by Shey Stahl
Wearing a dark gray T-shirt and black shorts was the hottest man I had ever seen. He was even better looking than Silas and Jared combined. This guy was the one you had your fantasies about. And they would be just that, a fantasy, because men like this just didn’t exist in real life. He was that hot guy that kept popping up on your Instagram feed because you followed the hashtag hotguys and you wondered if he was real because no way this boy was real. Only this one was real and standing in front of me. He was tall, with perfect tanned skin, and muscles that seemed to bulge in all the right places.
A pair of bright blue eyes drifted my way, or maybe I drifted their way. “You’re Tallan, right?”
I nodded, words trapping in my throat. I wanted to walk away right then. No way was I sweating around this guy. Extreme amounts of self-consciousness set in. I even stood up a little straighter, trying to smooth out my stomach.
“Let’s go.” With a nod toward the back of the bar, he took me down a dark staircase with black walls and concrete steps. We went down what seemed like forever and through another door.
He motioned to the right. “That’s the bathroom.”
Nothing in this bar screamed sanitary. There was no way I was ever using that bathroom. No fucking way. I understood the smell outside. I would gladly relieve myself on a crowded street during Mardi Gras before I’d step foot in that bathroom right there. I laughed, trying to make light of the room.
He took me around another corner into a larger room. There was no equipment that I could see. Just a boxing ring in the center of the room. “Is this like a fight club down here? Is the first rule we don’t talk about it?”
He didn’t even look back at me when I spoke. Instead, he turned away even more and flipped on a series of lights. “I’m not here to make jokes.”
Okay. So, no sense of humor at all. Got it.
“They said you were looking for a personal trainer, yes?” The roughness in his voice caught me off guard. He wasn’t friendly, was he?
“Yes.” Shaking my head, I tried to get myself to focus around him. “I am.”
Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, he watched me. My eyes immediately went to his forearms and how it was possible to have so many different muscles in your arms. I never even knew there were that many. “What are your goals here?”
I swallowed trying to focus. “My goals?”
“Yeah, what the hell do you want to accomplish? You want to lose weight? Want to run a marathon, what? Danny said you needed to lose weight but I’m not seeing it.”
Was that a compliment? I couldn’t tell by the “fuck you” written on his face. “Yes. Twenty pounds and I have a tight six-week deadline.”
“That’s not exactly healthy to lose that much weight in that short of time,” he pointed out. “Why six weeks?”
“Because I’m meeting a friend and I don’t want him to see me like this.” I motioned to my body.
He raised an eyebrow. “And ‘like this’ you mean what?”
Jesus. Was he wanting me to say it? “Fat….”
He focused on my body as he said, “So, you’re doing this for someone else, not for your desire to get healthy on your own?”
I swallowed over my anxiety. “Well, yeah….”
His face was blank as he spoke, no emotion at all. It’s like he’s a damn robot. “Why?”
“Why what?”
His brow scrunched in confusion. “Why do this for someone else.”
“I don’t know.” I started to fidget with the hem of my shirt. “I just don’t want him to see me out of shape. I used to have this tight body in high school and then… well, now I look like this.”
The smallest hint of amusement touched his eyes before he asked, “This isn’t yoga. You know that, right?”
I nodded, not sure how else to respond.
Breathing in, he ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I’ll have you screaming for me to let up.”
Oh God, why was I thinking something dirty?
He gave me this once over, as if he was judging me and deciding on a plan. Or checking me out. Could have been either one at that point. Regardless, I was nothing short of uncomfortable. Being scrutinized like this, by someone who so obviously lived and breathed inside a gym at least four hours a day, every day, made this once-over even worse.
“What do you do for exercise now?”
“Stairs?”
“That shouldn’t be a question,” he noted, barely making eye contact with me.
“Well, it’s not exactly exercise, but I walk up three flights of stairs every day.”
“That’s all? Just stairs?” His left eyebrow raised, and I noticed a deep scar over it, more than likely from fighting. “And you think you can hang with the likes of me training you?”
What was he expecting me to say? “Yes.” My voice shook. “I heard you were the best and I need the best to keep me motivated.”
He side-eyed me. “I’m not your fucking cheering squad or your pep rally. You either want this or you don’t.”
I wanted to cover myself up and never let him see an ounce of my skin in fear he’d be so disgusted with my slightly overweight body compared to his physique. I bet this was why his last name was Stone. He was carved from stone, like the fucking David statue.
Oh my God, I wonder if he sported all of David’s stonelike features?
Focus, Tallan, focus and don’t let your mind go there… like ever!
“What about your diet?”
“Uh….” That pause, it didn’t go unnoticed.
Don’t tell him about taco Tuesday.
“To me, diet isn’t nearly as important as exercise,” he noted. “You need to get your heart rate up every day. Most disagree and think you can just control your weight by dieting, but I’m a firm believer in exercise and cardio.”
“So, like running?”
“Not necessarily. Cardio. That can be anything that gets your heart rate up every day for a set amount of time. The longer your heart rate is up, the more calories you burn, your muscles become more efficient. It’s all tied together.”
Immediately, and I do mean immediately, I’m thinking about sex and that damn David statue again and being tied together. I couldn’t help it. He was talking about getting my heart rate up—among other things—and, well, look at him. Anyone in their right mind would have those thoughts about this man and him getting my heart rate up had me jumping right into bed with him. I bet he was good in bed. I bet he was fantastic even. All sweaty and muscular. Jesus.
He shifted his stance right then to scratch his head and I got a little sneaky peek at his abs when his shirt lifted a fraction of an inch. Oh yeah, he was good in bed. He had to be. You couldn’t be ripped like that, when abdominals were formed as perfectly as his were—and moved like they did—and not be amazing in bed. It was a given.
Looking around, I tried to focus on anything but him. I had to when my cheeks started to warm with my thoughts. I noticed anywhere my eyes landed, there was no gym equipment. “What do you work out with?”
“I’m not the one working out. You are. And you don’t need all that fancy shit. Just stick to the basics.” He gave a nod to a set of dumbbells. “Add some weights and you’ll be good.”
“Okay, so what’s basics?”
“I told you, cardio. And then you’ll do lunges, squats, pushups, sit-ups.” He gave me a look, one that knew I was overwhelmed easily by his presence. “We’ll start with some upper body and then tomorrow we’ll work on the lower body. Alternate a different group of muscles.”
Everything he was saying wasn’t making much sense but judging by his body, he knew damn well what he was doing. He gave me a nod toward the wall. “Start with some upper body. Choose a set of dumbbells and I want you to do ten reps each. Three sets per exercise.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to do a hammer curl, tricep kick back, incline curl, overhead tricep extension with your palms down, overhead curl, and then an
overhead tricep extension with your palms forward.”
He was speaking Greek. Was David Greek? Oh damn, I gotta get focused.
Destry must have known I had no idea what he was talking about. Rolling his eyes, he proceeded to demonstrate each exercise with the free weights. “Hammer curl….” With his hands hanging loosely at his sides, he widened his stance and straightened out his body. With the weights pointed vertical, he lifted them so his forearms curled up against his biceps. After that, he leaned one knee on the bench, placed his left palm flat against the leather padded seat then took his right arm and extended it back coming in line with his side. “Tricep kick back.” Adjusting the bench, he seated it at an angle, sat down with his back pressed against the bench and curled his arms up. “Inclined curl.” Sitting up again, he took the weights over his head, let them fall back so his elbows were bent and then straightened them out over his head. “Overhead tricep extension with your palms forward.”
I wasn’t sure I followed all that, but it was fun to watch.
He sighed, glaring at me. “Are you going to just stare at me or are you serious about this? If you aren’t serious, then stop wasting my fuckin’ time and your money.”
I was speechless. Did he just say that to me? Of course I was serious. I was here putting up with this humiliation, wasn’t I? “I’m trying to understand all the terminology,” I admitted. “Did I mention that my go-to form of exercise is walking up stairs?” I tried to hide my smile when I noticed he wanted to grin as well, but instead, it showed itself as a condescending smirk.
“Just don’t waste my time, okay? I’m not helping you for my own entertainment. I’ve got more important things I could be doing.”
So, he’s a fucking asshole. Got it. “So why lifting weights?” I was trying to lighten the mood seeing that he acted as if this was a total waste of his time.
He set the dumbbell on the concrete floor and stood up straight, his hands on his hips. “By increasing your muscle mass, you will increase your metabolism, meaning you’ll burn more calories.”
My eyes widened, but he never said anything about it. Hell, he wasn’t even looking at me. “Get started. You’ve got five minutes.”
And then he disappeared.
In front of me on the brick wall was a mirror covered in dust, so I wiped that down with my towel and then grabbed a set of weights. The ones he gave me were way too heavy, so I reached for the lighter ones. I could honestly say right then was the first time I had ever lifted weights to exercise.
That seems pathetic but in high school my weight was never a problem. In college, I took the whole Freshman 15 to another level. If it didn’t involve beer or pizza or beer, I wasn’t part of it. Hence, why I was here.
As I stood in front of the mirror, I looked at my form. I had no form. My body was slightly hunched forward like a newborn baby afraid to sprawl out. Standing a little straighter, I let my arms hang down with the weights and watched myself do the hammer curl Destry showed me.
It wasn’t so bad—it was worse—and before I knew it, I had done three sets like he said. And five minutes later, he returned and had me do them all over again while he watched… and judged… and scrutinized… and never said a word.
I wanted to scream at him in frustration. “Say something, asshole, just don’t sit there and stare at me as I die a slow death!”
But I didn’t.
My pathetic excuse for arms, and the nonexistent muscles inside, were screaming in anger at me. If my arms hurt this bad after doing ten minutes of only working out my arms, how in the hell was I going to be able to get through six weeks of this?
“How much more of this do I have to do?” I asked with irritation, about ten seconds away from crying and dropping the weights at my feet.
I think he knew it too. But it did nothing to stop him from ordering me around.
“You’re not done,” he said, making me do another set.
Jesus Christ. He was trying to kill me. I was sure of it.
There I was, glaring at him, wishing a slow, painful death for him and he was acting like I wasn’t even there as he stared at a magazine in front of him with his legs kicked up on a metal chair. I wanted to smother his face with that magazine and paper cut his eyes.
“This is ridiculous!” I shouted after another set of those stupid hammer curls. I wanted to shove the weight up his ass at that point. Right on up there.
My words earned me a glare. Those bright blue eyes didn’t look so vibrant with the scowl on that gorgeous face. “Did I mention that if you’re not serious, don’t waste my fucking time?”
“Yeah, a time or two,” I grumbled but continued. And the pain continued, in fact, another forty-five minutes of pain until the muscle warden released me from this muscle-filled prison of torture.
When I left that night around nine, I could barely lift my arms and I knew one thing for certain.
I hated Destry Stone.
Holding an opponent's head down and hitting their face with uppercuts or ribs with hooks, rabbit punches, elbowing, forearm in the throat, arm-bar in a clinch, late punches, low blows, step on an opponent's foot and punch, continuous head-butting and making it look accidental.
I was dead. No, by the soreness in my upper body, I was most certainly alive.
I wanted to be dead.
Make.
The.
Pain.
Stop.
Thankfully, I could pretend I was dead all day because I had nothing to work on Friday morning. And it was clearly a good thing because there was no way I could type. No way were my fingers working. The pain even extended to my fingernails.
How the hell did a person’s fingernails hurt? I had an answer for that. Destry Stone was how.
Breathing hurt.
I tried to stop breathing. Didn’t work.
Even no movement hurt.
Eventually I tried to roll over. That was so much worse. I had to go pee. Or I could pee in the bed. Who would judge me at this point? There came a time in one’s life where peeing on yourself was acceptable. Sure, that was typically past the age of eighty but clearly the pain I was in warranted a few decades of forgiveness.
After much consideration, I realized that I would have to wash my sheets and I didn’t have the stamina or the energy to go pee so washing urine filled laundry wasn’t happening either. “Jared!” I screamed, trying to find someone to help me. Maybe he could bring me something to pee in or at least help me to the bathroom.
Unfortunately for me, he didn’t answer. When I looked at the clock, it was already ten that morning. He was at work.
Fuck.
I was on my own. Or I could call Catie.
Yes, excellent plan.
I texted her, the motion to actually retrieve my phone wasn’t easy and neither was using my fingers. When the text went through, I heard the beep coming from Jared’s room. Figures she stayed over. I hadn’t even noticed her being here last night. But I also didn’t notice much of anything. After the workout, I went straight from the shower to my bed and never moved. Woke up in the same spot as I was when I hit the bed.
Catie finally texted back.
Catie: What?
Me: Come over here.
Catie: I uh, it may take me a while.
Me: Why?
She must think I’m stupid.
Catie: To get there.
Me: Stop bullshitting. I heard your phone beep from the other room. If you’re trying to hide your affair from me, turn your phone on silent, SLUT.
She came over after that, all shameful and flushed that I caught her. I didn’t care if she slept with Jared. Made no difference to me. But I was so jealous of her. Wait, that sounded wrong. Let me rephrase that one. I wasn’t jealous of her fucking Jared. I was jealous that she was having sex and I wasn’t.
“Why do you look like you’re hungover?” Catie sat down on my bed, assessing me as she put her long blonde hair up in a messy bun. She was dressed in one of Jared’s flannel shirts with t
he buttons mismatched. I could see her boobs, but modesty was never a trait Catie possessed.
I tried to sit up, but then gave up and lay there longer, my heavy arms resting on my stomach. “I worked out last night.”
“Have you ever worked out?”
“Nope.” I yawned, even that hurt, and continued staring at the ceiling. “Which is why I look like this.”
“I see.”
I’ve known Catie for two years. We met in our journalism class and quickly became friends. She lived in Marysville, worked for the local paper, but came into Seattle often to see Jared. I was sure she came to see me too, but I couldn’t blame her for choosing dick over me. I would if I was her.
“Wanna get breakfast?”
“No.” I gave her a look of disgust. “I can’t move. And I can’t eat. I’m dieting.”
“Why?”
“I’m meeting an old high school friend in six weeks.” I motioned to myself, tried to at least. “I can’t look like this.”
“Like what? All curvy and beautiful?”
Ah, she’s so sweet. Probably trying to get me to forget the fact she’s fucking Jared. “No. Jelly like.”
“Come on,” she begged, patting my leg. “Seriously. I’m hungry. Let’s go to Urbane Café.”
Mmmm, food. I loved Urbane Café and she knew it. She was taunting me. Baiting me with a carrot. Only the carrot was their delicious carb and starch-filled potatoes.
Just as I was considering going to the Urbane Café, I thought about Silas and my plan, then decided not to go. “I can’t. I’ll just eat eggs here.”
“They have eggs there.”
Of course she had to point that out. Catie was beginning to sell me on the idea and she knew it. Problem was, I couldn’t actually move. “If we go, you might have to actually carry me there. Do you have one of those strollers?”
“I could borrow my sister’s. She just had a baby.” And then she frowned, as if she hadn’t considered something. “They have weight limits on those things.”
I raised an eyebrow at her. “Way to kick me when I’m down.”
“What about a shopping cart?” Catie held back a smile. “That guy on the corner has one. Maybe he’d let us borrow it if we promise to bring him breakfast.”
