Happy Valentine’s Day! To celebrate, all the hop stop hosts are posting a love scene from an Evernight story. I thought I’d give you a brand new short story about a pair of my favorite Evernight lovers–Kristy and Blake from “Slave Driver” in the HIS anthology.
The couple knew each other in high school but their flirtation fizzled out due to a misunderstanding. Blake may be her lover now, but he’s also her personal trainer, and he takes his job seriously. So seriously, Kristy has good reason to fret that he might be a little too hard core for her at times, and perhaps not quite as romantic as she’d like.
Continuing their love story several months later, here is a flash fiction short story called:
“I should have fired you right after you got into my pants!” Kristy exclaimed as she adjusted her grip on the cold, black kettlebell. Her personal trainer and boyfriend, Blake, had upped the weight from twelve to sixteen kilograms and was demanding she do her usual number of reps.
“Just swing the damn thing and stop your belly-aching.” Blake flipped the page in Kristy’s training log, and jotted down her stats. “No shortcuts. I want fifty good swings to chest level at a steady pace. None of that floaty shit.”
“Fine!” The first swing barely reached the level of her hips.
“You’re going to have to do a lot better than that.”
On the second swing she made it to chest height. Swings three through ten she executed perfectly as well. She just needed a little push…as usual. “Good. Good. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Only thirty-seven more.”
So far neither of them had mentioned the date—Valentines Day, the day for lovers. He hadn’t forgotten, though he’d allowed to her believe he had. All good things in time.
“Oh hush,” Kristy growled. Her foul mood had grown as her hints about the day went unacknowledged or artfully dodged. He hadn’t sent her flowers or candy or even given her a card. “You are a mean…sonova…bitch!” Each word came at the top of the swing arc.
Blake set aside his log and moved to stand in front of her, careful to keep a safe distance from the sixteen kilo kettlebell a lost grip could accidentally hurtle his way. “You like it when I’m mean, admit it.” Taunting her might not have been the best idea, but an offensive strategy offered the best smokescreen for his own nervous energy.
“Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two—”
“You skipped nineteen. Now you’re at twenty-two.”
“I’m going to spank it if you don’t stop being such a brat. Thirty. Only twenty more.”