The door guy leaned back, rocking in the office chair like a toddler. “We’re all Derricks. I’m Derrick Doyle. That’s Derrick Dawson, and Derrick Dirks is the dude at the end,” the man answered as he gestured down the line.
This was a start—and not a bad one.
She took a step toward them as an idea sparked. “The power of three!” she exclaimed.
The Derrick on the left cocked his head to the side. “Is that an indie all-girl rock group?”
Oh, boy!
“I’m not sure,” Libby began. “But it’s an important number in the practice of yoga and meditation. The number three holds great spiritual energy. Think of an equilateral triangle or picture the sun, the moon, and the earth. In addition, three signifies harmony, wisdom, and understanding.”
The Derrick in the center frowned. “What?”
She looked down the line of Derricks, then cleared her throat. “There are three of you. Three Derricks.”
“Which one of us is the moon?” the Derrick on the left asked as confusion marred his expression. But before she could respond, the center Derrick perked up.
“I dated a chick named Harmony once. Does that count?” the guy asked.
“Well…” Libby started, but the Derrick to her left clapped his hands.
“I remember Harmony. She was hot. What happened to her?”
The center Derrick shrugged. “She wanted a commitment, so I dumped her ass.”
“Commitments blow, dude!” the Derrick on the left replied, spinning around in the leather chair before sharing a bro-tastic fist bump with the center Derrick. Then the Derrick on the left gasped like he’d solved the climate crisis. “Would you mind if I banged her?”
“Go for it, man. She’s an animal in the sack,” the center Derrick added.
The muscles at the base of Libby’s neck tightened, and the agitation she’d endured for the past seventy-five days grated and clawed, setting her on edge.
She needed a quick fix to release some tension.
Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold the feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.
She employed this meditation technique in her classes but grimaced when the stupid beefcake’s face popped into her mind.
Blast her crazy chi!
She returned her attention to the Derricks, who were arguing over Harmony’s bra size when a glint of gold caught her attention.
The gong.
Sweet Buddha, send her strength.
Oh, how her off-kilter chi itched to grip the mallet and strike that golden gong so loudly and so forcefully that it pounded the misogynistic talk right out of the glassed-in room.
No, she couldn’t do that.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
She released a shaky breath and regained her bearings. If this were a test, she couldn’t afford to fail. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Have you invested in any other fitness ventures?” She needed to get these guys back on track, and she needed to gauge the room. This wasn’t something new for her. She did this often as an instructor.
Is anyone new to yoga?
Is this your first time in class?
The more she understood about her students, the better the practice. And she needed to understand the Derricks.
The Derrick on the left shared a curious look with the Derrick in the center, then the center Derrick cleared his throat. “This is our first…venture.”
They were new at this. That explained the unorthodox interview.
“How did you decide to team up?” she continued, throwing a glance at the Derrick on the right, who still had his eyes glued to his cell.
No matter.
The center and left Derricks were talking, and the more information she had, the better she could tailor her pitch.
“We were in the same frat,” the Derrick on the left answered.
“And we’ve got killer trust funds, so we can do whatever the hell we want,” the Derrick in the center crooned with an egotistical smirk.
The grating irritation in her chest intensified. Her beefcake had flashed a similar expression. Libby peered at the gong mallet, then pasted a grin to her face.
Reframe this situation and breathe. And under no circumstance can you lose your ever-lovin’ mind.
These guys might be a little rough around the edges, but she’d taught yoga to three-year-olds in a toddler move and groove class. Nothing could be more challenging than that, right?
“Any particular reason you chose to invest in fitness?” she probed, taking another peek at the gong, then mentally chided herself.
No crazy gong antics.
“Can you stop talking and take off your sweater thing?” the Derrick in the center called, then held up his phone.
Was he recording her?
She glanced at her sparkly gold sports bra peeking out from beneath the ruby-red fabric and suddenly wished she’d come clad in snow pants and a woolly winter coat. “My wrap?” she echoed.
“We need to confirm that you’ve got the physique we’re looking for,” the center Derrick continued.
“Physique?” she squeaked.
“And turn around, and do one of those dog poses for us, and try not to burst out into tears like the last chick,” the Derrick on the left directed.
That poor girl! And crap, they were back to the bending over business.
“You want me to take off my wrap and demonstrate the downward-facing dog position?”
The two Derricks shared a smarmy exchange before the center Derrick raked his gaze over her body. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we want you to do. We’re asking every applicant to demonstrate this…position.”
Heat crackled and popped in her chest, raw and unyielding. She leaned—but did not bend over—and plucked a folded sheet of paper from her bag. “Before I demonstrate the pose you requested, I’d like to share my strategic business plan.”
The Derrick on the far right, who hadn’t made a peep, looked up from his phone and wagged his finger. “Hold on, baby.”
“Baby?” she snapped.
Oh no.
The irritation in her chest hissed and snarled, but this Derrick didn’t respond. He hadn’t even registered that she’d spoken.
He rolled his chair toward the Derrick in the center. “Dudes, they announced it. The London Lion is fighting the Snake on Pay-Per-View in sixty days. This is huge—the boxing event for the ages. I’m putting my money on the Snake. He holds the heavyweight title, and the guy bobs and weaves like a viper.”
The Derrick in the center swiped his phone from the table, sending a few sheets of paper floating to the ground. “I got an email notification, too!” he exclaimed, gawking at his cell. “I didn’t think the Lion had it in him. Sure, the dude is a powerhouse, but he’s lost his swagger. He didn’t even show up to his last fight. The British Beast bombed hard. To be fair, the Snake may be the current champ, but he’ll need to beat the Lion if he wants street cred.”
“Whatever the outcome, they’ll make a shit ton of money fighting on Pay-Per-View. I’d love a cut of that,” the Derrick on the left squealed—actually squealed. “And rumor has it that the Lion is training in Denver.”
“No way,” the center Derrick shot back.
“Yeah, I googled it. Somebody posted that his old trainer is here,” the Derrick on the right answered.