pressed. In his dating experience, the medical-examiner role didn't have the same cachet as that of a clinical physician.
The situation was quickly becoming critical. Not only hadn't Jazz said anything about his being a doctor, but also her expression had morphed from brazen to contemptuous.
Chet tried to shrug but found it difficult with the free weights in his hands. Feeling desperate, he said: "I was hoping maybe, if you're not too busy, we could have a drink or something at the bar when you're finished with your workout." Unfortunately, the pitch of his voice came out higher than even he expected.
"Do me a favor, dickhead," Jazz said venomously. "Buzz off!"
What an ass!" Jazz thought as she watched Chet's face fall after she cut him off at the knees with her acerbic remark. He then slunk away like a dog with his tail between his legs. She'd seen him in the body-sculpting class on Friday and again today. On both occasions, he had acted as if he thought he was being slick with his furtive glances in her direction. As if that wasn't bad enough, today he'd followed her into the weight room, pestering her to death by watching her either in the mirror or out of the corner of his eye as she went through her routine, all the time pretending he was using the free weights so he could stay in relative proximity. He was such a pervert, and a dork to boot. She couldn't believe anyone in his right mind would prostitute himself by wearing trendy workout clothes with designers' names emblazoned across them. Polo! Good grief! In her mind, it was so tacky that it was gross.
Jazz stood up and headed for the inclined plane to do her sit-ups. She didn't know where Chet had gone and was glad to be away from his lecherous gaze. She hated Ivy League types, and Chet had certainly been one of those. She could recognize them a mile away. They strutted around with their fancy degrees and didn't know crap. The fact that Chet entertained even for a minute the idea that she'd want to have a drink with him was a slap in the face.
After another quick glance at the clock to be sure she had enough time, Jazz did her hundred sit-ups, making sure her breathing was in sync. The only problem with the health-club scene—or so she had convinced herself without explaining why she liked to wear her suggestive outfit—was that she had to put up with men like Chet on a daily basis. Most of them said they wanted to buy her a drink, but she knew that wasn't what they wanted. They wanted sex, like all men. Back when she was in high school and even middle school, she probably would have been willing to give Chet a run for his money by slipping him some Ecstasy and then taking advantage of him. But that was back when she considered sex a sport, when it gave her a sense of power, and when it drove her parents crazy. Now she didn't need it anymore. In fact, it was a big pain in the ass with all the nonsense that had to go along with it. It was a waste of time, especially since it was far easier and quicker to take care of herself when she was in the mood.
Finishing her sit-ups, Jazz got to her feet and looked at herself in the mirror. She straightened to the full extent of her lean, muscled, five-foot-ten stature. She liked what she saw, particularly the definition of her arms and legs. She was in better shape than she was after naval boot camp, when the idea of exercise had first been introduced to her.
With her towel in one hand, she stooped down to pick up her water bottle. There was only a little left, and she polished it off. Then she started for the locker room. As she walked, she could see most of the men's eyes slyly following her. She was careful to avoid any eye contact and kept an expression of disdain on her face, which was easy, considering that was how she felt. She also caught a glimpse of Mr. Ivy League talking to the birdbrain who'd processed her paperwork when she joined the club a month earlier. Blond Mr. Polo now had his hands on his hips and a
The situation was quickly becoming critical. Not only hadn't Jazz said anything about his being a doctor, but also her expression had morphed from brazen to contemptuous.
Chet tried to shrug but found it difficult with the free weights in his hands. Feeling desperate, he said: "I was hoping maybe, if you're not too busy, we could have a drink or something at the bar when you're finished with your workout." Unfortunately, the pitch of his voice came out higher than even he expected.
"Do me a favor, dickhead," Jazz said venomously. "Buzz off!"
What an ass!" Jazz thought as she watched Chet's face fall after she cut him off at the knees with her acerbic remark. He then slunk away like a dog with his tail between his legs. She'd seen him in the body-sculpting class on Friday and again today. On both occasions, he had acted as if he thought he was being slick with his furtive glances in her direction. As if that wasn't bad enough, today he'd followed her into the weight room, pestering her to death by watching her either in the mirror or out of the corner of his eye as she went through her routine, all the time pretending he was using the free weights so he could stay in relative proximity. He was such a pervert, and a dork to boot. She couldn't believe anyone in his right mind would prostitute himself by wearing trendy workout clothes with designers' names emblazoned across them. Polo! Good grief! In her mind, it was so tacky that it was gross.
Jazz stood up and headed for the inclined plane to do her sit-ups. She didn't know where Chet had gone and was glad to be away from his lecherous gaze. She hated Ivy League types, and Chet had certainly been one of those. She could recognize them a mile away. They strutted around with their fancy degrees and didn't know crap. The fact that Chet entertained even for a minute the idea that she'd want to have a drink with him was a slap in the face.
After another quick glance at the clock to be sure she had enough time, Jazz did her hundred sit-ups, making sure her breathing was in sync. The only problem with the health-club scene—or so she had convinced herself without explaining why she liked to wear her suggestive outfit—was that she had to put up with men like Chet on a daily basis. Most of them said they wanted to buy her a drink, but she knew that wasn't what they wanted. They wanted sex, like all men. Back when she was in high school and even middle school, she probably would have been willing to give Chet a run for his money by slipping him some Ecstasy and then taking advantage of him. But that was back when she considered sex a sport, when it gave her a sense of power, and when it drove her parents crazy. Now she didn't need it anymore. In fact, it was a big pain in the ass with all the nonsense that had to go along with it. It was a waste of time, especially since it was far easier and quicker to take care of herself when she was in the mood.
Finishing her sit-ups, Jazz got to her feet and looked at herself in the mirror. She straightened to the full extent of her lean, muscled, five-foot-ten stature. She liked what she saw, particularly the definition of her arms and legs. She was in better shape than she was after naval boot camp, when the idea of exercise had first been introduced to her.
With her towel in one hand, she stooped down to pick up her water bottle. There was only a little left, and she polished it off. Then she started for the locker room. As she walked, she could see most of the men's eyes slyly following her. She was careful to avoid any eye contact and kept an expression of disdain on her face, which was easy, considering that was how she felt. She also caught a glimpse of Mr. Ivy League talking to the birdbrain who'd processed her paperwork when she joined the club a month earlier. Blond Mr. Polo now had his hands on his hips and a
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