Weights of Wrath (Cipher Office Book 4) Read online

  Weights of Wrath

  Cipher Office Book #4

  M.E. Carter

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2021 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Made in the United States of America

  Ebook Edition:

  978-1-949202-58-8

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sneak Peek: Mad About Ewe by Susannah Nix, Common Threads Book #1

  Also by M.E. Carter

  Also by Smartypants Romance

  To the ladies of Smartypants Romance:

  You got lucky this year but I haven’t forgotten.

  We’re coming for you, tattoo parlor!

  Chapter One

  JOEY

  We need to talk.

  That’s all the text message says. No name. No indication of who it is or who they’re trying to reach. Hell, it could be that automated chick Michelle Warren trying to trick me into talking to her about my federal student loan again.

  Joke is on her. I don’t have a federal student loan. I have an associate’s degree from Downtown Chicago College and half those credits came from dual credit high school courses. In the case of my education, thrifty was the way to go.

  All I ever wanted was to be a personal trainer. I fell in love with weightlifting in high school. I love the burn of my muscles and pushing my body to its limits. The eight-pack I’m sporting isn’t a half bad side effect either. More than one pair of panties have fallen in my direction because of it.

  Yet another perk of my job at Weight Expectations. Not only am I living my dream, but there is no short supply of women either. Which means Michelle Warren and her student loan can fuck right off.

  “That depends on who is asking and if it’s really me you’re looking for,” I quickly type out.

  Muting my phone now that I’ve sent my reply, it’s time to get back to work. With a full-time job and the local Strongman competition only about six months away, my plate is full. I have no time for random games from random texters.

  But first, I need to get my favorite group of dames through their class.

  “Okay, ladies,” I say with a clap of my hands. “How are we doing? Feeling good about pushing ourselves to the limit?”

  A chorus of groans, mutters, and a grumble that sounds suspiciously like an “Up yours” comes from my 65-plus fitness class. Not that I’m surprised. They love me when they first get here in the morning but always threaten to cut me by the time it’s over. I refer to it as their little love dance.

  Never in my wildest dreams of having this job did I anticipate teaching a bunch of elderly women how to be fit would become my favorite time of day.

  “I can’t do so many overhead presses. It activates my arthritis,” one of my regulars complains.

  “We discussed this, Harriet. You have to do the modifications. And why are you using such heavy weights?” I ask, pulling them out of her hands.

  She shrugs. “I like the color orange.”

  “Again, orange means they’re ten pounders. You need five-pound weights at the most. Those are purple.”

  “Purple is so cliché for a woman to use,” Harriet says with a roll of her eyes.

  “No one is judging the color of your weights.” I hand her the correct dumbbells despite her scowl at me.

  “Edna is.”

  “You’re damn right I am,” Edna yells from where she’s sitting, doing a really bad rendition of bicep curls. “Purple is for wienies!”

  “I’d much rather someone be a wienie than in the hospital, so let’s stop looking at the color of the weights, okay?” It’s a weak attempt at getting them back on track, but it’s all I’ve got with these firecrackers.

  Edna hrmphs and drops her weights on the ground, slowly pushing herself up to move to the next station. At eighty-seven, she’s my oldest client and also my grumpiest. There is not one exercise she enjoys, not one person she cares to talk to, not one situation that has ever made her crack a smile. She’s a hoot. And frankly, I think it’s her bad attitude that keeps her so healthy. She’s wildly motivated to come in every day, even if it’s just to insult us all.

  If only she did the exercises correctly, she could be one of those success stories we read about every once in a while, like, “Ninety-two-year-old woman starts working out and becomes Olympic gymnast five years later.”

  Okay, that’s a stretch, but we’ve all seen those wild stories before. Unfortunately, the only success story I’ll probably see with Edna is that she outlives us all out of spite.

  “Careful with your arm placement, Edna. Control your kickbacks a little more. I don’t want you to throw your shoulder out.”

  “And I don’t want you to throw your neck out carrying that stupid man bun around, but we all have our crosses to bear.”

  I could respond, but instead, I chuckle. All I want is Edna to control her movement a little more, which she is. If she has to insult me to get it done, so be it.

  “Okay, ladies. Just a few more minutes before our cooldown. Give it your last push.”

  “I’ll give you a push,” Edna grumbles, but keeps moving.

  I just shake my head and grab my phone, still curious about who’s texting me. From the indicator at the top of my screen, it looks like I’m about to get my answer.

  It’s Cherise from The Pie Hole. We had a one-night stand a couple months ago. Like I said, we need to talk.

  Cherise. Cherise… I rack my brain trying to remember which one she was.

  Oh yes! Tiny little thing with big boobs. Hot little tramp stamp at the base of her spine that got me in the mood. Flexible and feisty, that one. We had a good time. I could go for seconds.

  “Oh dear,” mild-mannered Marcia blurts out. “Did someone break wind?”

  That’s my cue to get these ladies finished. Once bodily functions start going out, it’s downhill from there.

  “Nice job, everyone,” I call. “Grab a chair and let’s do some stretches.”

  I used to try and stretch them on the floor, but too many of them couldn’t get back up. It was funny the first time, but after a while, they started to get discouraged. That was one of my first lessons on lowering my expectations with my clients. To meet them where they’re at and go from there. Since then, they’ve all come back almost every day. Lesson learned—I�
�d much rather have clients who consistently work on their health despite their barriers than clients who can get up and down off a yoga mat.

  Speaking of yoga mats, I wonder what kind of exercise Cherise does to stay in shape. She was fantastically muscular on that pole…

  Me: Hey Cherise! Nice to hear from you. I take it you’re in the mood for a round two? We can try that handstand position again. I promise I won’t drop you this time.

  That sounds worse than it was. How was I to know she was going to try to reverse cowgirl me while upside down?

  Her reply is almost instantaneous.

  Cherise: No, you idiot. I said we need to talk. That’s not code for another round on me.

  Gotta give it to her—that answer makes me chuckle. I like a woman who’s feisty.

  Me: Remains to be seen. What would you like to “talk” about?

  Cherise: The fact that I’m pregnant and it’s yours.

  My eyebrows lift to my hairline, and I’m sure my face is ghostly white.

  Looks like I’m not getting a double dip. I’d have to find my balls first. Pretty sure they just shriveled up and ran away.

  Chapter Two

  CHERISE

  I get off in three hours. Where do you want to meet?

  Joey’s response to me dropping the “p” bomb on him is running a continual loop in my brain. Even as I strut around the pole, gaining speed before wrapping my legs around the bottom and allowing myself to spin.

  “I hope you’re working on some new moves,” my boss Bennie yells from across the room. All the lights are on since it’s the middle of the day and we aren’t open for business yet. “I’ve seen the same routines a few too many times lately, Cherise.”

  I roll my eyes and ignore him. He’s all bark and no bite anyway. Besides, I’m not really working out. More letting my mind drift as I try to decide how to respond to Joey. Easy answer is where and when to meet. The right answer doesn’t feel that simple, though.

  The tone of his texts changed the minute I told him I was pregnant. I admit, I’m a tiny bit impressed that he didn’t immediately demand to know how I knew it was his. But I’m also conflicted about my decision to contact him.

  Part of me is grateful he isn’t dismissing me as some kind of slut right off the bat. Maybe he’ll be open to the idea of co-parenting with me.

  The other part of me is flat-out terrified. Telling him was more a formality so I would know for sure that door had already closed. I’d never have to wonder if things could be different because he would know about the baby and have already made the decision to leave us alone. Instead, he wants to meet. Why? Is he going to pressure me to get a paternity test? Does he want me to get rid of the baby? Or worse, will he try to make me give up custody?

  My brain is a jumbled mess and I can’t seem to land on one way to feel. Reality is, beyond the initial impressions he made on the one night we were together, I don’t know who Joey is and that’s probably the scariest part of all. I know nothing about him. Sleeping with him was fine but bringing an innocent child into the situation means a whole new level of safety I have to be aware of. Hell, he could be a sociopath or a child abuser. What if he’s a horrible person to co-parent with and is a danger to our child?

  I’m trying not to get stuck on those thoughts, at least not until we have our sit-down. My gut says he doesn’t have ill intentions, but how the hell would I really know? Our one-night stand was supposed to remain just that—one night. Saving his number in my phone was solely for the purpose of tracking him down if we got separated on our way out of the club that night. If Joey had been any good in the sack, I would have used said number to extend our soiree into another night, but he wasn’t a great lover. Not that I expected much from what was supposed to be just scratching an itch with a stranger. But falling on my head wasn’t even a thought I had when we stumbled back to his place that night.

  All I did was bend over and touch my toes. It’s a good angle for me. But that idiot thought I was trying to do some sort of circus trick and suddenly, my legs were wrapped around his waist and my head banging against the wall.

  It was weird. And pretty much cemented that our one night together would be our last. It ended up being my last night with anyone at all. There was no particular reason for my sudden celibacy, except maybe a bit of PTSD from my near concussion. More likely, though, I just didn’t meet anyone who caught my eye—not that I have time to date when I work the kind of hours I do. Nor do I meet many quality candidates in the audience of The Pie Hole. Usually, it’s drunken frat boys who are barely over age, guys old enough to be my dad, or an honest-to-goodness pervert who sits by himself, trying to hide the fact that his hand is stuck down his pants for most of the night.

  But Joey was different. I don’t know if it was the dirty blond locks held up in a disheveled man bun or his vibrant green eyes. Hell, it could have been those impressive guns he calls biceps. But really, it was probably because he didn’t look at me like I was a piece of meat on that stage. He looked at me like I was a person. A person who deserved respect.

  Okay, okay. That’s taking it a bit too far. He still leered like everyone else, but at least he didn’t try to tweak my nipple when I got close to the end of the stage. Instead, he very carefully tucked a twenty in my thong. And yes, I know how cheap that makes me sound to be impressed by someone keeping their paws off of me as he shoves a Jackson at me. But seriously, have you been to a strip club before? It’s not like these guys have tons of boundaries. The wedding rings half of them sport are proof of that.

  So as a reward for both of us, I went home with him for the night. I had a… decent time once he finally got me off and thought I’d never see him again. Unfortunately, his swimmers had other ideas. How those little shits got through a condom and my birth control pill, I will never know. But I’m preparing myself for a toddler who runs across parking lots the second I take my hands off him. He or she is already proving himself to have some sort of super speed.

  Dropping down off the pole, I sigh. “Hey, Bennie?”

  “Yeah,” his voice calls from somewhere behind the bar.

  “How many pregnant girls you have working here over the years?”

  His head pops up, a startled look on his face. “None that I know of. Why are you asking? You got yourself in a bad way?”

  I cross my arms and prepare for the worst. That response alone pretty much cements my concern that I’m about to be out of a job.

  I don’t even have to answer his question before his face completely changes. “Aw shit, Cherise. You’re my best dancer. Why’d you have to go and do that?”

  “Boredom,” I retort nonchalantly.

  “Seriously?”

  “No.” I sigh again and plop down on the end of the stage, careful not to poke myself with my stiletto. “It was an accident.”

  “Told the daddy yet?”

  I hold up my phone and wave it at him. “Just did.”

  “And how’d he take it? Do I need to kick someone’s ass?”

  I snicker. Bennie may be the proprietor of a shady establishment, but he still does his best to take care of his girls. It’s an odd dichotomy. Like that phrase, “honor among thieves.” He doesn’t steal anything except maybe some of our dignity as far as I know, but he always makes sure we’re at least physically protected.

  “He doesn’t seem too upset about it right now. I don’t know.” I absentmindedly run my thumb over the screen, still considering my own feelings on this whole mess. “I guess it’s early enough that anything could happen.”

  Bennie rounds the bar and comes to rest next to me against the stage. “How much longer do you have before you start showing?”

  I know where this conversation is headed, and it makes me oddly sad. Stripping was never my dream, more something I decided to do because of the money with the added benefit of pissing my mother off. But I hate that I’m about to be forced out.

  “No idea. I’ve heard first-time moms go longer without showing. So,
a month? Maybe longer.”

  Bennie crosses his arms and legs but doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. We both know I can’t work a pole for much longer. Even if Bennie catered to a fetish like that, the liability would be too much. The kinds of moves I do wouldn’t be safe for me or the kid.

  The baby.

  It seems so surreal at this point. I have to keep reminding myself that there’s a real live baby inside me. Maybe eventually, it’ll feel real.

  “Well, you know there’s always a place for you here once you have it.”

  A sad smile crosses my face. “Thanks, Bennie. For everything.”

  He nods once and pushes off the ledge. “Just make sure you have a good babysitter when you do. This is no place for a baby, and lord knows, I’d be terrible at watching it.”

  I huff a small laugh. No way would I bring my kid here. It’s been fine for me and the money has been great, but my mother is already going to kill me. No reason to make my death more painful.

  Once again, I consider how I need to respond to Joey. More than anything, I just need to get through this meeting. Knowing if he’s in this for the long haul, or if he’s just trying to take advantage of the situation to get into my pants again will go a long way to help me figure out my next move.

  Might as well show him who he’s really getting involved with and find out what kind of guy he really is before this goes much further, I think as I type out my reply.