by JJ Knight
I take a deep breath and exhale slowly before arranging my hands. I lift the new weight and hold it there a moment, letting the change settle in, and mentally prepare myself for a tough set.
The first two reps come fairly easy, the third one slower.
By the fourth, I’m dogging it, and by the fifth I’m feeling my left arm start to go.
“Spot,” I say.
“Push yourself,” Franklin says. “You have to earn what you got.”
He’s right. My first success came too easy. It could wreck me.
I pump out two more reps, feeling the quiver in my arms.
“Get to ten,” he says.
It’s not the first time we’ve pushed each other. That’s how we’ve gotten where we are. But because of the conversation before, it feels different. I hit nine, but I’m not sure I have that tenth one in me.
I bring the weight to my chest and as I start to lift, I can’t hold the balance required to keep the weight steady.
I’m about to say spot, when I see Franklin’s eyes boring into mine. It’s a warning, clear as day. Don’t hide anything about my sister or you will regret it.
I let out a long, guttural groan and force the weight back in the air.
“Ten,” I growl.
Franklin guides the weight back into its safety position on the rack.
“Good,” he says. “You know I’m behind you one-hundred percent.”
Sure he is. As long as I leave his sister alone.
I stand to shake out my arms, and we switch positions. I can see why Camryn didn’t tell her brother we met again. I remember his big boast that day at the meet when he talked about the other men who came after her. And how he’d been thrown out of a competition for throwing a punch at one.
My gut tells me there’s more to the story, so for now I’m going to give Franklin the benefit of the doubt. We’ve been friends for a long time, and he wouldn’t be acting this way if he didn’t have his reasons.
I pull the extra weights off the bar to take Franklin down to his warm-up weight.
The two of us make a good team. I won’t jeopardize that.
But like hell will I let him get in the way if I think I have a shot with his sister.
12
Camryn
Waiting for Max in the neighborhood park is like one of those happy dreams where you know something wonderful is about to happen, and you never want to wake up.
I’m on one of the swings, the metal chains in my hands, and I’ve worked my way up to the backside of the arc, looking down at the dirt.
Then, whoosh, I glide forward, past the ground and up toward the sky. The air cools my face, lifting my hair to trail behind me. The entire row of swings is empty, so I don’t feel too guilty snagging one for myself.
Four children congregate on a pyramid-shaped contraption made of ropes. They climb and laugh and hang like monkeys as I drop back toward the ground and up the other side.
It’s glorious.
The sun begins its slide toward the horizon as I reach another apex, my toes stretching toward the trees. Mothers murmur together on a bench near the path. I could be five years old and happily playing while my mother sat among the others.
This old childhood fantasy of mine rushes back to me with sharp familiarity.
In truth, my mother was never clustered with others. She fought depression all her life and spent most of her time in front of the television, mindlessly watching show after show. I don’t know if she tried to get help, or if nothing worked for her. I have never asked. We didn’t acknowledge the problem in my house.
My dad worked, and I didn’t see him a lot. He always had somewhere else to be, something else to do. I had the sense he didn’t quite approve of his kids. Maybe Mom was fine before we came along.
Franklin and I often wandered to a park much like this one. All those times I raced for the swings for this feeling of flying without a care, he’d always been there.
Other kids got brave and learned to jump during the height of the swing to thud into the grass beyond the scraped-out dirt.
But I was cautious. Even though my brother was there, my parents were not. I’d seen more than one kid crash and hurt themselves, running to their mothers for solace.
That wasn’t an option for me, so I played it safe.
A shriek from the pyramid draws everyone’s attention, and two of the mothers stand up to look.
One of the kids is hanging upside down from her knees and can’t reach up for the ropes.
A mother shifts her baby to her hip and heads over to give the little girl a push so she can lift her dangling torso back to safety.
“Try it on the lower ones until your tummy’s strong enough for the higher ones,” the mother says, then heads back to the knot of women.
She’s totally chill. The mothers in my day would have shouted, “You got into it, get yourself out of it!”
I wouldn’t have minded. I wanted my mother to say something, anything. Just be there.
I shift my attention to the sky. A few striated clouds break the blue. I got here early, wanting to think about where I might sit and how I might look when Max approaches.
I wear jeans and an off-the-shoulder top. My hair is down, albeit tangled after my swinging. That’s okay. I have a feeling Max doesn’t go for perfect.
The air whooshes over my skin, and I close my eyes to revel in the sensation of flying.
My childhood was not ideal. But good enough. Most people had it worse. We had a home. Food. We were safe. I speak to my parents every few months, short stilted conversations that assuage my guilt. We don’t go out of our way to see each other, even though we all live right here in L.A.
You can’t miss what you’ve never had, and the distance now is scarcely different from the separateness we all had growing up.
It was fine. I’m fine.
Another child shouts, and I open my eyes.
Max is there, smiling at me in a broad, open way that makes my heart turn over. My toes almost touch his head, but he stands out of range.
“You know, I fell off one of these as a kid and broke my arm,” he says. “My brother Jason pushed me too hard and I flew right out.”
“Living dangerously.”
“Don’t we all.”
My hair streams behind me is I rush toward him. He holds out his hand, and the toe of my sandal grazes his fingertips.
“You have a good eye,” I call as I rush away.
He approaches another swing, and I think he will join me. But instead, he leaps up, grabbing the crossbeam of the frame. He smoothly lifts his body until his belly is flush against the bar.
I forget to keep my arc as I watch him fluidly lift his legs over until he sits at the top, high above my head.
I’m afraid to kick the ground to stop as I might jar the frame, so I slow down gradually until I’m still, peering up at him.
“You like to live dangerously,” I say.
“I’ve been told I’m a show-off.”
I stand up and rub my grimy hands against my jeans. My anxiety is high, seeing him up there. I picture every sort of disaster. “Well, come down here so I can look at that tan.”
My heart doesn’t stop hammering until he swings his way down and drops onto the ground beside me.
The mothers on their bench clap for him, and he bows.
“You were made for show business,” I say.
“And I guess I’ve taken the bodybuilding route. Maybe I will be like Arnold Schwarzenegger and become famous for saying something pithy like I’ll be back.”
I can’t stop the laugh from bubbling out. “I think every bodybuilder’s goal is to be Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
Max holds out his arms and turns in the circle. “What do you think? How am I shaping up tan-wise?”
I can feel the stares of the mothers as I cock a hip and cross my arms across my chest. “Stand still so I can see.”
He stops, arms outstretched. The sun shines its golden light o
n him. He wears jeans and a green L.A. Pickle T-shirt that reads, “Call me a pickle.” It stretches across those pecs and shoulders that I remember all too well from his tanning sessions.
He’s fantastic. Absolutely perfect. My throat feels tight.
“Arms look good,” I say. “I can’t see much else.”
His grin is full of mischief. “Should I strip down so you can see more?”
The thought of it sends a zing through me.
“Maybe the park wasn’t the best idea,” I say.
He shrugs. “We could take a walk, find a more secluded spot.”
We stroll along the central concrete path. As we leave the playscape area, the mothers call the children in. It’s dinner time.
“Hey, weren’t you supposed to bring me a sandwich?” I tease.
“In the car, in a cooler,” he says. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to eat it right away.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” I like the thought of having something else we’re going to do together. That our time will stretch into the evening.
We pass through a line of trees, and a dirt path peels off to a small metal toolshed for the maintenance crew.
“Over here,” I say. “I could take a quick look and see how that tan developed on your chest and back.” The very idea of him even partially stripping in this public park makes sparks fly through my body.
He nods. When we’re hidden away behind the toolshed, he grabs the back of his collar and pulls his shirt over his head.
Even though I’ve seen him this way before, my knees knock together as his skin is revealed.
I feel like I’ve memorized him, smoothing moisturizer over each muscle and crease. I manage to step closer and say, “So far, so good.”
I walk around the side of him, then the back, and I cannot stop myself, but I touch his skin, warm and smooth.
“Find something?”
I pull my hand away. “I thought so, but it was a shadow.”
He is perfect. Strong. Ripped. I see the differences from last night, and from last weekend. He’s laid off the carbs, leaving his muscles flatter than Saturday. And today he’s had plenty of water, filling in the creases. His veins are less pronounced.
I know his body too well.
“I’m pleased,” I say.
“I don’t think taking my pants off in the kid park would be a good idea.” He pulls his shirt back over his head.
“If your chest and back look good, I’m sure everything else does, too.”
“I did notice one thing.” His lips press together.
“A problem?”
“A small one.” He hesitates. “I think the modesty pouch might’ve rubbed one of my thighs, because I have a white patch.”
I nod. “That can happen when someone is…” I struggle for the words. Well endowed? Overly large? At half-mast?
But he stops me. “I see. I get it. So, I guess you patch that little thing at the last minute? Or is it nothing major and the judges wouldn’t see it anyway?”
“I’m happy to be completely thorough,” I say.
Soooo happy to get next to that business.
“I could fix it tonight if you wanted to come over.”
I hear myself saying the words, and I want to give myself a good hard smack. Stop it, Camryn. He’s going to know you’re coming on to him.
But he laughs. “I’m sure it will be fine. There’s a week to go.”
Damn. So close. “Absolutely. Your pants are going to rub it anyway. Most things can’t be perfected until competition day.”
“So, you’ll be there? On competition day?”
I hesitate. Dahlia will be there, too, but she hasn’t booked me. Plus, I have a different competition to attend.
“I have six appointments at the amateur open that day, but I might be able to get over to the invitational.”
“I could come to you,” he says. “Early that morning before you leave. Would that work?”
I nod. That’s smarter. It will make sure I get him done. “I can do that.”
We take up walking along the path again.
“See, I knew this was all professional,” he says. “I tried to explain that to Franklin.”
I halt. “Franklin knows you came over for a tan?”
“I couldn’t exactly hide my skin. He saw the darker shade immediately.”
Oh, God. “What did he say?”
“I’m not perfectly sure, but I think he might have tried to kill me via bench press.”
My mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
But Max gives me another one of his signature grins. “It was fine. He added a lot of weight, but I handled it. And I think we came to an understanding I would be your client, and he didn’t have to worry about it.”
I stare at the ground as we resume walking. “He’s very overprotective.”
“Got that loud and clear,” Max says. “Don’t worry. I can handle Franklin.”
“How long have you known him?”
“We roomed together in college.”
“That far back?”
Max shoves his hands into his pockets. “We’ve been training together for almost a year and a half. I guess you two aren’t very close? He sure acts like you are by the way he responds to any threat to you.”
A woman walking a poodle crosses in front of us and I let her pass before I respond. “Franklin likes to insert himself in my life when he feels I’m making a mistake.” I glance over to Max and meet his dark gaze. “Our parents were pretty absent, so we grew tight.”
“But then?”
“Franklin liked the idea he was my protector. But when he went to college and got a life of his own, I took more chances. I picked the wrong crowd. The wrong boyfriend. He interfered big time last year when I tried to date a bodybuilder.”
“I heard about that. Socked his jaw?”
“Yeah. And I hadn’t even dated that one yet.” I don’t want to get into my relationship history. I barely know Max. And I don’t want to put him off.
Max leads us toward the path that will circle us back to the playscape. “He seemed to feel he ought to know I’d been to your apartment. That you were doing my tans.”
“I don’t care what he thinks,” I say. “He can’t control who’s on my client list.”
“I assume you have lots of male bodybuilders.”
“I mostly do women. But I do have some men. And Franklin knows that. I don’t know why you’re any different.”
“Me neither. He acted like I was going to drag you off by the hair to my cave.”
I’m not sure I object to that idea, but I simply shrug. “I think he enjoys using me as an opportunity to overreact. Getting hyped up like that gives him a charge.”
“Must be tough to do your job, then.”
We pass the maintenance shed again, and I’m already nostalgic about what happened there earlier. “Franklin is the one who suggested I try this job. I was doing low-end brow waxes and tanning bed work before this. I never know why Franklin selects certain people to keep away from me.” I glance up at him. “Unless there’s something about you I ought to know.”
Max gestures to his shirt. “I’m your basic low-level sandwich maker.”
“Who owns the restaurant.”
We approach the swings. “One more round?” he asks.
“Only if you promise not to get on top of the frame.”
“Made you nervous?”
“I’m protecting your hard head. Race you. Don’t steal the tall one.” I take off in a dead sprint. Max lets out an uproarious laugh and makes chase. We fly past the empty playscape and rush for the swings.
I grab the chain of the higher one, right as Max snatches it, too.
“I told you it was mine!” I pull the swing toward me, but Max comes with it.
And suddenly we’re close. Really close.
It’s not my hands on his skin, like I’ve done before.
But face-to-face.
He’s down in the dugout base
of the swing, which lessens our height difference. I feel the powerful need to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him.
“What will you give me for it?” he asks.
My answer comes before I can catch myself. “A kiss.”
His expression never wavers. “So, if I give you a kiss, I get the swing?”
I laugh. “Oh, no. If I give you a kiss, you let me have the swing.”
The sun has sunk low, and the shadows falling across the park are deep. The tiny ball of gold behind Max gives him an ethereal glow, like an Olympian god who has come down to find a human bride. Simply looking at him makes me shiver.
But I stand my ground. I want this kiss. I want him.
He leans forward, and for the barest moment, our lips brush together. Like the sudden flare of a match struck against the edge of the box, the need of him flashes through me, bright and hot.
But he pulls away and lets go of the chain. “You swing, I’ll push.”
I can scarcely breathe at what’s happened, but I settle down on the thick rubber seat.
Max grasps the two metal triangles at the base of the chains and draws me back like an arrow in a bow.
I lift my feet, sinking into the nearness of him at my back.
When he’s brought the seat as far as it can go, he releases me.
I sail into the sky. It’s exhilarating, the wind on my face, this man at my back. I reach the peak and retreat down, hurtling toward his body. He reaches out and firmly presses his hands low on my waist to return me to the clouds.
I have never felt so high, so exhilarated, so full of anticipation.
He pushes me three, four, five more times before I turn my head and say, “I’m starving.”
He clasps the base of the chain and carefully draws my swing to a stop.
My back is pressed against his chest, and it is temptingly close to an embrace.
We wait there for the span of a few breaths, and I start to believe he feels the same way I do.
I want to rush toward what I know comes next. Both of us naked, tangled together, kissing, sucking, feasting on each other.
But it’s too soon. We’ve only barely met.
I step down from the swing and turn to face him.
I want to tell him what I’m feeling, but I’m not sure what’s happening with him. Maybe he has someone already, some lovely thing tucked away so well I couldn’t find her in my search. Maybe he’ll go see her after this and do all the things I’m already longing for.
