Bad Rep

THIRTEEN

"Come on, Claire. Keep going," Rhodes pushes. His voice is stern, authoritative, but not hostile. He's being motivational, but that doesn't mean I don't want to punch him in the face any less.

Sweat pours down my face as I struggle for breath, my body losing momentum in the middle of doing burpees. I sluggishly get up from the ground, barely raising my hands over my head, my muscles screaming at me to stop. My feet make it maybe an inch off the ground when I jump and then fall back to the floor. I brace most of my weight in my hands, and when I come down on them I land the wrong way, making it feel like I just broke a nail.

"Ow!" I cry out, body crashing to the floor. I quickly scramble to my knees, examining the newly done French tips. Thankfully, they all seem to be in one piece.

"Aw, what, beak a nail?" Rhodes coos mockingly, making me want to punch him in his stupid face even harder. He places his hands on his thighs, leaning down a fraction to give me a feigned sympathetic look.

I blow a strand of newly bleached blonde hair out of my face to glare up at him properly. "Yeah, I think I broke this one," I say, thrusting my hand with my middle finger up at him.

The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement. "Suck it up and let's go," he says, instantly falling back into trainer mode.

"God I wish I had the pleasure Rita did waxing off your unibrow," I mutter under my breath.

He instantly scowls at me with resentment, making me smirk with triumph.

After finding me at my apartment broken, depressed, and unshowered, shamefully in the same clothes he last saw me in three days ago, Rhodes suggested that the first step of moving on and picking myself back up was to get a makeover. Nothing drastic, but just something to make me feel good and to have some semblance of a fresh start.

I was as shocked as I was embarrassed (having him witness me at my lowest low, looking like an absolute dumpster fire—and Lord only knows what I must have smelled like) when he offered to go with me to the salon. I assured him it wasn't necessary, but he kept on politely insisting that it wasn't a big deal, and so I did the much needed walk of shame to the shower and finally changed into some fresh clothes I found in one of the closets and then we both went to the salon.

Rhodes at a salon was the last thing I'd ever have on my bingo card, but it was surprisingly nice having him come along with me. Not to mention hilarious. He ended up getting a pedicure with me, his leg jerking any time Rita hit a ticklish spot or poked at a cuticle for too long. She even persuaded him into getting polish, but he drew the line at anything but black. He was all big and brooding, huge arms crossed as he sat in the chair as Rita did as she pleased with him, but the hint of fear in his eyes was absolutely priceless.

Rita also talked him into a manicure, appalled by his big, calloused hands and uneven nails from all the weight lifting. I've never seen someone look as offended as Rhodes did when she continuously scolded him for his poor nail care. She did the best she could, but too much damage had already been done.

Then, as I was getting my hair done Rhodes got a trim, making his black hair a little less shaggy, but that only exposed his eyebrows and Rita couldn't have them, and I quote, looking like two scared, bushy black cats. So she waxed them. And I've never seen a grown man look so tortured in my life. His whole body jumped in pain as she ripped off the first strip, and I swear his eyes lined with tears. Rita had to physically hold him down to continue, and I swear his veins were going to pop from the death grip he had on the arms of the chair.

Once she was done, he scurried so fast to the nearest corner to cower in fear as I continued to get my hair done, his red, wet, and wide eyes on the constant lookout for Rita—who thankfully had another appointment and couldn't continue her torture on him. The skin around his eyebrows is still a little red, but I have to admit, they look phenomenal.