, Regina reported, they’d already received four deposits for Zack’s personal training program. Never mind that one of the deposits came from Lindsey Leyner, whom Zack detested. Or that Melissa Goldberg was, as Regina claimed, on the fence. Mel was the one he’d been most hopeful about. He’d found himself thinking about her more than once since their conversation at V2Y! She had a certain dark edge about her, a barely contained storminess that Zack found interesting, as if she might say something outrageous or burst into tears at any moment. So different from the polished, breezy women he spent all day training.
He’d considered texting Mel, to encourage her to sign up—her number was right there, on the list of “hot prospects” Regina had emailed him—but what would he say?
It didn’t matter who the clients were, he reminded himself. Four clients meant roughly nineteen grand for Zack; a life-changing amount. Enough to give Lettie what she needed and pay his own bills for a couple of months.
“’Sup, man?” Zack flashed a hang-ten sign to Davit at reception, a newly slim Persian dude who’d lost one hundred pounds following the Color Theory training method, then headed through the workout studio, empty until the next class started in two hours, to the cramped back office where he performed his accounting duties. Basic payables-and-receivables work, the stuff he’d learned in his first semester at Central Florida Community College. The gym’s owner, Jensen Davis, paid Zack fourteen dollars an hour to move money in and out of the corporate bank account. The skills required for the work were basic—a detail-oriented eighth grader could probably do it, Zack thought—but the trust factor was considerable. And that was where Jensen had a blind spot: he had enormous faith in his own power, and mentally slotted Zack as a minion, just one of his dozens of coaches (Jensen owned five Color Theory franchises) lucky to have steady instructing work at a trendy gym. A peon so grateful for the sixty bucks an hour he earned per class that he’d never do anything to endanger his job. Zack had worked for Jensen long enough to conclude his boss believed Zack would never have the balls to cross him.
The same way, Zack supposed, that the wealthy women who employed Lettie left their diamond jewelry and cash lying around everywhere, in plain view. They assumed Lettie would never take such a risk.
These thoughts gave Zack courage.
In the office, he locked the door behind him, flipped on the light, closed the venetian blinds, and settled at the cheap IKEA desk in the center of the room. On the desk was a MacBook with a Color Theory logo sticker on its closed top.
Designed by Regina, Zack remembered, almost appreciating the irony.
He wiped his hands on his gym shorts and ran his tongue over his teeth.
Then he opened the laptop and typed in the passcode, whispering, as always, the Lord’s Prayer—Father in heaven, forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors—in sync with his keyboard taps as the pulse in his neck began to throb. His throat was dry so the prayer emerged raspy and strained. He swallowed hard and opened the accounting software.
Each time he did it was more nerve-racking than the last. He reminded himself that Jensen was in Denver for a conference at the moment; there was no need for panic. Jensen had made him a long string of unkempt promises: creating a head trainer role for Zack; starting a Color Theory YouTube channel featuring Zack; making him the manager of the newest franchise location, slated for Malibu.
For the past year, Jensen had been spouting this pie-in-the-sky bullshit at Zack. Endlessly promising to transform Zack’s future while continuing to pay him peanuts for working his ass off in the studio, week after week, hustling for his pathetic three bucks a head at five thirty in the morning, while Jensen snoozed in his massive Palisades compound, lifted weights in his private home gym, or swam in his own lap pool, which he was forever inviting Zack to “come check out”—as if Zack had time for such leisure activity.
Don’t you see? Regina had told Zack, wringing her hands. That’s how Jensen keeps people around. Dangling carrots he’ll never, ever give you. Do you not think he’s promised the same exact crap to Shawn? To Bri?
Zack had been too embarrassed to admit the thought had never occurred to him.
Don’t fall for it, Regina had said. Get your own damn carrot, Zack.
He entered the accounting program’s password (M_A_G_A_2018—Jensen’s political leanings veered right like Zack’s, and unlike most of the Santa Monicans) and braced himself for the numbers that would flash on the screen, the mind-boggling record of the cash that gushed into Jensen Davis’s corporate accounts week after week, fast and steady as mountain runoff during a spring thaw.
Zack clicked on Vendors and selected Big Rad Wolfe, LLC.
He hovered the cursor over the Pay Vendor field, his index finger trembling over the laptop’s track pad.
He thought of Jensen, how his boss’s easy smile slid across his tan face and deepened the crow’s feet that fanned from his eyes as he told Zack, yet again, to just hang tight, because I’ve got some big plans for you, just as soon as . . .
Then Zack pictured little Andres rushing toward him across the sand, skinny arms spread wide, left foot scraping the ground as he struggled against the pull of his flimsy, ruined leg.
He could almost hear the ping of a fresh text from his half-sister Lettie. The demands for money came day and night: in texts, emails, voicemails, even DMs on Facebook and Instagram until Zack had blocked her.
I need more money.
When you give it to me?
MORE MONEY WHEN???
Lettie’s troubles, she claimed, had gotten out of control. They were bearing down on her faster by the day, threatening to remove her from the life she’d fought so hard to make for herself and her son, here in the US. Her clock was ticking, she told Zack. It was just a matter of time until ICE found her. Her unpaid medical bills from Andres’s accident, along with the court notices from her shoplifting charge, would lead them to her.
The only solution was money. Fifteen grand, minimum, to pay her past-due hospital bills and legal fees. Fifteen grand was what she needed to have even a chance of staving off deportation. She’d showed Zack the documents: first, demanding she pay fines for the Pokémon cards she’d shoplifted last year on a sudden (stupid, Zack thought) impulse to make Andres happy, the numbers multiplying at a sickening rate, then the subpoena demanding she appear in court.
On top of her fines, there were the past-due fees Lettie owed her lawyer, Ms. Ochoa, the one person Lettie believed could make ICE retreat. Ochoa’s fees were modest but inflexible—when Lettie failed to pay, Ochoa seemed to stop working. Where, Zack wondered, were the bleeding-heart attorneys who would help Lettie for free? How could his sister have been stupid enough to hire Sandra Ochoa, a woman she’d found through a billboard ad on the I-10, and who, according to Zack’s too-late Google research, wasn’t even trained in immigration law, but personal injury.
Zack guessed Lettie had been too afraid to ask for the right kind of help. Too scared to show her face at a legal aid clinic, or to ask the rich and educated women whose houses she cleaned for advice.
It was too late now: Lettie was neck-deep in debt. Due largely to Andres’s accident.
The accident for which Zack was responsible.
You are the reason he is a cripple, Lettie told him, eyes flashing with anger. So, you will help pay for our problems. You will make it right.
His finger hovered over the track pad. He lowered it over the Approve Transfer button until he heard the mouse click.
Transfer successful! flashed the green text on the screen.
Zack exhaled, selected a Florida Georgia Line song from Spotify on his phone, and cranked up the volume, eager to move on to his legitimate duties.
He’d finally settled into his work and was humming along to the music when a loud rap on the door cut though an Imagine Dragons chorus. His eyes snapped up from the screen to see Jensen striding into the office. Instantly, Zack felt his palms tingle and his sweat glands kick into gear. He removed his earbuds and forced what he hoped was an easy, welcoming smile.
“Jens! Nice surprise.”
“Z-man. Glad I caught you, buddy.”
Zack’s airways constricted, as if he’d suddenly developed asthma. He took a pull from his smoothie and cleared his throat. “I, uh, thought you were still in Denver. At the . . .” He searched his memory. “CrossFit conference?”
What the fuck was Jensen doing here?
“Oh, I bailed a day early.” Jensen looked freshly showered in his crisp white polo and pressed khakis, his salt-and-pepper hair gelled and combed to the left side. “Those CrossFit dudes are a bunch of Neanderthals.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Zack. “Welcome home.”
“Got a minute?” Jensen closed the office door behind him, then took a seat in the folding metal chair on the opposite side of the desk, facing Zack, giving him an instant sense of claustrophobia. “Just need to chat with you for a sec. Sensitive topic. Won’t take long. I know you’re teaching the three fifteen.”
Zack’s stomach churned. In his mind, blinding red flares exploded against a black sky. So, this was it. Jensen knew. About the transfers. It was over. Zack would go to jail. Lettie, and maybe even Andres, back to Mexico.
Perhaps it would be something of a relief.
“Earth to Z-man?” said Jensen.
“Sorry,” Zack said. “Been a busy day already. What’s up?” He was seized by the urge to run. Pictured the open window directly behind him, imagined wheeling around and kicking the screen away, leaping out and running down to the beach and into the ocean. Swimming straight toward the horizon until his muscles and lungs gave out, surrendered like the tubercular-ravaged lungs of young and innocent St. Thérèse, his guiding light, who, Zack had read, died at just twenty-four.
Thérèse: The world’s thy ship and not thy home.
Beneath the desk, he balled his hands into fists. But the rest of his body could not move. He was paralyzed, bolted to his seat.
“Don’t worry, this won’t take long.” Jensen sighed and held up his phone. “I just need a little help managing the tattooed wildcat. She texted me ten minutes ago. Says she needs to sub out tomorrow.”
Zack blinked at his boss as he struggled to process Jensen’s words.
The tattooed wildcat was the nickname he and Jensen privately used for Bri Lee, a longtime Color Theory trainer whose inked-up body offended Zack as much as her foul mouth.
Jensen was not here to accuse Zack of embezzlement.
He’d come to talk about scheduling issues.
Under the desk, Zack’s fists uncurled. Oxygen returned to his lungs, sweet and plentiful.
“What—she wants to sub out? Tomorrow? Which classes?” he asked Jensen. Bri taught the coveted early-morning weekday workouts, five through nine A.M., all of which were routinely full with a waitlist. Clients adored her. When she subbed out, they were unhappy.
“All four of them.”
On the laptop, Zack pulled up the schedule. “She hasn’t submitted a request.” If a trainer needed a shift covered, protocol was to submit a request to Zack via the scheduling software at least twenty-four hours in advance.
“That’s the problem,” said Jensen. “She feels at complete liberty to bypass you and come to me. At the last minute. It’s unacceptable.”
“Absolutely unacceptable, man.” Zack shook his head, feeling a surge of camaraderie toward his boss. He wasn’t going to jail, not today! “I’ll set her straight. She won’t be bothering you with low-level stuff again. And I’ll make sure she shows up to teach tomorrow. She knows better.”
“That’s not the worst of it,” said Jensen. “Not only is she trying to bail last-minute on eighty clients that are counting on her, but get this.” He leaned across the desk toward Zack. “Her excuse is that she decided she needs to go to a fucking women’s march first thing in the morning.”
Zack rolled his eyes. “Remind me. What even is a women’s march?”
“Last I checked, it was something like a bunch of privileged women who have perfect lives in the greatest, freest country on earth making angry posters and then meeting up to whine about problems they invented. All because they have too much time on their hands.”
“Amen,” said Zack. “Since ‘feminism’”—he hooked his fingers into air quotes around the word—“has absolved them of all the duties that female humans have been doing for the past, what—two hundred thousand years?—they’ve got nothing better to do than get together and chant.”
Jensen barked a laugh. “Right? A women’s march is basically a big fuck-you to history.”
Zack nodded vigorously. He felt almost manic with relief, a newfound happiness washing over him, words readily available. “What does a woman like Bri have to be angry about? She’s young and healthy and makes enough money to tat up her body, which ain’t cheap. She lives in one of the most prosperous cities in the most prosperous nation on earth. Her workplace is two blocks from the Pacific Ocean. Cry me a river.”
“Truth, my man, truth. But you know what the deeper problem is?” Jensen lowered his voice confidentially. “It’s that Bri is almost thirty years old. Not that I’m allowed to ever mention an employee’s age, or the Department of Labor will come a-knocking. But I’ll tell you, Z-man, women her age start to get real restless right about now.”
“One hundred percent, man.” Zack nodded vigorously.
Jensen went on, “It’s because this garbage culture tells them they shouldn’t start having kids until they’re thirty-five. Which you and I”—he jabbed his index finger toward Zack, then back at his own chest—“and any thinking human with a basic understand of biology, know is completely unnatural.” Jensen clasped his hands behind his head and fanned out his elbows. “Basically, the chick needs to quit going to goddamn marches and start breeding instead.”
“You’re so right-on, dude.” Zack felt a warm flush of kinship with his boss, his fear of just moments ago withered and gone.
“Remind me why we live in this deep-blue state full of batshit crazies?”
“The weather,” said Zack. “The beaches. The tacos. Makes up for all the angry, barren women.”
“Amen. Plus, I’m a sucker for a perfect avocado.” Jensen grinned, showing the creases in his face. Still, Zack hoped he looked as good as Jensen when he was fifty-eight. Perhaps, after Zack’s business with Regina was done, Jensen would actually become a friend. Zack had zero true bros in California. He was estranged from his crew back in Florida and his own father was a hotheaded asshole who enjoyed berating Zack in every way possible. God knew he could use a spiritual ally here, in this land of rich, white pseudo-yogis.
“Oh, and, Zee,” said Jensen. “One more thing.”
“Hit me.”
Jensen touched his palm lightly to the stiff surface of his hair. “I got wind that you’ve been doing a little side hustling.”
“Side hustling?” The paralysis returned.
“Look, I admire the entrepreneurial spirit. Hell, it’s what I’m all about. It’s what got me where I am today. But you can’t be fishing in my well, Z-man. It’s a conflict.”
“What well? I’m not following, Jens.” Zack felt dizzy. A stamping-out of all the good feelings he’d just been riding.
“A little bird told me you threw a party to rustle up some private training. And that most of the guests were Color Theory clients.”
“Oh! Yeah, I did throw a party.” Zack was confused. Again, Jensen did not seem to be referencing the transfers or threatening to call the police. “But where’s the conflict? The privates are just supplements to group training. It’s a cross-sell to Color Theory. You know these women, Jens, they’re always looking to do more, not less. I would never step on your toes, man.”
“Sorry, Zee. It’s a violation of the non-compete you signed. Last page of your employment agreement. Explicitly prohibits you from recruiting CT clients for private coaching. I can show you a copy.”
“Who ratted?” said Zack. “Who told you about my private training?”
Jensen paused. “Just between us, it was Lindsey. You know, the manic little thing with the pigtails, who’s here every single day? Her last name is escaping me.”
“Leyner.” Zack felt anger replacing his fear. “Yes, I know who she is.” Lindsey fucking Leyner, the queen of babble. Of course. He wished he could punch Lindsey smack in her puffy lips, silence her motormouth once and for all.
“For the record, she wasn’t trying to turn you in or anything. I follow her on social media because she’s great about promoting the gym, and I happened to see a bunch of posts and stories about your, ah, event on Saturday. She was really raving about it on Instagram. Bunch of great shots of you and some other CT clients. Lots of Regina Wolfe. Looking awfully good for a cougar, if I do say so myself.”
At the mention of Regina’s name, Zack felt himself shrink in his seat and his eyes shift to the floor. She was the last person he wanted to discuss with Jensen.
“Lindsey is . . . very intense,” Zack said lamely.
Jensen laughed. “That’s diplomatic of you. Anyway, I asked Lindsey to delete all her posts related to the party you guys threw. Sorry, but it’s basically advertising that works against Color Theory’s success. The woman’s got like two thousand followers.”
“I’m not one of them,” said Zack.
“Good choice, my man. Though I noticed you do show up on her feed pretty regularly.”
“I do?” Zack was genuinely surprised. He had never looked at Lindsey Leyner’s social media. After today, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to face her in class again; he might be unable to stop himself from ripping her pigtails right out of her scalp.
“Evidently she starts snapping the second every class ends,” said Jensen. “The woman is a posting machine. Hashtag FitFam, hashtag TurnedUpTuesday, it never ends. Anyway, moral of the story here is that you gotta read the fine print of any contract, bro. I don’t mean to be an asshole. But business is business. I can’t put mine on the line to rev up yours. Are we clear?”
“Clear.” Zack’s head began to throb.
“Thanks, buddy. You won’t have time for privates soon, anyway. We’re about to close on the Malibu location, and then you and I will talk serious business about what’s next for you. I just need another week or two. You still in?”
“Sure,” Zack managed.
“Rad.” Jensen stood and extended a hand to Zack. “You’re a keeper, Z-man.”
“Thanks.”
“And you’ll call the tattooed wildcat, right? Make sure she gets her tatted little ass in here first thing tomorrow morning?”
“You know I will, man.”
Jensen opened the door, letting in a draft of mercifully cool air, finally leaving Zack alone.
He popped some Advil, then sat fingering the rosary at his neck, thinking of what St. Thérèse might say to him now.
By humiliation alone can Saints be made.
Lindsey was a moron, but Zack’s real anger was at Regina. How had she neglected to prohibit photos at V2Y!, on top of not thinking about Zack’s non-compete? Wasn’t she supposedly some hotshot business woman?
He reminded himself Regina was a quarter-mil in the hole. Not exactly a hotshot’s situation.
He took some long, slow prana breaths. He would get through this. There had to be another way. He didn’t need Regina. Didn’t need Jensen, didn’t need his dickhead father, didn’t need anyone, except God.
By humiliation alone.
Zack relaxed a little, his hands unfurling under the desk. He closed his eyes and thanked Thérèse, and God, then whispered a repeated Hail Mary until an alert on his phone interrupted his prayer. Ten minutes until he had to teach a class. And he still hadn’t finished yesterday’s tallies. Who gave a fuck?
He tapped out a text to Regina. V2Y is dead. Jensen found out from frickin Lindsey and says it’s basically illegal. Will explain more later. He added a panicked-face emoji, along with a skull.
She wrote back immediately: Explain NOW.
Zack sighed and typed out the basic details. Then he pulled up the tattooed wildcat’s number, thinking, as he listened to her perky voicemail message, how nice it must be to be a person like Bri Lee, lucky enough to invent their own problems.