Tales from the Yoga Studio by Rain Mitchell Read Free Book Online Page A

Thursday nights have sucked since you left X.C.I.A. I’m Stephanie. And this is Graciela, an amazing, amazing dancer.”
    â€œWhen I’m not laid up,” the dancer says.
    â€œWe’re working on her,” Stephanie says. “And tomorrow, Katherine is going to be literally working on her.”
    Katherine makes some exaggerated gestures like a mad scientist kneading bread. Masseuse, no doubt. With those looks, she definitely gets great tips.
    Stephanie says, “It’s funny seeing you here. I was talking with David Caruso a couple of days ago. He was so great when he did those episodes of your show. He’s dying to work on a project I’m setting up.”
    â€œUh-huh.” Typical development girl. This translates into: I’ve been begging Caruso’s agent to read a crappy script that’s been shopped around for the past five years. Still, there’s something appealing about the woman, unless it’s maybe a feeling of connection carried over from having been through the rigors of the class together.
    Imani’s a little disappointed the teacher hasn’t said anything to her. She was always a bit of a teacher’s pet, a feeling that’s carried over into a desire to please directors, earn for her manager, and be her doctor’s best patient. Two out of three isn’t bad. The yoga teacher has moved behind the reception desk and seems preoccupied. When Imani catches her eye, she smiles and says, “You did a great job. And I hate to tell you, but I think there’s a guy lurking outside with a camera. I’m assuming that’s about you?”
    â€œOh, shit. I didn’t think it would be an issue up here.”
    She’s always had a love-hate thing with the paparazzi. During the height of her X.C.I.A. days, when it was all relatively new, she actually loved the attention. The noise and flashbulbs were like exciting background music for the most mundane chores, and suddenly, life was like an exciting movie. And she was the star. She’d really made it, and who ever thought that would happen?
    But when she lost the baby and they kept coming after her—at the hospital, weeping as she left her therapist’s office—she began to think of them as vultures. Please, she’d beg, leave me alone! But of course that only made it worse. Something else for them to photograph. The dark side of the Hollywood dream, another cliché she’d stumbled into. It was one of the reasons she went back to Texas to be around her family for a month, leaving Glenn alone in L.A. When she came back, she vowed she’d never let them get to her again. Her manager hinted that a little attention from the tabloids might actually be useful at this moment, get people talking about her, if nothing else. But the last thing she wants is to be photographed minutes after she’s been sweating her ass off. And isn’t wearing makeup.
    â€œWhere’s your car?” Katherine asks.
    â€œUp the street. There’s no way I can get past him.”
    â€œWe have our secrets,” she says, taking Imani’s hand. “Follow me!”
    She leads Imani out through the back and starts unlocking a big pink bicycle from a post. “You go straight up this alley, up around the block, and left at the Midnight Café. Give me your pack and the keys to your car and I’ll meet you in front of the art gallery next door to the florist.”
    â€œOn the plus side,” Imani says, “I’m better at biking than I am at yoga.”
    â€œWhich you were great at.”
    It’s not until Imani is cycling down the alley that she realizes she’s just given her backpack—with her wallet in it—and the keys to her car to a complete and total stranger. She starts laughing. Crazy, crazy. For some reason, she trusts Katherine more than she’s trusted anyone in a long time. She looks like one of those reformed bad girls that are usually