This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
World Castle Publishing, LLC
Pensacola, Florida
Copyright © Barna William Donovan 2021
Hardback ISBN: 9781955086103
Paperback ISBN: 9781955086110
eBook ISBN: 9781955086127
First Edition World Castle Publishing, LLC, September 14, 2021
http://www.worldcastlepublishing.com
Licensing Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.
Cover: Damonza Covers – Robynne Alexander
Editor: Maxine Bringenberg
CHAPTER 1
With a face like a homecoming queen, she had a body that must have been some one hundred and seventy pounds of lean muscle. At about five feet and six inches tall, her physique was flawlessly proportioned. She had a disarming smile, wore her hair in a well-styled pageboy, and sported a low-cut flowery summer dress. The wide neckline of her dress was snug atop the dense pectorals and reaching toward a pair of wide, hulking deltoids. The tight fit at the top, though, allowed for the dress to slacken at the waistline. There, her torso tapered from her hard-pumped lat muscles, creating the precision V look of her upper body.
“Perfect,” Laura Preston whispered as the flash bulbs strobed around their model.
They were snapping the final pictures for Muscle Quest magazine’s “Bodybuilding R&R” segment for next month’s issue. Laura was about to worry the shoot would run too late again. She had made a point of staying all the way until the end, but now she absolutely had to get going. Her mind was on the drive up to Big Bear Lake more than anything else. Well, the drive, the Smith and Wesson automatic handgun in her desk upstairs, and the meeting with Brad Holt.
“All right, and that’s a wrap,” Dave Sachs, the photographer, called and glanced at Laura.
She nodded her approval.
“We’ll have the proofs for you by tomorrow,” Dave told Laura. “My word on that.”
“I know,” Laura said.
“I’m sorry we had to reshoot.”
“At least we’ll make the deadline. That’s what matters.”
“Hey, Laura,” called Christy Gilmore, the model with the spectacular physique. “I think it’s a good thing we had to do a second shoot, you know.”
“How’s that?” Laura asked.
“I got a full circuit in since last time. Chest, legs, back, everything. This morning it was biceps and triceps.”
She quickly raised her right arm and contracted her bicep. The fresh pump in the gym had the athlete’s muscles gorged with blood, looking as if the hypertrophied hunks of muscle were straining to explode right through her skin.
Back when she used to compete, Laura was merely a shadow of the enormous musculature on Christy Gilmore.
Christy flashed one of the winning smiles that helped propel her to victory three times in a row over the past year and a half. Winning the Ms. California Invitational, the National Physique Association’s All-National pro-qualifiers and the Muscle Extravaganza women’s championship had earned her the photo spread in the next issue of Muscle Quest.
The “Bodybuilding R&R” column was the human-interest section of each issue. It profiled what normal lives the physique competitors really lived outside the gym. Fighting the ongoing battle to mainstream the sport, Laura had conceived of the column three years ago. The R&R feature alternated between male and female athletes from month to month, and Laura knew most of the attention had to go into the women’s version. In the twenty-first century, she still had to fight wars to get the female athletes the respect they deserved. Someone like Christy Gilmore making it to the pro ranks was a godsend, Laura realized. Not only did Christy have an otherworldly physique, but her dimpled, girl-next-door smile might just generate a renewed interest in the floundering women’s division of the World Body Building Federation. Or maybe one day, Christy could start making movies and get herself elected governor of California.
That’s when Laura felt something like a spear of pure, solid ice ramming into the middle of her chest again. The blast of adrenaline flooding her body felt as if someone was deliberately tearing into her soul.
Because they were, Laura knew and fought to keep a convincing smile on her face as she said goodbye to Christy. Laura knew how precisely, how deliberately, her life and her career were targeted for complete destruction.
Brad Holt.
No, it was more than her career, Laura knew. Brad Holt would not be satisfied with that. He wanted to step on, to defile everything she believed in, everything she stood for in the WBBF organization, everything she wanted this sport to represent.
Except she would not give him that chance.
CHAPTER 2
The trip to Holt’s cabin came to an end on a dirt road outside Big Bear Lake Village. The headlights of Laura Preston’s Jaguar F-Type R Coupe speared through the darkness, eventually finding a two-story Victorian-styled lodge nestled on a small elevation. Not only was the property well hidden in the hills, but guarded on all sides by a forest of pines.
During the day, the unpretentious yet pricey-looking cabin might have looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Completely un-Brad-Holt-like, Laura thought and brought the car to a stop.
As she turned off the headlights, she glanced around, her eyes adjusting to the murk. The glow of lamps from inside the house and the moonlight let her see through some of the inky shadows all around the property. She didn’t see any other cars nearby. Holt had demanded a secluded meeting place, and it looked like they would have one. Of course, it was in both their interests to discuss their business in absolute privacy.
Laura checked her watch once more before getting out of the Jaguar. She was almost forty-five minutes late. That metal spike and the resultant flat tire had slowed her down, almost making her turn around and go back to Los Angeles. When the local in the SUV had pulled over to help, she had almost decided to not only flee but demand that the next time Holt meet her as far away from this place as they could possibly get. But she feared what his response might be. What if he refused to talk to her again? What if there would be no rescheduling? What if the deal would be off…?
Except it wouldn’t be, Laura knew well enough. Holt wanted his money, and they would do business one way or the other. She was just overwhelmed by tension, Laura realized and looking for an excuse to get out of there.
No! This is not the place, and you know it, a voice in her head insisted as she got out of the car and approached the porch. She had been seen by the guy in the SUV, and the location had now been compromised.
Laura rang the doorbell and waited.
At least two minutes ticked by, and there was no sign of life in the cabin other than the lights beyond the curtain-shaded windows. Three minutes now? She rang the bell again.
You bastard, Laura almost hissed. She was late, and Brad was making her wait.
Sure enough, after another minute, she heard movement inside.
When the door swung open, Laura was met by a six-foot frame burdened by a titanic load of muscle and clothed in a loud purple and red warm-up suit. The warm-ups looked as if they had been fashioned out of a parachute, without an inch of fabric going to waste.
“Well, it’s nice you could make it,” Brad Holt
said after staring at her with an intense glare for a protracted couple of moments. “Did you get lost in the dark, or were you having second thoughts?”
“I had a flat.”
Another uncomfortable beat, and Holt smiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just that there were a couple of things I’ve been dying to show you.”
Rather, Laura thought, Holt’s mouth and facial muscles stretched into something, attempting to approximate a smile while his eyes remained disturbingly flat. Those eyes seemed to bore right into her. He reminded her of an alligator lying still, passive except for its jaws ever-so-slowly parting, anticipating prey.
But Laura also knew Holt’s off-putting demeanor must have had a great deal to do with his condition. Probably half-starved out of his mind and close to dehydration, his massive body was under tremendous strain. Brad had said he would be training for his comeback at the Sun State Classic bodybuilding competition with a vengeance, and he appeared to be keeping his word. Not only had he packed on a mammoth bulk of extra muscle, but he’d dieted down to what appeared to be around two or three percent body fat. He had the look of a true champion competitor again. He had the sunken cheeks, the thin lips, the glazed, starved eyes that sat in their bony sockets as the skull pressed through the drawn, dehydrated skin. On stage, the ultra-low body fat and dehydrated condition served to show off even the tiniest of grooves, striations, and separations in his muscles. Perhaps his preparation had been even “better” than when he had been competing in his twenties when his long string of championship titles had made him a WBBF legend.
“Come in,” Brad said and moved his goodly frame out of the doorway.
And let’s see what you’re just dying to show me, Laura thought, now even more conscious of the Smith and Wesson 9mm in her purse. “So let’s see the surprise,” she said, stepping into a living room that was just as incongruous as the rest of this cabin. It looked so sedate, she thought, so tastefully expensive and civilized. It just didn’t match the muscles-and-machismo combination wrapped up in Holt.
“Although you must indulge me for fifteen more minutes,” Brad said and crossed the living room, talking over his shoulder abruptly, not bothering to look at Laura anymore.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“I’ve gotta do ten more minutes on the stationary bike. Since you’re late, I had to start.”
With that, he disappeared into an adjoining corridor, and moments later, Laura heard him descending a flight of stairs. He must have had his home gym in the basement. Laura knew that Holt had always been notoriously private during his final month of contest preparations, even in the old days. He liked to disappear from L.A. and train and diet alone. It was a mind game meant to keep the competition on edge, to keep the other athletes wondering what condition he would be in when he reemerged on contest day.
And this was yet another mind game, Laura realized, left standing alone in the middle of the living room. He wanted to keep her under tension.
“You don’t have an ounce of class, do you?” she muttered, then called after him, “It’s a long drive back to L.A. I guess I can wait.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Holt shouted from the basement, his voice accompanied by the whirring of a stationary bike.
“Bastard,” she hissed, noticing the onset of a dull headache pumping through her skull from just behind her right temple. She was tired, her adrenaline was raging and, she realized as a dull shot of pain passed through her stomach, she had barely eaten a scrap of food all day long.
So Holt’s taunting little game with the stationary bike was good for something, she told herself. She indeed had come prepared. Not only with the 9mm pistol, but one of the WBBF’s new line of Ultra Fuel energy bars in her purse.
How insane is all this? She almost said aloud, nearly breaking down into a fit of laughter as she fished the chocolate-flavored energy bar from her purse. It sat right next to the gun.
But the stationary bike hissed away somewhere in the basement as Laura replenished her energy reserves with the high-nutrient, high-carbohydrate bar. She then proceeded into the kitchen to get rid of its wrapper and get a drink of water. Uncanny was all she could think of the cozy, homey cottage. It didn’t fit Holt’s personality. The place looked like it had been made over by a much more sensitive and sensible wife. Except, she suspected, Brad Holt had probably never come anywhere close to marrying anyone. From all she’d read, his style was the fast, flashy, showy affair with the scores of interchangeable, silicone-stuffed bimbos in the endless series of Girls Caught in the Buff videos his company produced.
It didn’t make sense, though, Laura mused as she sipped some cold water and leaned against the kitchen counter. When she had first met Brad so many years ago, she would never have guessed he would turn into this sordid—
“Hey! Turn that off!” Holt yelled from the kitchen entrance, jolting Laura.
“What the…?” she gasped, nearly choking on a mouthful of water.
“Goddamn it!” Brad said and rushed to the kitchen sink. He started slamming his palm against the cold-water knob.
“What is it?”
“Damned water doesn’t stop flowing! You’ll flood the whole kitchen!”
Laura hadn’t even noticed a thin stream of water still trickling into the basin and not departing via an apparently clogged drain.
Nevertheless, Brad spent the next ten minutes pounding on the faucet, cursing, slamming the plunger up and down over the drain, then soaking water out of the basin with reams of paper towels.
So the picturesque Holt household wasn’t so perfect after all, Laura mused before Holt got down to business.
# # #
“But you really are a saint, Laura,” Brad said after he recovered from the strain the sink mishap put him through.
He was putting one hundred and ten percent into his comeback contest. Laura had to give it to him. Just a short session on the stationary bike and the impromptu plumbing project nearly floored him. He’d had to sit and pant at the kitchen table for nearly five minutes to get his strength back. He had muscles to rival those of a gorilla, yet the pre-contest dieting left him so weak a ten year old could have knocked him over.
“You know I have to look good for the Sun State,” Brad said and led her into the study. “Returning once and for the last time to competition after seven years off, the expectations are high.”
“You said you were dying to show me something,” Laura said coolly. She wanted him to get to the point. Once again, the weight of the Smith and Wesson automatic in her purse seemed to assert itself. Almost like the gun had grown heavier.
Entering the study, Laura was hit full in the face by the realization of how artificial everything she had seen in this place had been. This room reflected the real Brad Holt. The décor was no longer the rustic country charm of the living room and the kitchen. This was more like an old boys’ club’s smoking room as it would be designed by a group of rich pornographers. Beside the requisite leather smoking chairs and humidors, the hunting trophies and guns on the walls, and the football memorabilia, all four walls were crowded with the blown-up cover designs of the various Caught in the Buff videos.
It was almost childish the way Brad wanted to talk to her in this specific room, Laura thought. But she decided not to give him the satisfaction of being annoyed by the tacky soft-core porn bearing down all around her.
“A couple of pictures are worth a thousand words,” Brad said and picked what looked like a handful of pages cut out of various magazines off a desk. “So just take a look at this before you listen to my pitch. You can obviously see the comparison between two generations of WBBF women.”
Laura took the clippings from him. “What’s this?”
“Go ahead, just look at ‘em.”
She held in her hand two sets of photos of outstandingly athletic women. Except one set of pictures was from the nineteen-nineti
es, and the other from the current issues of the various fitness magazines published by the WBBF.
The pictures from the nineties were of bodybuilders. However, not a single woman had anywhere near the muscularity of someone like Christy Gilmore. Christy and today’s crop of top professional WBBF females could best most male college football players in any contest of strength. The women in the old batch of pictures, in comparison, looked willowy, smooth, yet adequately toned. They had bulging biceps, the shapely lines of gym-pumped triceps, long, smooth legs, and a hint of the proverbial “six pack” cluster of abdominal muscles.
The current photos of athletes did not feature bodybuilders, however. They were “fitness” and “physique” contestants. “Fitness” contests were the consternation of Laura’s WBBF career. They frustrated her to no end because fitness was where the company made its money from female athletes. The WBBF didn’t bring in the fans when they ran a bodybuilding show with Christy Gilmore and her hulking, ultra-muscular colleagues, but they made their profits off fitness shows. The physique women, in contrast, were more like bodybuilders from the nineties but also nowhere near as muscular as the bodybuilders of today. Fitness shows were something like a Las Vegas version of aerobics workouts. They featured women with toned bodies and faces like models, all with ample breast implants and wearing butt-floss bikinis, jumping, dancing, and tumbling through exercise routines on stage. Fitness was T&A with no apologies. Sure, the women were far and away more fit and athletic than the average population, but their athleticism was secondary in a fitness show. Fitness was about beauty, about traditional standards of feminine appearance, about rounds of swimsuit judging after the tumbling and jumping around.
As far as Laura was concerned, it was a mockery of everything a sport like bodybuilding was supposed to have given women. Rather than empowerment through self-definition, through shattering conventional standards of appearance, fitness was a reaffirmation of a narrow, male-dominated, male-defined model of the female body. Fitness was what WBBF fans wanted, and fitness was what Laura had to support, even to the detriment of bodybuilding and all the values she believed in because that’s where her company turned its profits.
Fatal Pose Page 1
