Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

on this amazing photograph?

  It took me an hour to set this up.

  Okay, 5 minutes.

  But it is inviting. Right?

  Besides, your knickers are here.

  When do you want to come get them?

  Holy crap.

  Denise and I read the message together and freak out because Kellan is totally inviting me over again.

  I feel stupid, like a teenager.

  But part of me still doesn’t understand why this is happening. Why he’s interested in me. Especially when he could have Stacy or a million other girls just like her.

  Denise grabs my phone and starts typing.

  “What are you doing?”

  She grins her mischievous grin. She shows me what she sent:

  Try them on.

  Oh no. “Why did you say that?”

  Denise just laughs.

  A minute later, a pic comes in.

  It’s of Kellan.

  He’s wearing my thong and sports bra, posing like a Greek god. He’s backlit by the sun, so you can’t see his face, making it less incriminating.

  “Wow,” says Denise, “even in women’s underwear he looks incredible.”

  Kellan sends another pic. It’s of the sports bra and panties again, lying on the white towel. This time they’re a bit stretched out and torn.

  I think I owe you

  a new sports bra.

  But you asked for it.

  I rescue my phone from Denise and send Kellan a text.

  That pic is going online

  in three seconds.

  While that would be my

  just desserts, please don’t.

  K ;)

  What time you off tonight?

  9ish.

  See you at the Palace for back day, Iron Born.

  Denise is reading my phone upside down.

  “It looks like you have a third date with Mister Kearns.”

  “I’m not sure working out together qualifies as a date,” I say.

  But inside, I’m jumping for joy. Insofar as I can jump because my legs are sore from last night’s “date”.

  Chapter 4

  I GET TO work (on time! Yay!) and no sooner am I clocked in than Chris is all over me, peppering me with questions about Kellan.

  I tell him that to answer his question about the cars, Kellan bought both the Corvette Stingray and the Lamborghini Huracan.

  Chris just about poops his pants. “How do you know that?”

  “Because we trained together last night and then watched a movie at his house and I saw them in his garage.”

  Chris is thoroughly impressed. “Wow. He bought both. That is so bad ass. Listen, do you want to go to the Turtle after work for karaoke? A bunch of people are going.”

  “Oh, uh… I would but I can’t. I’m meeting Kellan at the gym. We have a training session. It’s back day.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Chris says it casually, trying to sound upbeat, but I can see he’s disappointed. He heads back to the kitchen and I head into the ballroom.

  Mercifully, it’s a small event, only 150 people. Fifteen round tables of ten. But it’s not a buffet.

  I bust ass carrying the trays during dinner service. It hurts a little each time I set down or pick up an oval off the jack stand.

  But I like it.

  The fact that I can feel my body, my actual muscles, makes me feel like I’m making progress. I remember what Kellan said about getting paid to work out. I carry the trays faster. Everyone comments that I’m on fire.

  “The sooner we get everyone served, the sooner they’ll eat, do their little show, and leave. Then we can clean up and get out of here,” I say.

  “True dat,” Rex says. It sounds funny coming from a guy his age. But at least he’s making an effort to keep up with culture and the ever-changing vernacular.

  During our break, I pull out my phone and look up Conan the Barbarian again. I discover that there was a sequel, Conan the Destroyer, and then a third movie called Red Sonja, which looks to be the same story but with a woman, but Arnold is in it playing a barbarian.

  I text Kellan:

  When can we have a screening

  of the sequel?

  He texts back almost immediately.

  Any time.

  With Pina Colada protein shakes

  and popcorn???

  I berate myself for the use of the triple question marks. But I’m so excited to go back to Kellan’s for a repeat of last night that I can’t help it. Three question marks seems appropriate. It dawns on me that maybe this is how Denise feels when she does it, and I decide not to be so judgmental about the peculiarities of her texting (or dating) habits.

  Kellan replies:

  Certainly.

  I am so thrilled, I could use a thousand question marks.

  For dinner, I eat two chicken breasts, two servings of green beans, and two salads. And only a few bites of mashed potatoes. I skip the dessert.

  Everyone is raving because tonight it’s New York cheesecake with warm raspberry coulee that I usually devour.

  I go to the kitchen and find Chris and ask to see the jar of coulee. I read the nutrition label. It’s loaded with high fructose corn syrup and sugar. No wonder it tastes so friggin good. Plus, raspberries are the last ingredient in the list. It’s practically pure sugar.

  I usually eat two slices of cheesecake completely drenched in the raspberry sauce.

  But tonight I pass altogether.

  I make myself a cup of black coffee with two packets of sugar-free sweetener. I then go out to the ballroom and start cleaning up while everyone else stays in the break room gorging on cheesecake.

  I bring a tray of dirty dishes into the kitchen and unload them on the dishwasher’s big stainless steel table.

  “Hey, Claire,” Chris calls.

  I go over to where he’s cleaning the ovens.

  “You sure you can’t come to the Turtle tonight? Nancy’s going.”

  “Nancy? Our boss?”

  “Yeah. Should be hilarious.”

  “Yeah, it should. But no, I can’t. I have to train.”

  “Okay.”

  Chris is disappointed but I kind of like the fact that he asked me a second time. His white smock is covered in cream sauce and mashed potatoes and butter and raspberry coulee. He worked hard tonight, as usual.

  Chris is super sweet and a really nice guy and is actually pretty cute. He has a stable job and has told me that he wants to open his own restaurant someday. That’s all swell and everything but I just don’t see him that way.

  Someday I’m going to have to come out and tell him directly. I don’t want to hurt his feelings but what can I do?

  It’s rare that I meet a guy who does something for me, who… excites me ; I don’t know why. And it’s even rarer that a guy asks me out, so I’m kinda thrilled that Chris asked me to the Turtle tonight.

  But I would prefer to go to the gym and see Kellan and get my butt kicked. This notion gives me a thrill far greater than going to the Turtle.

  Denise has said that I’m a closet lesbian, and that I don’t know I’m a lesbian because I’m in the closet.

  I told her if I were a lesbian, I would know.

  She said that’s what it means to be in the closet.

  I told her that’s so not what it means to be in the closet, but whatever. There’s really no point arguing with Denise.

  My last quote-unquote boyfriend was a guy I met at a goth club. What the hell I was doing at a goth club I have no idea. His name was Tommy. He was really into Warcraft and always wanted me to join his clan. He always wanted blowjobs and would always push on the back of my head and shove his dick into my throat and make me gag.

  One night after eating a whole plate of Nachos Bel Grand and a 7-Layer Burrito with extra sour cream, I went with him back to his place and he asked for a quick blowie (he called them blowies) before his clan had a raid on Dragomere.

  I obliged and he did his usual thing and ram
med my head down onto his dick, which I was expecting. But he did it extra hard and kept it there and I gagged several times and tried to pull off but he wouldn’t let me.

  He screamed, “I’m gonna come in your stomach!”

  And then I puked on him.

  On his dick, his balls, his stomach.

  It went everywhere.

  He looked down at himself covered in regurgitated Mexican food and shouted, “FUCK A DUCK!” Then he looked at his watch and said, quite calmly, “The damn raid started.”

  In his beloved Walmart fuzzy black Darth Vader tee shirt and with his pants around his ankles, and my puke all over himself, he waddled over to his desk chair. He sat down half naked and joined the raid of Dragonsmear or whatever it was.

  “I didn’t even get to come,” he mumbled. He put on his headset and began working his keyboard and mouse and barking orders to the other members of his raiding party.

  I may as well have been invisible.

  So I went to the bathroom, washed my hands and my face and rinsed my mouth, and went home.

  Never heard from him again.

  That was the last time I’ve given head.

  I GET HOME later and prepare for the gym. I pack my backpack with clean clothes and toiletries and my laptop.

  I get into the shower and shave my armpits and my legs and, after great and terrible deliberation, much of my pubes.

  I don’t know for certain that Kellan is going to see them.

  But if we end up back at his house again and things get physical, I want to be ready. God forbid he gets down there and it’s a hoo-ha thorn bush nightmare.

  I get out, put on a little foundation, a bit of smoky eye shadow Denise insisted I buy at the MAC counter in the mall, and some Velvet Teddy matte lipstick to match.

  There. I’m somewhere in between Plain Jane and Total Gym Slut.

  I Google what to eat before lifting weights and read about preworkout nutrition. I eat some eggs and oatmeal and a cup of coffee.

  THE GYM PARKING lot is much busier than it was the last two nights.

  I grab my backpack and head in, ready for a training session and then a trip to Casa de Kellan.

  We find each other immediately.

  He’s wearing black compression pants and bright red high-tops, and a red tank top. He looks amazing. As always.

  He looks me up and down. “You clean up nice.”

  I’m pleased that he noticed I made an effort.

  The gym is much busier. A lot more people. Kellan explains that it’s midweek and people feel guilty about missing training sessions so they’ve forced themselves to come tonight.

  “Lousy part-timers,” he muses. “But, it’s better than nothing, right? God bless them for trying. They’re in the gym, working out. That’s the important thing. Even the crappiest workout is better than no workout at all.”

  We do a quick warm-up on the elliptical machine. Kellan says he likes to use them on days he trains back and arms and shoulders because the cross-country skiing motion incorporates the arms and gets the blood flowing into the muscles and connective tissue.

  We then start lifting, beginning with lat pulldowns, which simulate pull-ups, but while seated.

  Then we do one-arm dumbbell rows while kneeling on a flat bench. I pretty much stare at Kellan’s ass the whole time.

  We then do lat pullovers while holding a dumbbell. I pretty much stare at Kellan’s crotch the whole time.

  Kellan keeps checking his phone, which is odd because he doesn’t usually do that.

  He checks his phone every few minutes.

  As time passes, he almost becomes a different person. The training gets really intense and our typical flirtatious banter stops. The only thing he says is “Your set” each time he finishes a set of his own.

  He doesn’t spot me, either, the way he typically does, helping me to do the exercise correctly. He just paces about with his hands on his hips, pulling his phone out of his pocket every few minutes.

  Several people come over and ask for pictures but he says no, not while he’s training.

  I start to feel a little put off or scared or something.

  I’m definitely uncomfortable.

  I begin to wonder if I’ve done something wrong.

  This gives way to panic.

  I become convinced that this is the last time I’ll see or speak to Kellan. He’s had a change of heart and doesn’t want anything further to do with me, and his behavior is a reflection of his desire to leave but he’s conflicted because we’re right in the middle of a workout he initiated.

  The pace of our training is frenetic. Almost…angry.

  Kellan does each set with an intensity I’ve never seen. He’s grunting and gritting his teeth and making a lot of noise, especially on the last few reps of each set.

  People are starting to look at us.

  He catches me looking around. “Let them look,” he says. “They’re just scared.”

  “Of what?”

  “My hard work and the resultant success that is a mirror in which they see their own lack of hard work and lack of success. A wise person sees it for what it is: an opportunity. An opportunity to learn and grow and get better. A petty asshole uses it as an excuse to be a hater. Because being a hater requires no effort and allows the person to continue their delusion. Your set.”

  I grab my dumbbell and get into position on the bench, pondering what Kellan has just said. Throughout my entire set, he’s checking his phone.

  At the end of the workout, I pluck up my courage and say, “Time for Mel’s and a movie? I brought a change of clothes so you won’t have to worry about damaging another sports bra.”

  Truthfully, I’m really excited to go back to his place, and maybe, maybe, have sex like Denise said last night. I’m feeling a bit more confident about the whole thing, now that I’m properly groomed in my special place.

  My special place I secretly want Kellan to devour and pound into sweet, sticky oblivion with what I saw under his towel last night.

  “Oh, yeah, your sports bra,” Kellan replies, distracted, because he’s squinting and scowling down at the phone in his hand. “That’s at home. I forgot it. Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.” I try to sound cheerful, peppy, to let him know my special place is open for business. “We can just go get it.”

  “I can’t tonight. I have a bunch of stuff to do.”

  Still staring down at his phone, he heads for the door.

  “Go eat!” he calls over his shoulder.

  And with that, he’s out the door and taking off in his white Mercedes, sweat still dripping, as he shoves a banana in his mouth and chugs a protein shake out of a shaker cup.

  I stand there, trying not to feel devastated.

  Trying and failing.

  I’m convinced that my earlier hypothesis is the correct one: that Kellan Kearns, local celebrity, is officially done with me.

  I feel thoroughly stupid for daring to hope such a man could ever be interested in me.

  And I feel stupid for shaving my special place, which is already starting to itch.

  Chapter 5

  WHEN I ARRIVE home, I’m exhausted.

  I barely slept last night: I stayed up late masturbating (oh, the horror! Screw you, Colonel Kurtz! I never read the stupid novella! I hate English Lit!). I also worked all day, and worked out with Kellan, former dream hunk.

  I shower again, eager to scrub the makeup off my face. I feel so cheap and stupid. I practically threw myself at him, showing up to the gym with makeup on and an overnight bag, just begging to get fucked. And then forgotten.

  Except that I didn’t even get to enjoy the sex. We skipped directly to me being forgotten.

  I grab a bag of Oreos out of the cupboard and the carton of milk from the fridge, along with a clean glass.

  I plop my fat, forgotten ass on the sofa and watch TV.

  I try to ignore the itching between my legs.

  But each time I feel it, I feel even dumber
than I did before.

  I dunk Oreo after Oreo after Oreo in the glass of milk, letting each one get nice and soggy before devouring it. Nat Geo has a show about African animals mating.

  Nope.

  I find the show about the crazy crab fishermen. They’re on the crab, talking about how crabs reproduce.

  Nope.

  I flick through the movie channels and find the comedy with Kate Hudson and Matthew McConaughey Failure to Launch.

  Nope.

  Crap!

  There’s nothing on.

  I settle for reruns of Friends. It’s an early one, the one where Ross goes to China (the country!) and Rachel finds out.

  Finds out that her pubic hair itches like mad.

  I EAT THE whole package of Oreos. I don’t even bother to read the label and do the math to see how many calories an entire package equates to. Not to mention an entire half-gallon of milk. At least there’s a lot of protein in the milk to help my muscles repair. Maybe then the pain will go away. And perhaps by then, my pubes will have grown out enough that they’ll stop itching and I can forget I ever met Kellan Kearns.

  I FINALLY GO to bed at nearly three a.m.

  I sleep like crap.

  My chest hurts.

  My legs hurt.

  My back hurts.

  My pussy itches.

  Damnit!

  I guess I should’ve gone to the Turtle with Chris and Nancy and the people from work. At least I could’ve gotten laid. It probably wouldn’t be too difficult to sleep with Chris. If I flirted a little, he’d get the hint. If I invited him back to my place, I’m sure he’d do me.

  But then it would probably be weird seeing him at work:

  Hi, Chris, how are you?

  Fine, Claire, how are you?

  Oh, you know, I’ve got your semen in my vagina, so I’m good.

  Blech.

  I SOMEHOW MANAGE to sleep until almost 10:00 a.m..

  I’m lying face down in my bed, with a pillow over my head to block out the sunlight fighting its way through the blinds.

  I should get up.

  I need to do laundry.

  I need to get groceries.

  I need to wash my car.

  I need to wash my hair.

  I need to find a way to make my pubes grow faster. Or perhaps buy some aloe vera to slather on like a diaper. Maybe that would help.

  I do not want to get up.

  I do not want to face the day.