Anyway, on the night in question-I did mention that I witnessed a murder, didn't I?-I locked up, as usual. I was a bit late, because I'd been working on my gymnastic skills; you never know when you might need to do a backflip. I'd worked up a good sweat, so I had then showered and washed my hair before grabbing my stuff and heading toward the employees' door. I turned out the lights, then opened the door and stepped outside under the awning.
Oh, wait, I'm getting ahead of myself. I haven't explained about Nicole.
Nicole "call me Nikki" Goodwin was a thorn in my side. She joined Great Bods about a year ago and immediately began driving me crazy, though it took me a couple of months to notice. Nicole had one of those breathy little voices that make strong men melt. It made me want to strangle her. What is it about that fake Marilyn Monroe coo that men seem to like? Some men, anyway. Nicole laid on the false sweetness, too, when she talked; it's a wonder everyone around her wasn't bouncing off the walls on a sugar high. At least she didn't do the finger-twisting-in-the-hair thing.
But that was because I don't do it-unless I'm ragging someone, that is. Generally I'm more professional.
See, Nicole was a copycat. And I'm the cat she copied.
First it was the hair. Her natural color was kind of blondish, but within two weeks of joining Great Bods she went golden blond, with pale streaks. Like mine, in fact. I didn't really notice at the time because her hair wasn't as long as mine; it was only later when all the little details started falling into place that I realized her hair was the same color as mine. Then she started pulling it into a ponytail on top of her head to keep it out of her way while she worked out. Guess who also pulled her hair up like that while working out?
I don't wear much makeup while at work because it's a waste of time; if a girl glows enough, the makeup disappears. Besides, I've got good skin and nice dark brows and lashes, so I don't worry about going bare-faced. I do, however, have a fondness for glistening lotion that makes my skin take on a subtle sheen. Nicole asked me what kind of lotion I used and, like an idiot, I told her. The next day, Nicole's skin had a sheen.
Her workout clothes began to look like mine: leotards and leg warmers while I'm actually in the gym, with yoga pants pulled on when I was cruising around overseeing operations. Nicole began to wear leotards and leg warmers, otherwise bouncing around in yoga pants. And I do mean bouncing. I don't believe she owned a bra. Unfortunately, she was one of those women who should. My male members (I love saying that) seemed to like the spectacle, but all that jiggling and swaying gave me vertigo, so if I had to talk to her, I concentrated on maintaining eye contact.
Then she got a white convertible.
It wasn't a Mercedes, it was a Mustang, but still-it was white, it was a convertible. How much more obvious could she get?
Maybe I should have been flattered, but I wasn't. It wasn't as if Nicole liked me and was copying me out of admiration. I think she hated my guts. She overdid the fake sweetness when she talked to me, you know? In Nicole-speak, "Oh, honey, that's just the greatest pair of earrings!" really meant "I want to rip them out of your ears and leave bleeding stumps, you bitch." One of the other gym members-a woman, of course-even commented once, after watching Nicole sashay away, body parts bouncing, "That woman would like to slit your throat, pour gasoline over you, set you on fire, and leave you lying in the gutter. Then she'd come back and dance on your ashes after the fire was out."
See? I'm not just making it up.
Because I was open to the public, I pretty much had to allow anyone who wanted to join admittance, which was generally okay, though perhaps I should have made some of the more hairy members submit to electrolysis first, but there was a proviso in the membership agreement-which all members signed upon joining-that if three other members complained about said member's behavior, dressing-room etiquette, or a number of other transgressions, in any single calendar year, then the one being complained about wouldn't be allowed to rejoin when his/her membership expired.
Being the professional that I am, I wouldn't have booted Nicole's ass out just because she annoyed the hell out of me. It griped me, having to be that professional, but I managed. Being Nicole, however, she regularly annoyed, insulted, or generally pissed off just about every woman she dealt with during the day. She made messes in the locker room and left them for others to clean up. She made snide remarks to other women who weren't in the best of shape, and hogged the machines even though there was supposed to be a thirty-minute limit to an individual session.
The complaints were mostly in the form of bitching, but a few women came up to me with fire in their eyes and insisted on filing a formal complaint. Thank you, Jesus.
The number of filed complaints in Nicole's file was way more than three when her membership expired, and I was able to tell her-gently, of course-that her membership wasn't open for renewal and she should clean out her locker.
The resulting screech probably scared cows grazing in the next county. She called me a bitch, a whore, a slut, and that was just as a warm-up. The shrill invective got louder and louder, drawing the attention of just about everyone in Great Bods, and I think she would have slugged me if she hadn't known I was in better shape than she was and would definitely slug her in return, only harder. She settled for sweeping everything off the countertop-a couple of potted plants, membership applications, a couple of pens-onto the floor and flounced out with the parting shot that her lawyer would be in touch with me.
Fine. Whatever. I'd match my lawyer against hers any day. Siana was young, but she was lethal, and she didn't mind fighting dirty. We get that from our mother.