Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

  “Okay. One, two, three!”

  He hammers it.

  I’m slammed back again.

  This time, I’m able to enjoy it more.

  Kellan shifts once, twice, three times, and the speed is unrelenting. It never decreases. We just keep accelerating, faster and faster and faster.

  He slams on the brakes and we’re both thrown forward.

  “How fast was that?” I ask.

  “133.”

  “Holy schnikes.”

  Kellan laughs. I love hearing him laugh.

  “Could we really go to jail?”

  “For doing 133 in a 40 zone? You bet your sweet ass. But only if we get caught.”

  We pull up to a red light and stop.

  “Is this thing faster than the Ferrari–” I start to ask.

  Kellan leans over suddenly and grabs my face and plants a big kiss on me.

  Suddenly I am aware only of his breath, the softness of his lips, his beard stubble against my chin. I smell something fruity like lip balm. I feel his hands on my face, the calluses from all the weightlifting, strong and rough, like a real man, but so gentle, yet full of zeal like he wants me. Really, truly wants me.

  And then it’s over. Kellan leans back and licks his lips.

  Our first kiss.

  Wow.

  “Is it hot in here?” Kellan asks.

  The sky is overcast and it’s a bit cool today. “Not really.”

  Kellan grabs the front of his V-neck and fluffs it a few times. I catch a glimpse of his massive chest.

  A motorcycle cop drives up and comes to a sudden halt beside us.

  Uh-oh.

  “Hi, there. I was just at Starbucks getting a Venti Mocha Frap and I saw a blue Lamborghini go by doing about 120. That wasn’t you guys, was it?”

  Kellan turns and looks at me. He slowly shakes his head: No…

  I slowly shake my head, too.

  “Okay,” says the policeman. “I guess it must’ve been another Azurro Thetis L-P-Seven-Hundred.” He takes off his sunglasses. “Are you Kellan Kearns?”

  Kellan nods.

  “Dude, I got your 90-Day Mass Gainer program online about six months ago. I doubled my bench, my squat, and almost tripled my dead-lift.” He’s all smiles as he pulls out his phone. “Can I get a pic?”

  “Sure.”

  He leans down and holds out his phone so they’re both in the pic and he snaps one.

  “The guys at the station aren’t going to believe this.” He shakes Kellan’s hand. Then he tips his head toward me. “Miss. Listen, you folks have a nice day. And for God’s sake, slow down. Deal?”

  “Deal,” says Kellan.

  “All right then. My Mocha Frap is probably ready. Take care.”

  The cop does a quick U-turn on his bike and rides away.

  Kellan and I face one another.

  I gasp, and begin breathing once more. “That was close.”

  “Yep. But fun.”

  I see from the gleam in his eye that Kellan is referring to more than merely driving fast.

  BACK AT THE dealership, we park out front and Nick emerges from the showroom to greet us.

  “How was it?” Nick asks as we climb out. The car is quite low.

  “Big,” says Kellan. “Heavy. Fast, but big and heavy.”

  “So what can I do to get you into the Lambo?” Nick asks.

  “No, no,” I clamor, “get the Ferrari.” I grab Kellan and rub his chest seductively. Wow, this is the first time I’ve really touched his chest. I want to rip his shirt open and squeeze it and bite it and suck his nipples as hard as I can.

  Can you get hickeys on your nipples?

  Kellan and Nick talk numbers, back and forth, and specs about different cars; the Huracan, the Aventador, the 458, even the 488 although I don’t know what that is. Even Kellan’s Stingray comes into the conversation. Kellan says it has a 100,000-mile warranty and all he has to do is drop it off at the local Chevy dealer.

  Nick offers free transport to and from a certified repair facility for the Aventador whenever it needs service.

  Kellan eyes the Ferrari.

  But eventually, he shakes Nick’s hand and tells him he’s got a deal.

  Kellan winks at me and we head into the showroom to do the paperwork.

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON, we are headed north up the 405 freeway and I am tripping the heck out.

  Kellan just bought a new car.

  First Denise and now him.

  What is it with everyone around me buying insane new cars?

  Everyone on the freeway is staring at us. Everyone.

  And I do mean staring.

  People are hanging out of their windows at 80 miles per hour to take pics of the car with their phones.

  People drive up beside us and match our speed, staring and waving and giving us the thumbs-up.

  “See what the right kind of car can do for your image?” Kellan asks.

  Within a few minutes, both of our phones ping.

  I pull mine out and see an Instagram post. It’s a pic of us in the car, and we’re both mentioned by username. I understand Kellan being mentioned, but me?

  Nonetheless, we look good. But it’s only because the car looks good. Only my face and hair are visible because we’re sitting so low, and I do like the way I look. Which is a first. I always take crap pictures. I decide to continue working out hard the way Kellan has been teaching me so I can get my body in better shape so it won’t be so embarrassing.

  As we drive, Kellan begins to espouse the various driving options: 405 to the 10, get off on LaBrea and go north up to Sunset and go left, or stay on the 405 and get off on Sunset Boulevard and take it through Brentwood and Bel Air and West Hollywood. He says that’s probably the most fun.

  He certainly seems to know his way around.

  He says he wants to show me Sunset Boulevard, the Whiskey (which is a famous club apparently), and on and on, with Kellan naming places so quickly I can’t remember them all.

  But I love it.

  I feel like there’s something going on down here, that there’s stuff happening. It’s so different from up north where we live, where I’ve spent my entire life.

  I glance at Kellan.

  There’s definitely something happening.

  THE CHATEAU MARMONT hotel is astounding.

  It’s gorgeous, for one. And it has such a unique style. I can’t quite put my finger on it.

  Kellan fills me in on the history of the place. We walk through the lobby, past the pool (where a bunch of rockers drove a car into it one night!), and I see a bunch of people I recognize. Mostly actors. Like, movie star-caliber actors. A-list people who make millions of dollars. Several of them see Kellan and recognize him and stop to say hello to us.

  Each time, Kellan introduces me and I shake their hand. Holy Moses. I can’t believe I’m shaking hands with the very people I’ve been watching on TV and in movies my whole life.

  They chat with Kellan about the Hollywood Classic fit expo he’s here to support, saying they wanted to attend but they have other commitments.

  The life of a successful actor; always busy.

  How amazing it must be.

  UP IN OUR room, there is one very large bed.

  It’s big and white and fluffy and I immediately want to run and leap into the air and dive onto it.

  Kellan catches me eyeing it and smiles.

  There is also a box of ready-made meals that Kellan ordered and had delivered to our hotel room. Inside the big box are a bunch of individually-prepared meals. Healthy stuff. Chicken and sweet potatoes. Filet and broccoli. Fish and asparagus. Each one has a sticker on it. Half of them say This meal was prepared for Kellan Kearns. And half of them say This meal was prepared for Claire Valentine.

  It’s so sweet that he ordered meals for me, too.

  I snap several pics of the room and especially the bed on my phone. I’m never going to believe that I was actually here. I mention this to Kellan. “Sunday night, I’m go
ing to be back at work, carrying trays, sweating my ass off in those stupid pants and that bow tie, and this is all going to seem like a dream. Like the best dream I ever had.”

  A FEW HOURS later, we drive to the show for the prejudging.

  It’s huge.

  We’re inside some sort of convention center. The parking lot is packed.

  There are hundreds, probably thousands, of booths set up displaying everything from fitness equipment like step mills to protein bars and workout attire.

  And the lines….

  And the bodies….

  So many athletic, toned, perfect bodies.

  I so do not belong here.

  Everyone is fit and sexy and looks like they just stepped off the page of a fashion magazine or a fitness website.

  Stacy would fit in here.

  Even Denise would.

  But I feel like an idiot.

  We wander around and Kellan says hi to people he knows and who know him. He takes about a million selfies. We then head into the theater for the prejudging. I am amazed and intimidated by the men and women on stage. I’ve never seen anything like it. How do they get their bodies to look like that?

  After the competition, we’re there late doing a meet and greet. Which is to say people line up for a hundred yards to get a pic with Kellan and have him sign tee shirts and pictures and shaker cups. One guy even has Kellan sign the inside of his forearm with a Sharpie because he’s going directly to a tattoo parlor to get the signature tattooed on his arm.

  My understanding of who Kellan is broadens further.

  But mostly I stand around near the back of the booth, fidgeting with my phone and a bottle of water Kellan got for me, simply watching him and admiring him and trying not to lust too hard for him.

  IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time we get back to our hotel room.

  I begin to wonder if it’s sex time. If we’re going to get naked soon.

  I’m suddenly very nervous.

  But Kellan makes us go downstairs to the hotel gym to train. We do 50 super-atomic-mega-burpies, dropping onto our stomachs, doing a push-up, and then jumping high into the air. I already want to barf.

  And that’s just the warm up.

  We then do a “light” workout consisting mostly of lunging lateral raises, something I’ve never done before; Kellan has me hold a pair of ten-pound dumbbells, lunge, hold the lunge, raise the dumbbells up until my arms are parallel with the floor, then lower them and finish the lunge. And then do it again with the other leg. And then repeat them 15 times.

  I try to act cool but it’s excruciating. My balance sucks, my legs are weak, my shoulder strength is terrible, and after the third set, I’m seeing spots.

  Kellan asks if I can do another set.

  I lie my ass off and say yeah, sure.

  He laughs and says that’s enough for tonight.

  He takes the weights from me and racks them. We cool down with 10 minutes walking on the treadmill and head up to our room.

  It’s almost 2:00 a.m.

  We’re so exhausted that the matter of sex is not even an issue. I fall asleep on the bed and four hours later, Kellan’s phone alarm goes off.

  Kellan makes a cup of strong coffee for me and I drink it sitting in bed. He has one, too. We then go downstairs and do an hour of fasted cardio.

  I feel like I want to die.

  I’ve never been this busy and this active on so little sleep.

  By 9:00 a.m., we’re showered, dressed, and back at the convention center to work the booth for Kellan’s product line.

  Kellan shakes about a million hands and takes a million photos. Where are all these people coming from? Are they different people from those who were here last night?

  Stacy is also here.

  Yay.

  She’s wearing little white shorts and cork platform sandals and one of Kellan’s purple tee shirts tucked in nice and tight. You can see her nipples. She’s all legs and mascara.

  She’s also chipper and beautiful and perfect looking and is a natural with the customers. Did I mention you can see her nipples?

  She helps work the booth, selling products and promoting her clinic and enrolling women into her online video conferencing personal training program. It seems she does the same thing Kellan does. I don’t know if she has 90 clients from all around the world, but she seems to be doing well.

  Kellan gives me a purple tee shirt with his company’s logo. I eventually get into the groove of selling products and I even start to have fun once I get the hang of swiping credit cards through the little terminal attached to a laptop on the table.

  I send Denise a selfie of myself in the booth, with Kellan in the background shaking hands and chatting with people.

  Denise texts back that the girl in the background doesn’t look too thrilled.

  I look closely and realize it’s Stacy inadvertently photobombing, with her arms crossed and looking like she’s pouting, unaware that she’s even in the photo.

  A little while later, Stacy and I have some downtime and she approaches me. “So, what’s the deal with you and Kellan?”

  I suddenly feel dumb, like we’re a couple of 14-year-olds.

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “I will.”

  Stacy is pretty much a smiling, two-faced, overly-mascara’d, pointy-nippled bitch the rest of the day. So sweet and doting on Kellan, reminding him to eat every two hours, making sure he gets only tilapia and green beans so he’ll be shredded that night, and no water.

  Kellan doesn’t seem to realize the game Stacy is playing.

  I hang back, feeling dumb. I want to leave, to find a bus out of town.

  7:30 P.M. ROLLS around and Kellan tells me it’s time to go backstage.

  I don’t say anything. I feel so stupid. But I do my best to act normal.

  “What’s wrong?” Kellan asks me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Do you feel funny because Stacy is here?”

  How does he do that? He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  I decide to lie.

  “No.”

  I try to sound casual.

  But my voice is too high. Too forced.

  “Claire, be honest with me.”

  I still don’t say anything.

  “Claire…”

  Finally I admit that he’s right.

  “I knew Stacy might pull some shit,” Kellan says. “She wasn’t even supposed to be here but my assistant Cody broke his ankle playing basketball so she came down on short notice.”

  He gives me the What-are-you-gonna-do? look.

  I follow him backstage where there are people in tiny posing trunks and sparkly bikinis lifting weights and doing push-ups and warming up with resistance bands and smearing baby oil on themselves and one another.

  Kellan takes off all his clothes, down to some tight and very sexy blue shorts that are indeed very short. He has me rub oil all over his body.

  I’m the oil wench.

  My hands slather coconut-scented oil all over his body.

  His perfect, amazing, toned, ripped, muscular body.

  It’s simultaneously paradise and torture.

  When I’m done, I go sit in the front row.

  Kellan is introduced by the emcee and everyone goes completely bat-shit crazy.

  Kellan saunters onto the stage. He assumes a fixed pose, like a statue. All the lights dim and he is left standing in a circle of heavenly white light.

  Wow.

  He slowly raises his arms and hits a perfect pose.

  He then spins and assumes a different pose. And on and on, showcasing his immaculately-sculpted body.

  I am in awe.

  The lights come up and Kellan approaches the front of the stage. He cups one hand behind his ear and beckons the audience with his other hand. Everyone cheers. He stomps his foot down onto the stage and the muscles in his leg pop out. He leans forward and flexes his arms and chest. He sticks out his tongue and his entire body is a mass of ro
ck-hard perfect muscle.

  Kellan finishes his routine and takes a bow. Everyone goes berserk. He gets a standing ovation.

  I realize why he likes being onstage. It’s a rush just sitting here watching it. I can imagine being up there myself, receiving the accolades and praise, hearing the cheers and whistles and applause.

  After Kellan’s routine, the contestants are brought out and the winners announced.

  Kellan comes and finds me. He’s dressed once again and I ask him if we’re going back to the hotel.

  I dare to hope we can finally be alone together. And conscious. And covered in oil. Both of us.

  He says no, it’s photo op time. He hands me a ready-meal, we wolf them down using plastic forks, and there is more meet-and-greet at the booth.

  I help people take pics and hand out 8x10s for Kellan to sign.

  Stacy is nowhere to be seen, which is fine with me.

  BY 11:00 P.M., most of the people have cleared out.

  It’s mostly exhibitors taking down their banners and tables and apparel.

  Kellan and I help Stacy pack up what little is left of Kellan’s inventory. Which is almost nothing. It’s been a good day sales-wise.

  While Stacy is taking stuff out to her car, I ask Kellan if we’re going back to the hotel now. Much like 24 hours ago, I’m wondering if it’s time for nakedness and touching.

  And more kissing.

  After the kiss in the car yesterday during the test drive, I’ve been anxiously waiting for more.

  Kellan says no, we’re not going back to the hotel just yet because it’s party time. He hands me another ready-meal and a plastic fork and a bottle of water and we eat quickly. We say good night to Stacy and head outside to the new Aventador, leaving Stacy to finish packing everything up.

  SUNSET BOULEVARD IS a disco of cars and lights and traffic and people. The sights and sounds of Hollywood and West Hollywood, for Kellan drives us west.

  There’s so much energy here.

  Much like yesterday on the 405, everyone goes crazy when they see the Aventador. They take pictures and selfies and honk and wave and give a thumbs-up.

  Traffic is heavy but it almost feels more like a Saturday night cruise than a traffic jam.

  Eventually, we make it to our destination.

  We pull up out front of what can only be a club.

  I hate clubs.

  The last club I was in was the goth club where I met Tommy Warcraft.