Hex on the Ex (2 page)

A middle-aged, corkscrewed blonde got on the treadmill to my right. She started to power-walk, loping the rubber track with stamina impressive for her short, bulky girth. I offered a smile. We jogged on the same treadmills yesterday at the same time, qualifying her as my foxhole buddy. She pointed to the pink-lipped reality star on the television, and then mouthed something to me.

I paused my music and slowed the treadmill to a fast walk for the last half mile. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“That woman up there on the TV is lying.”

“She’s definitely alienated,” I said, following her gaze. “And closed off. Her arms and legs are crossed, creating a barrier.”

The channel-changing exec turned around and said, “You’re both right. In person, she’s an angry shrew and a compulsive liar.”

“You know her?” the blonde next to me said.

“I’m Billy Miles.” He enunciated his name with exaggerated importance. “Our network produces that show.”

She tilted her chin. “I bet you don’t know your star hasn’t let her husband touch her for three years.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t care, hon.” Billy turned back to the TV.

Smiling, my blonde buddy said to me, “I’m Tess, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Liz.” I cocked my head toward the TV, curious. “How do you get three years out of her actions?”

“I’m a psychic. I read her aura.”

And I can cook.
I forced a polite smile, struggling to act interested.

“Uh-oh.” Tess curled her lips in a mischievous grin. “You don’t believe. Give me a chance—I’ll change your mind. I’m very good. I do readings for people all the time. And I get visions in my dreams. You have a sharp eye for body language, what do you do?”

“I’m a psychologist. My PhD is in behavioral science—the physical response to emotion fascinates me. First our bodies react to a situation, and then our minds connect
a feeling to the reaction. Body language is often more truthful than the spoken word.”

“Ooh, you’re good at this stuff. We have a lot in common,” Tess said. “The only difference is that I can see energy fields from the past and into the future, too. For example, I’ve been reading your aura. You have good energy, but what are you going to do about the two men in your life?”

My boyfriend, Nick, and my ex-husband, Jarret?
I checked myself—Tess made a generalized guess, of course. Doesn’t every woman in her thirties have a man in her present and a man in her past? “The only two men I’m concerned with this week are my plumber and his assistant. They’re bringing me a new bathtub.”

“I sense there’s a lot more than plumbers going on with you, Liz. I see a man lying to you. We should talk about this some more.”

“I don’t…We…” Faltering for a way to dodge the discussion, I glimpsed past her and saw my excuse come into the cardio room.

“Two mornings in a row, Liz. I’m impressed.” Kyle Stanger, my ex-husband’s crony, personal trainer, and partner in Game On patted the top of my treadmill then stopped at Billy’s side.

A walking ad for Game On and the benefits of pumping weights, Kyle, mid-forties with the body of a middleweight boxer, wore his brown hair in a military crew cut with a sharp widow’s peak above his small eyes and thin mouth. His thick neck melded into a mass of muscles rippling across his wide, bulked-up shoulders, past a slim waist, and down to well-developed calves. Popped veins accentuated his powerful forearms and biceps.

I wasn’t a fan. We had met a decade ago in Atlanta when the Braves signed my husband. Kyle became Jarret’s team pitching coach and new best friend. In addition to Kyle’s coaching role in the bullpen, he was Jarret’s enabler in partying, drinking, and drugs. Too many nights Kyle dropped my then-husband at home in sorry shape. But when Kyle concealed Jarret’s involvement in a barroom brawl and took the fall—effectively saving Jarret’s professional baseball career—Jarret never forgot. After Kyle was arrested for battery and fired from the Braves, Jarret hired him as his personal trainer and paid him until Jarret and I relocated to Los Angeles. Two years ago, Kyle moved here and opened Game On with Jarret as his silent partner.

As Kyle and Billy talked, a chunky, round-faced brunette in her late thirties sauntered into the cardio room. She picked up the TV remote and began to change the channel.

“Don’t do that, Gretchen. We’re watching Billy’s program,” Kyle said.

“You gotta be joking.” Gretchen clicked her tongue, dropping the remote in disgust. She turned on her heel toward the adjoining weight room. Tess and I swapped eye rolls. I knew I only had so much politeness in me after one cup of coffee, but Gretchen’s stomping exit seemed overly dramatic.

“What’s Miss Snit’s story?” Billy said.

“She joined the gym a few months ago,” Kyle said. “New in town.”

“The girl obviously has no taste in good television.” Billy laughed.

Tess turned to me. “Gretchen found out about my psychic talents and asked me for a free reading. It took time to get
a strong fix on her. Strange aura. Focused, yet muddy. But she’s not bad once you get her talking.”

“Do you read everyone?”

“Sure. I like to share my gift,” Tess said.

Kyle called from the side of Billy’s elliptical, “Hey, Liz. Big game tonight at Dodger Stadium. You going?”

I brushed a stray, sweaty lock off my forehead and nodded. “We’re celebrating my dad’s birthday there. He and my boyfriend, Nick, are Cubs fans.”

“You’re not rooting against the Dodgers, are you?” Kyle said.

“Never. I was born here. My first crush was on Steve Garvey. Believe me, the Illinois contingent in my group will be surrounded by plenty of loyalists.”

“I’ll be at the game, too,” he said. “Billy is hosting a party in the ATTAGIRL luxury box. I’m taking an old sidekick of yours from Atlanta. Remember Laycee Huber?”

I almost tripped off the treadmill. Laycee Huber in Los Angeles? The last time I talked to my ex-friend and Atlanta neighbor was four years ago, the day I knocked on her front door to return the pink-and-black polka-dot bra she’d bought on a shopping trip with me. At the store, she claimed she wanted something sexy to seduce her husband. Two weeks before Jarret and I moved to L.A., I found the bra, reeking of Laycee’s distinct burnt sugar scent, under my bed.

K
ittenish Laycee and I began our friendship in Atlanta the morning we moseyed out to our adjoining mailboxes in identical sweats and T-shirts. After swapping witty observations on our impeccable style, she invited me to go mall hopping with her on weekends. She introduced me to her hairdresser, facialist, and the best shoe store in Atlanta. Though we shared the same size, our clothing tastes beyond mailbox garb were vastly different. Laycee shopped for low-cut and tight; I wore trendy at home and tailored to work. We shared our hopes and secrets over wine in my kitchen on the nights Jarret traveled with the Braves and her lawyer husband, Forrest, worked late.

The couple came to our barbeques and helped celebrate our birthdays; Jarret and I went to their pool parties and Super Bowl bashes. Forrest, thirty years her senior at sixty-one, watched his young trophy wife flirt with every man in
attendance. The four of us were chummy until the day I learned Laycee was swapping spit with my husband. I divorced Jarret soon after our move to Los Angeles, my hometown.

“Sure, I remember Laycee,” I said to Kyle over the top of my treadmill while swallowing back bitterness I thought I jettisoned years ago. “She’s in town?”

“Yeah. She’s going to call you. She told me she wanted to get together with you.” Before I could tell Kyle to discourage her, he said, “Hey—I talked to Jarret. A string of lefties load the Cubs lineup so he’ll probably pitch relief for at least a few innings tonight. Should be a great game. You sitting in the team section?” He projected his voice loud enough for everyone in the cardio room and in the cars parked in the lot outside to hear.

“I don’t know where our seats are. My parents got the tickets.” I knew damn well Jarret gave my mom his player seats for the game, but I wasn’t about to play celebrity can-you-top-this with Kyle. And I didn’t want him to hunt us down at Dodger Stadium with Laycee in tow.

I hopped off my treadmill and crossed through the weight room to the mirrored studio at the rear of the gym. After the two-mile run/walk, I just wanted to lie down. I rolled out a mat on the floor by the mirror and began a series of knee-to-elbow sit-ups.

Across the room, a trainer counted reps for a client on an aerobics step. Another trainer joked with a zaftig redhead squatting on a balance disc. Gretchen did crunches on an exercise ball. Earl, the sociable, ebony-skinned trainer I met my first morning, supervised a girl transferring a medicine ball from over her head down to her toes.

“How’s your renovation going, Liz?” Earl said.

“Getting there,” I said, crossing my left elbow to my right knee. “The plumber showed up yesterday. I consider that progress. At the rate he’s working, I’m estimating a few months. If I’m lucky, my new bathtub might be in by the time the World Series starts in October.”

“Sounds like a party to me.” Tess strolled in and rolled out a mat next to me on the floor. “All this crowd needs is food, music, and ice in the tub for the beer. I love baseball. What time is the game tonight?”

“First pitch is at 7:10
P.M.
,” Gretchen said from across the room. “The players are out on the field by 6:30.”

I paused mid-crunch and caught Gretchen’s eye. “Are you a Dodger fan?”

“I’ve been a
baseball
fan since high school. My boyfriend gets me tickets,” Gretchen said with a superior smile.

At seven-fifteen, I finished my sit-ups and stretched, picked up a towel, then removed my backpack from the shelf of cubbyholes where the club members left their wallets and keys in open slots on the honor system. I took my gear and headed to the ladies’ room for a fast shower. Rush-hour traffic willing, I had just enough time to collect the boxes of my old books from Jarret’s garage before he took his morning run, and then drive home to Studio City to let in Stan with, hopefully, my new tub.

I scrubbed and toweled in record time, jumped into my jeans and a Red Hot Chili Peppers T-shirt, and decided to let the stifling August heat wave blanketing Los Angeles take care of drying my hair. Makeup? To meet Jarret or the plumber? Not even lipstick. I opened the ladies’ room door and stopped short.

A giddy laugh I knew too well pierced through the music and crowd noise. Laycee Huber stood near the desk with Kyle, Billy, Gretchen, Earl, and Tess. She called to me as I turned to escape through the back.

“Liz, Liz, oh Liz! Kyle told me you were here.” Laycee ran over, fluttering her hands like a baby bird. She wore her dark brown hair parted into matching pigtails, a trick to cover her pointed, Spocklike ears. Stunning in a turquoise tank top, black tights, and pristine white cross-trainers, Laycee greeted me like the Atlanta bra-under-the-bed incident was forgotten or had never happened, then stopped short, showing as much concern as her Botoxed forehead allowed. I think one eyebrow actually twitched with pity as she studied my face. “Oh, Liz. Has it really been that long?”

Good ol’ Laycee—the Southern belle who loved a good dig to make herself feel better.
Note: never again assume I don’t need makeup.

She threw her arms around me in a histrionic hug as I stiffened, backpack dangling from my hand. Air-kissing my cheek with pink-glossed lips, she batted her lashes and said, “I missed you.”

I missed her like I missed a case of food poisoning. The people circling us took in our little reunion, grinning. Well, actually, I suspected the men admired Laycee’s spilling cleavage. Their gazes were fixed below her neckline.

“What are you doing in town?” I kept my tone as light as my disdain for her allowed. The tips of my ears sizzled with annoyance—I wanted to get away from her with my temper in check.

She glanced over her shoulder at Kyle and Billy then said to me, “I’ll tell you later. Can we get together? Do lunch?
Go shopping? I’ll be here a few days, maybe longer if everything goes well.”

“I’m having work done at my house. I don’t have time.”
Especially for you.

“Oh, come on. Just for an itsy drink? The workers don’t sleep at your house—or do they?” She winked. “Do try to call me. My cell phone number is exactly the same. We must catch up, Liz. I want to hear all about your new life here. I need
all
the details. Let’s do coffee early tomorrow morning after we work out. The café at my hotel opens early.”

“We’ll see,” I lied, glancing at the clock. “I’m in a rush. I have to pick up some boxes then meet a contractor. Enjoy your trip.”

Tess trailed me to the door. “I’ll see
you
in the morning, Liz.” She cocked her chin back toward Laycee. “That woman has one chaotic aura. I want to hear her story.”

“She’d probably love to tell you herself, Tess.”

V
entura Boulevard traffic jammed in a slow crawl through Sherman Oaks and became a worse mess after I turned left on Sepulveda, costing me precious time on the way to Jarret’s. I passed the entrance to the 405, creeping behind traffic until my right turn into the exclusive Royal Oaks section of Encino. I checked the dashboard clock: twelve minutes until Jarret left for his five-mile run around the Harvard-Westlake track. He stuck to his ritualistic regimen with superstitious caution, especially on game days. Any break from the routine threw him off. He wouldn’t hang around to wait for me if I arrived late.