by Gina LaManna
Her ample body jiggled as she moved. I felt all the more confident I was in the right place. Nobody would look in my direction if my arms moved a bit more than I liked while I waved or if my thighs weren’t Stair Mastered to perfection. Yet – I corrected myself.
“Hi there, I’m looking to get a membership here at…” I looked at her nametag.
Marge Zelinski, Customer Relations, Maple Community Center.
“Maple Community Center,” I said. “I’ve been looking everywhere and I think this gym will be the perfect fit for me.”
“I think so, too,” she said. “We’re a great place for beginners.”
I pursed my lips. Was it that obvious?
Realizing her mistake, she backpedaled, flushing a shade of red I’d never seen aside from beet juice containers.
“Not that you’re new,” she said. “But in case you were, I just wanted to let you know we have one free training session with a personal trainer for every new gym member. For all levels of athletes. Would you be interested in something like that? Not that you need it.”
“Oh, I absolutely would!” I smiled brightly. I leaned over in a confidential whisper. “And I am new – well, I’m like second hand new. I haven’t gone for awhile.”
“I know how that goes,” she whispered back loudly. “I stopped going twenty-seven years ago when I got married, and haven’t quite managed to get back in the swing of things.” She laughed. “And I even work here.”
She was gasping as she opened a drawer and withdrew some paperwork.
I scrunched my nose in what I hoped was a sympathetic look, telling myself to never let twenty-seven years go by where I didn’t step into a gym.
“We have only one trainer available right now,” she said. “You’ll love him.”
“Oh, no,” I said. I shook my head. “I’m really sorry to be a problem, but I was honestly hoping for a girl. One who looks like Jillian Michaels, preferably.”
“I’m sorry,” she clucked her tongue. “We really only have one person available. But I assure you he is excellent. A professional. But let me tell you, if he wanted to be less than professional with me…” She crooked her eyebrow.
“I’m sorry, I don’t…?”
“He is a hunk,” she said. “Believe me; you won’t want a girl trainer after you meet this man.”
“I think I do actually want a girl,” I said. “Just feel more comfortable that way. You know, I hate being yelled at and everything.”
“Oh, Anthony doesn’t yell. He’s really excellent. Everyone that goes to him loves him.”
“Then why does he still have availability if he’s so popular?” I didn’t mean to sound snarky, but I really didn’t want Clay to know I’d lied.
Her expression turned a little stonier. “Well, I can put you on a waiting list for the other trainers, but you might not get an appointment with one of them for months. It’s your choice. We just had a free, no down payment signup, and with the rush we are just chalk full and he’s new, still developing a roster.”
She passed me the paperwork with an expression that would’ve been appropriate if I was signing my life rights away. I inhaled. Maybe I could tell Clay that the girl trainer didn’t have an opening for two, so I’d switched for him.
“Sure, I’ll take Anthony.” I smiled. “He sounds fabulous.”
“Perfect.” Her yellowed teeth were more pleasant to look at behind closed lips. “He’s in today. Would you like your free training session right now? You can pay for the membership and I’ll just let him know you’re here.”
“Oh, no. Really, that’s okay,” I said feeling suddenly nervous. But I was much too late. She’d already disappeared into a mysterious back room where I suspected the delicious-looking monstrous pretzels were made and the employees snuck their lunch breaks.
I signed my name quickly, ignoring the amount listed for the monthly payments. Though it was minimal, I really didn’t have money to be spending anything other than the essential. Plus, I if I started working out, that meant I’d probably live longer, which then meant that I had to conserve my money for a lengthier life span. Any way I looked at it, signing up for the gym was a terrible idea. Except for Clay, I reminded myself. He had enough money to live long and eat a lot.
Do it for Clay, ran through my head over and over again as I signed the papers, feeling like I was indeed signing my life away. As I dotted the last “I” in Luzzi, I sensed a presence behind me. A very huge, very solid figure.
I turned slowly, and came face to face with the sexiest man I’d ever seen in my life.
Except, this was the third time I was seeing him.
My mystery man was much taller than I, at least six foot three, with muscles that bulged beneath his black, extremely tight under-armor long-sleeve. When he moved, a slight ripple started at his wrist and turned into a tidal wave of muscle by the time it reached his bicep. His six pack was visible through the flimsy material, showing broad shoulders and a thick chest, tapering nicely into a thin, tight waist. As he breathed in and out, the shirt contracted nicely around his figure.
Despite his lumbering size, his movements were smooth as silk and precise, the opposite of the meatheads at 24 hour fitness. He moved with a grace I envied and wore black sweats that somehow made his legs look athletic and sturdy instead of lumpy and shapeless (like mine did in sweatpants).
“Lacey.” His voice was low and menacing, his breath fresh and minty with a bit of a lemon twist.
I nodded, realizing my eyes were wide, but not able to do anything about it. He tilted his head, and I noticed a tattoo across the base of his neck, off to the left side. In somewhat shaky writing, the word “Italy” was scrawled across his neck in a greenish black font. I opened my mouth to comment, but was distracted by his fierce black eyes. They popped against his tan complexion, a scar on the outside of his left eye, adding instead of detracting from his already masculine features. His jet black hair was thick and just wavy enough to be stylish, and I found myself envying how one person could have hit such a winning gene pool.
“I hear you didn’t want to work with me.” He spoke so low I had to lean forward to hear his words. His presence was so intimidating I wouldn’t have asked him to repeat himself to save my life. Not that I was disappointed. He smelled so lusciously manly, a bit of outdoorsy lumberjack mixed with the clean, fresh scent of a spicy aftershave.
“I, uh. Well, see…” I looked up at him for a hint of a smile.
Nothing. His scar twitched, and for a moment I worried that I’d offended him. I got the impression he was not someone you wanted to get on the wrong side of – ever.
“Sorry, I didn’t-” I gestured limply.
“It was a joke.” His voice was flat and unemotional; there was not a smile on his lips and certainly not his eyes.
I nodded. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“Sorry.”
He cocked an eyebrow, the first facial expression he’d had.
“I mean, sorry I’m sorry. Well, sorry I’m not sorry. Know what? I’m not sorry.”
“You should be.”
I looked at him curiously. By now, Marge had returned and I looked at her helplessly.
Anthony must have caught the look I shot her.
“Another joke,” he rumbled.
“Sor-” I clamped my mouth shut. I slid the paperwork back to Marge along with some cash and my Visa. I realized all too late I’d unloaded my seven hundred buckaroonies into my piggy bank at home, and was left with chump change. “Here.”
She looked at the cash confused. “What am I supposed to do with these?”
I leaned over, wishing she’d have been more discreet. I spoke low. “Could you please use the cash that’s there…” I fished out a few coins from my pocket and added them to the pile. “And then put the rest on that card?”
She pursed her lips. “There’s a minimum transaction for the credit card, and I’d need to do the whole thing…”
Sh
e looked genuinely sorry, so I retrieved both the cash and the card. “I’ll write you a check.”
I scribbled out a check for the amount, and slide it over. “Could you please wait to cash that for forty eight hours? Just a little something I need to straighten out with the bank first.”
That little something happened to be a negative balance. Oh well, seven hundo’s would temporarily patch that up.
Poor Marge looked helplessly at Anthony.
“No.” Anthony reached for the check and ripped it in half. His sweet scent distracted me from my money troubles as he leaned close, the sheer mass of him overwhelming. Despite his closeness, he held himself with finesse. His hand brushed mine ever so slightly, and it tingled like I’d submerged my hand into a frigid ice bath and then immediately back into a steaming hot tub.
“Her first month is on me.” He tossed both halves of the check onto the table.
“No,” I said. I reached for the tape dispenser behind the desk and started taping the destroyed check together. “I can take care of myself.”
The corner of Anthony’s lip turned up just the smallest amount, and I nearly gave myself a pat on the back.
“NO,” he said again. “Use that enthusiasm for our first training session. Which begins now.”
I looked towards Marge for help, but she just shrugged and shook her head. I got the impression that nobody argued with Anthony.
I put my hand on my hip and poked him in the chest. I had to refrain from shaking my hand, since it felt like I’d jammed my finger. “Watch it, mister. Just because you’re training me, doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”
Then, to my incredible surprise, the stoic trainer broke into a full on grin, which made him still more handsome. My chest was going to explode with an overload of good looks.
He rubbed his chin as his smile broadened. “Why, it absolutely does.”
There was a heavy pause in the air.
I couldn’t come up with a good enough quip, so I stormed off to the changing room, but halfway there realized I’d forgotten to ask the most important question of all. I stomped back.
“I know you,” I said. “What are you doing here if you work for Carlos? I was there that night at the YMCA. I saw you.”
Anthony took me by the elbow and led me to the side of the vending machine. He pinned me up against the glowing Coca Cola sign, out of the way of curious members’ prying eyes, and raked his gaze slowly up and down. “I remember you.”
“Well? Explain yourself then. What are you doing here? Are you still working for Carlos?”
“No. I’ve never worked for Carlos.” Anthony’s eyes were mesmerizing. “I know Federico, he’s a friend. He gave me a call and said his team needed manpower for a gig. It sounded easy. I was available. I’ve never met Carlos, I’ve just taken his money.”
“So you’re not one of his guards? Not on his payroll?”
“Have you seen me around the place?” Anthony raised a valid point. “You’ve seen most of the guards if you spent any time in that fortress, I’m guessing. I’m a… freelancer.”
“Are you one of the good guys?” I crooked an eyebrow.
Anthony opened his mouth, but paused before speaking. He looked as if he might kiss me, but as he leaned in, his hand went to my cheek, and he lightly brushed something away.
“Eyelash,” he said.
I gulped (hopefully) quietly. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Do you want me to be a good guy?” An amused smile danced on his lips. “Or a bad one?”
“Uh-”
Before I could continue, he cut me off, his lips brushed close to my ear, the lemon scent bringing images of sweet citrus groves in Southern Italy. “And Sugar, which are you?”
** **
Sugar? Did he know? No, he couldn’t. Impossible. The only people who knew were Clay, maybe a few people in the Fam (but their word was solid – spilling secrets gotcha killed.) Of course my mom – who had tried her hardest to keep our identities a secret…
I lay on the couch, two sacks of frozen peas on my knees, a solidly chilled turkey under my back, ice packs around both ankles and a tub of Tylenol on the coffee table next to me. A jug of Gatorade radiated a toxic yellow glow next to the pills, the remote balanced precariously by my side at an angle conducive to changing the channels without straining so much as a thumb muscle. The second I’d walked in the door, Clay had gotten up off the couch and assisted in icing my entire body. I’d been walking like someone had shoved and entire tree trunk in a place where the sun don’t shine.
Tupac sniffed around with a bored curiosity. Apparently deeming the bags of frozen food not up to par, he retreated to his signature hideout above the refrigerator.
“I’m not going to that monster,” Clay said for the millionth time.
“I told you, I went back for a second workout.” I shifted awkwardly as a turkey leg poked me in the spleen. “The girl didn’t have enough openings, so I moved us both to a new trainer and I wanted to test him out first. I’m just a product of two-a-days. You’ll love him.” I groaned. “I promise.”
Clay shook his head.
“What made you want to get in shape, anyways?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, tell.” I opened an eyelid with painstaking caution.
“Don’t you have a date to get ready for?” He averted his eyes.
“I should cancel.” I tried to sit up, but fell back on the couch instantly. I didn’t even have enough energy to make my traditional mid-afternoon s’more. “I can’t stand up.”
“You are not cancelling.” Clay stood up, his finger pointed at me. “Michael is coming over here, you promised. Plus, doesn’t he live in the Russian area? I thought you were going to pump him for some information about the changes on that side of town?”
“Fine, fine,” I said, grudgingly. “I’m going to attempt to shower. If I don’t come out in three hours, for goodness sakes do not come in. I know you’re my cousin, but I’d prefer a stranger find me naked and dead from overexertion while shampooing.”
“No problemo.”
I gingerly made my way towards the bathroom. “Feel free to make me a s’more.”
** **
Two hours later, I’d managed to heave myself into the bathtub, soak until my hands resembled ugly shriveled apricots, and lift myself back out. I inserted my aching limbs into my traditional First Date Dress that I’d affectionately dubbed ‘Blacky.’ Blacky was short enough to show off my legs, long enough to be considered not-extremely-slutty, and frilly enough to say ‘innocent with a splash of fun.’ Or at least that’s what I thought. Clay’s take on it was a grunt and a ‘good luck with that.’
I tried to put on heels, but my calves burned as if all of the light bulb shards had been gathered and shoved one by one into my leg muscles. I settled for strappy, semi-fashionable low wedge sandals. As I paraded in front of the mirror, I noticed a crusty s’more sitting on the table next to my bed.
“Thanks, Clay,” I hollered.
I looked at the shrunken marshmallow and the crusty chocolate between the now soggy graham cracker, and my heart melted just a little. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away, so I ate it quickly. Then I brushed my teeth.
When I appeared in the kitchen, hair blow-dried, mascara and lipstick applied, I felt energized and confident that I was acceptable-looking enough for a first date. Maybe it was the endorphins from my workout or the fact that I’d managed to meet three incredibly handsome men in one day. On the negative side, I’d found my ex with P.B., so if I was keeping score, it’d be Lacey – 3, Blake – 1. I’d take the win.
I tossed my hair like a Pantene commercial wannabe and basked in the feeling of looking presentable to the public. I forgot how good it felt to dress up once and awhile, swipe on that makeup and feel like a million bucks. Or at least a thousand. But then again, I’d take a thousand bucks any day.
“I’m going to take this out.” The garbage had develo
ped an unpleasant odor in combination with the Leaning Tower of Pisa dishes, and I figured solving one of the two problems should cut down on about half of the smell, at least.
I made it halfway to the door, bag in tow, when I heard a gut-twisting riiiiipppp.
What followed was a cacophony of glass, the splutter of garbage juice, old napkins and the remnants of beef bowls spreading all across the kitchen floor.
“NOOOOO!” I cried. The light bulb shards had sliced the bag right open. “Clay! He’ll be here any second. What can we do?”
A knock sounded on the door.
“We?” Clay appeared in the kitchen looking like a marshmallow frozen in shock, complete with a human face. “I’ll distract him. You can shove it in here and get rid of it.”
“Get rid of it where?” I asked, accepting the solid garbage container he handed my way and pawing as much of the nastiness in as I could.
Clay yelled through the door, matching his words to the pace at which I shoveled. “Hey there, are you Michael? I’m Clay. I saw – er – heard from Lacey that you’re a huge computer guy. I’d love to show you something outside in my car. Do you have a sec? Lacey’s just finishing getting ready. You know, girls.”
I breathed a Thank you in his direction. Clay slipped through a slit in the doorway and shut it quickly behind him, leaving me alone with Tupac and a floor of trash.
The two male voices faded down the hallway, and I stared at a sea of disgustingness. I let out a whimper. Then, I allowed myself a pity party lasting exactly twenty seconds. After I finished, I snapped into action and busted out the Swiffer, a pair of gloves, and industrial strength cleaning solution. I mopped with a fury I’d never mopped with before, until the floor sparkled and the trash tub was full of filth. Now, the tricky part – where to dispose of it?
I hurried over to the window after disposing of my gloves in the tin. Clay and Michael both emerged from Clay’s creep-van. I wondered briefly how bored Michael was on a scale of one to dead. As the two men walked towards me, Clay and I made eye contact through the living room window. I gave him the thumbs up and ran to the bathroom, wondering if I’d be able to flush the sludge down the toilet.
