by JJ Knight
“I got the first two done by Pro Tan like you said.”
“And who did this horrid last-minute job?”
I don’t want to say the name. But Franklin’s in my face. He probably feels like he blew all the time he’s put into me.
“Ride ‘em Shiny,” I finally admit.
Franklin spins away, his hands on his head. “Ride ‘em fucking Shiny? Do you know who their primary clients are?”
“No.” My voice sounds as stony as I feel, but my gut drops when Franklin utters his next two words.
“Porn stars.”
2
Camryn
I might be short, but I’m hard to intimidate.
The woman in front of me is over six feet tall even before you account for her three-inch heels. She towers over my head like she’s ready to devour me whole. I’m five-two. My rainbow sparkle Converse do not help with the height differential.
And this woman is pissed.
“I have been your client for two damn years,” she hisses down at me. “And you’re saying you can’t give me ten minutes right now?”
This woman could break me in half. No doubt she could bench press my measly body weight when she was ten. She wears a sunny yellow competition bikini over her even, deep-black skin, her hair swept up in a burst of perfectly arranged white braid extensions.
Her false eyelashes blink at me as if I don’t have the mental competence to understand her problem.
I steady my breath. “Tanisha, you are one of my star clients, and you know how much care I put into every single competitor on my list. But competition day gets booked solid. You didn’t even tell me you were competing today, or I would’ve left a big spot for you.”
I pull a brush from a sling lined with tools like a soldier carries bullets. “Let me blend your jawline a touch.” I run the soft bristles over her skin. She doesn’t need any fixing. She just needs me.
“Let me see your shoulders. You know those are what get you points.” She turns and I run the brush in all the shadows.
“There,” I say as she makes her way back around. “You are perfect. You have the Camryn stamp of approval.”
Her eyes mist a bit, and she touches a finger to the corner of her perfect lashes. “Thank you, love.”
“Book me for the real deal next one, okay? Send me your calendar.”
She leans down for an air kiss, then I hurry for the door.
I do feel bad I can’t do a final prep on her. Women in particular have extra needs on competition day. Cleavage shadowing, extra taping. Blending their face makeup into their neck and shoulders.
But even though I’m careful not to overbook, today is especially crazy. It’s the first regional competition of the season, and everybody’s stressed-out, dehydrated, and on edge.
It’s my job not only to make them look good, but also to keep them calm, and most importantly, avoid letting them psych themselves out.
I feel like an absolute misfit among the bronzed and oiled skins. My complexion is incredibly fair, and even though I am known for my perfect tans, I rarely apply one to myself. I’m like the handyman who never fixes his own sink. Or the gardener whose rosebushes always need pruning. I’m bathed in chemicals, oils, and bronzers all day long. When I’m alone, it’s nice to escape it.
I glance at my phone. This was supposed to be my five-minute sandwich break before attending to the next set of clients preparing for prejudging.
But no, my brother Franklin has called me with a charity case, a new training partner who apparently thinks any tan will do for competition.
It’s unlikely I will be able to do much other than fill in some splotches or blend a stripe. If it’s an overall hack job, I won’t be able to fix it. No time.
I haven’t met this new partner. I know they’ve been training together for a while, but I have to limit my time with my brother. I love Franklin, but he’s got the mother of all big-brother complexes, and he tries to control more of my life than he has any reason to.
Hopefully, his friend isn’t the same alpha, overbearing sack of machismo. If both of them try to tell me what to do, I’m going to have to walk away.
“Camryn!” squeals Amanda Johnson, a trainer who sends me lots of referrals. She’s fit and perfect in a hot pink exercise bra and matching cheetah print yoga pants. She likes to be seen.
I notice a fine white line in the crook of her elbow and a subtle streak across her shoulder. She should have me do her tans, but she doesn’t like my rates. Still, she looks good. Her green eyes sparkle as she gives me a quick hug. “I don’t want to keep you from your busy day. Did you finish up on Sean?” He’s one of her clients.
“I did. He looks great. He’s probably already getting out there, right?”
“He’s all lined up. We’re hoping third time’s the charm!”
She tweaks my hair, pulled back in a ponytail so it doesn’t get caught in my work. “Love these auburn streaks. It’s glorious.”
I can’t even thank her for the compliment before she’s off. I try to hurry, but I’m stopped three more times by clients. I try to give each of them the right amount of attention while also making clear I need to move on. The sandwich will have to wait. I have zero time to help out Franklin’s friend before I locate my ten o’clock.
The sharp scent of chemicals and oils in the air makes me feel buoyantly alive. This is my scene. I started out doing tans and brow waxes in a low-end nail salon where I was paid by the hour.
But I studied and trained and decided to be the best at one thing only. It was Franklin’s idea to start catering to the bodybuilder crowd. I could command higher prices there, and during competition season, I can make enough money to last all year. Suggesting it was one of his finer moments.
I’m my own boss, and I love what I do. When one of my clients wins, I feel like I had a part in that. Six of my bodybuilders have earned their pro cards. Of course, traveling to shows all over the world means they have to leave my client list, but maybe one day I will have a great rapport with someone who hits it so big they can afford to take me along.
I grew up in L.A. and have never left it, but I have dreams of other cities, glitzy dressing rooms, and the biggest show of them all—Mr. Olympia.
I enter the main registration area, and it’s a madhouse. The physiques are about to go on stage, including my brother. Classics are starting to filter in for registration and weigh-in. I’m not sure if this friend is in the same class as my brother or not. I guess I’ll find out.
Searching this crowded room is a lot like someone from Munchkin Land trying to see through giants. I mainly get an eyeful of well-oiled backs and beefy biceps.
I pause, not sure I’m ever going to be able to spot my brother without standing on a chair, when one of my clients known as The Behemoth spots me craning my neck.
“Sweet Camryn,” he says, taking my hand in his two enormous bear claws. His head is bald and shiny, and as perfectly tanned as his face and body.
I completed his look early this morning even though his competition isn’t for hours. He likes to strut around the grounds and talk to all the competitors, old and new. He’s in his fifties, which shows in the crinkles around his eyes, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at his body. He’s never hit the big time, and probably never will, as his symmetry is off. But he’s a friendly beast, and most everyone loves him.
“Big B,” I say. “Do you see my brother in all this chaos? I’m trying to find him.”
The Behemoth scans the room. “Yeah. He’s in the far corner.”
“Thanks.”
“I’ll take you to him.”
The Behemoth clears the way as we cross. I spot tons of people I know, clients of mine, trainers who refer them to me, and people who are on my waiting list. Everyone wants to curry my favor. Since I’ve sent so many people into the pro level, I’m something of a good-luck charm. Everyone wants to tweak my hair and shake my hand, hoping the pixie dust will rub off on them.
As we approa
ch, I spot Franklin standing next to a tall man who looks like a deer caught in headlights.
He’s awfully handsome, though, and his anxiety is apparent in his how he bites his extraordinarily kissable lip. He’s in dark gray sweatpants, a jacket clutched in his fist.
It always amazes me that these outrageously built men can get completely paralyzed by the idea of going out on stage. They could break a log over someone’s head with ease but ask them to step in front of an audience and they turn into timid frogs.
But this one. He’s something. His dark hair is cut short on the sides, flipping across his forehead in the front. I already want to run my hands through it.
My heart squeezes for only a second, then I remind myself that the last person I would ever want to be interested in is a friend of my brother.
He bounces on his feet, full of nervous energy, worried he’s screwed up.
And if Franklin is right, he has.
I guess I’ll have to save his damn day.
3
Max
When the registration crowd starts parting, I wonder if there’s some bodybuilding celebrity entering the room. People smile. Others wave. But everyone seems to know whoever’s coming.
Franklin says, “That’s her. Come on.”
She must be tiny, because even as people step away, I don’t see her. There is, however, some giant brute of a bodybuilder pushing the crowd aside.
I follow Franklin until a diminutive woman steps out of the masses.
And my heart turns over. She’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Her hair is long, almost to her waist despite being pulled into a ponytail, alternating in streaks of rich brown and deep mahogany red.
Her eyes are the ever-changing gray of storm clouds and fringed with dark lashes. If she wears any makeup, it’s too natural for me to see it.
I tighten every muscle in my body involuntarily, realizing that even in my outrageously fit state, I pale in comparison to many of the bronzed gods throughout the room. And judging by their interest in her, she can have any one of them she wants.
She’s dressed in a no-nonsense black tank and gray yoga pants. She might not be muscular like the other women, but every inch is toned. In this room of dark shining skin, she is a perfect pale moon.
Only when Franklin lets out a feral growl do I realize he’s practically challenging every man who might be looking at his sister. Thankfully, his angry gaze targets the crowd and not the best friend behind his back.
I blink a few times to clear my horn-dog expression and give her a quick nod. “You must be Camryn,” I say, since Franklin is too involved in his glaring matches to introduce us. “Apparently, I screwed up.”
Franklin snaps to attention at that. “Ride ‘em Shiny,” he tells her.
Camryn shifts her weight to one hip, cocking it out in an are you kidding me stance. “How bad is it?”
“Turn around,” Franklin orders.
I’m holding everything tight and suck it in even harder as I pivot in a half-circle, my jacket and bag clutched in my fist.
“Good Lord,” she whispers.
This lets the air out of my sails, and I relax my muscles in defeat. “Can you fix it?”
Her voice is sharp. “I have exactly negative two minutes to get to my next paying client, but yes, I can fix it.”
My manners tell me to let her off the hook, to learn my lesson and take the loss in points. But before I can say a word, her finger presses against my spine.
“Back into your rear lat pose,” Camryn barks. “Don’t let up until I say so.”
Her tone could make a drill sergeant stand at attention. I tighten back up. The spread of something creamy cools the middle of my back.
“You’ve got at least six pale blotches back here. When you step on stage, they’ll blast like headlights if we don’t fix them.” Her fingers trail across my shoulders, and an airy floral scent hits my senses. I take her in, the smell, the touch, the memory of her face and luscious hair.
It’s a total sensory assault.
I stay fixed in a hard flex. Every muscle burns, but I can handle it. It’ll get a hell of a lot worse when I’m on stage and have to hold position until the judges finish their comparisons. I have this terrible need to impress her, even if I’m way down the list of winning candidates in this crowd.
People move around us, a few pausing to comment on her work. Camryn shifts to my side and a soft breast brushes against my bicep. Her eyes flit up to meet mine, and I’m a goner. Hook. Line. Sinker. I can barely swallow, and if my mouth was dry before, it’s the floor of the desert now.
“I’m going to work on your neck while the back dries. It’s a mess,” she says.
I stand there, chin up, feeling every inch of her near me. It’s been a while since I’ve dated anybody. First it was the deli taking all my time, then my fitness obsession. I’m constantly running to New York for one thing or another, and recently I had to head to the French Riviera to knock some sense into my brother.
I could stand the company of a woman in my life.
Maybe this one.
Something clunks the back of my skull, and I realize it’s the round end of a brush. “Stop sweating,” Camryn commands.
I feel a trickle on my temple. She’s right, but how am I supposed to stop? Standing this close to her is making me perspire like a man on death row.
Franklin comes around to my front. “They’re calling my class. I have to pump. Knock ‘em dead, Max. Camryn will fix you right up.”
“You too, man. I’ll be cheering from the side when I’m done here.”
Franklin’s eyes quickly dart to his sister, then me, but he gives me a quick nod. “See you after.”
Camryn’s work feels even more awkward with Franklin gone. I can’t squelch the feeling that I’m overstepping. And if he knew what I was thinking, he’d crack my jaw.
I shift my head to look back at her. “I’m sure what you’ve done so far is plenty. It’s my first time to compete. I’m not expecting to place or anything.”
The brush thumps the back of my head again. “Listen here. This entire room has seen me working on you. You have no choice but to let me make you as perfect as everyone expects my work to be.”
I think about the sea of people greeting her. She’s a regular, obviously. “You’re that good?”
She rounds my front and those stormy gray eyes meet mine. My knees waver. I’m so sunk.
But her voice could cut steel. “Whatever you’re thinking of, I’m twice that.”
I grunt out an obliging laugh. “So I should shut up and let you do your work?”
“Exactly.”
While our eyes stay locked, everything around us fades away. The people, the noise, the pushing and shoving and angst and anxiety.
Something flows between us, an energy that threatens to knock me off my feet. I tune into every detail about her, the long lashes, the upsweep of her hair, one spiraling tendril lying close to her ear. I could stand here a million years, taking in her face.
Someone greets us, and Camryn seems to shake herself, nodding hello, then dropping her gaze to a funny belt that holds a dozen brushes. The moment is over.
I want to say something smart and bold, but I can only point to an empty loop. “You’re missing one.” It’s probably a boneheaded, obvious thing, but my mind feels erased. What else could I say? I think I love you? Where have you been all my life? You must be an angel because I’m in heaven?
Nothing runs through my head but bad pick-up lines.
Camryn pats a small zipper pouch on her hip. “I keep the used ones in here until I can clean them. I have a good system.”
“Conscientious. I like that.”
Her phone buzzes. “That’s my next client, no doubt wondering where I am.”
“Like I said, I’m sure you’ve done a great job.”
She pulls out a brush, her eyes on the end as if she’s considering bonking me with it like before. “We haven’t even looked at your legs,�
�� she says. “You’re heavyweight, right? So you have an hour until you go on stage?”
“That’s right.”
“Come with me. My next client is always well prepared. I’m more or less there to give her confidence. I should be able to do a quick bit on her, and then I can finish you before your warm-up.”
She twirls the brush in a small canister. “And we can work as we walk. Go. Toward the hall to the left.”
I do as she says. Somewhere in the back of my head, I think about how I should be running through my poses, warming up slowly, and getting my head straight for this first appearance on stage.
But if Camryn’s right, my tan will hurt my chances. And besides, I couldn’t leave her if I wanted to. My gaze is superglued to her, even as she glides a brush along my biceps while we walk.
It’s wild watching Camryn work the crowd as she passes through. She greets everyone, slow and easy, as if she has all the time in the world. But she never stops, never gets drawn into a lengthy conversation. And her attention stays on my skin, her brush, the never-ending application of shadows and fill.
We duck into a small side room where a darkly bronzed woman in a gold lamé bikini squeals upon seeing Camryn.
“I’m so glad to see my lucky charm,” she croons.
The two women air kiss. “Dahlia, you look divine,” Camryn murmurs, and it’s the warmest voice I’ve heard from her so far. “I’m going to emphasize these glorious triceps a touch more. This is where your points are. You’re gonna kill them with these.”
Dahlia closes her eyes, her long fake eyelashes resting on her cheeks. She visibly relaxes as through Camryn’s words are a drug to her anxiety.
She’s good. Really good.
“Let me get those cheekbones,” Camryn says, stroking something a shade darker along the woman’s face, and then something shimmery on the line above. Dahlia looked good before, but now her face is absolutely chiseled, like a Grecian statue.
“Run through your routine for me,” Camryn says. “Show me everything you do, and I’ll make sure there isn’t a flaw on you.”
