Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

  I open the back door for him. Kellan is wearing acid-washed jeans and a baby-blue denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He really knows how to bring out his eyes and make my heart skip a beat. When he comes in, everyone goes bonkers. Chris is there, all impressed and stuff.

  Kellan asks Chris if he’s busy.

  “Not really. Dinner is served, so we’re just cleaning up.”

  “How many beers have you had?”

  “None.”

  “Wanna take the Lambo for a spin?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “Okay!”

  We all go outside to the parking lot.

  The green Huracan is there, looking so sleek and sexy it’s almost scary.

  Chris gets in. Kellan leans close to me and says, “Be right back.” He kisses me quickly on the cheek. Then he gets in and he and Chris drive out.

  Everyone looks at me. Rex and Terry actually tease me with “Ooh, Claire!” and “Ooh la la!”

  I’m torn: yes, Kellan just kissed me; but it was on the cheek. Is he trying to tell me something? Is he trying to meet my expectation of being kissed while trying to tell me that he’s not actually interested in me that way, so the kisses are more platonic?

  He went above and beyond last night with the way he took care of me when I was drunk and hurling everywhere, which is very sweet. And he checked in on me just now, which is also sweet and very considerate.

  But he also just showed up where I work, which could be seen as kinda desperate.

  Plus all that talk last night about anal fisting, and the smack on my ass, was…interesting. Was he kidding? Kellan has such a mysterious demeanor and he says such crazy stuff that I can’t tell when he’s serious and when he’s messing around.

  Or what his kisses mean.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, I walk into Iron Palace and Kellan is already there. He’s leisurely pedaling on a stationary bike, reading a book.

  I walk up to his bike. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He smiles his spectacular smile that makes me want to lick his teeth and suck on his tongue.

  But he doesn’t get off his bike.

  He doesn’t kiss me.

  “I saved you a seat.” He smacks the seat of the bike next to his. Every other stationary bike is similarly free.

  “There’s no one else here.”

  “I know,” he says. “That’s why it’s funny.”

  I climb up onto the seat and start pedaling, trying to put the lack of a kiss out of my mind.

  “What are you reading?” I ask.

  He shows me the cover of the book: Chamber of Secrets. “Cool. Where’d you get it?”

  “Stopped at the used book store today. Only two bucks.”

  “A used book? Wouldn’t you rather have a brand new book?”

  “Not really. They had several of these. This one was in the best condition. It looks new. When I opened it, the binding creaked. I think maybe someone bought it and never read it. Besides, I’d rather support a small local business than a big retail box store. Don’t get me wrong, I like those kinds of places, too. I don’t want any business to fail. But the mom-and-pop stores need a little extra support. Although to be honest I think they’re doing just fine. There were so many books in there you could hardly walk. And they had piles and piles of books they hadn’t even gone through yet.”

  I’m pleased he went to the trouble of purchasing a copy. It makes me happy to see that he’s taking a liking to something I adore so much.

  “So what do you want to train tonight?” he asks. “How do you feel?”

  “I feel good. Hangover is gone. My chest is a tiny bit sore and feels a little tight, my shoulders are sore, my glutes are sore, but otherwise good.”

  “How about some dead lift to start? We’ll go from there.”

  “Cool.”

  After our ten minutes of warm-up pedaling, we make our way to the back of the gym where the squat racks are. Kellan puts two long Olympic bars on the black, rubbery floor and starts sliding 45-pound plates on each end.

  I slide a 25-pound plate on each end of mine. Ninety-five pounds feels like a good warm-up weight. I do two sets of 15 reps. I then go up, pulling off the 25’s and sliding a 45 on each end. From 95 to 135. Another set of 15 feels good. More of a challenge, but doable.

  Kellan does several sets with his own massive amount of weight. His weights rattle when he lifts. They clang and thump on the floor each time he lets it down.

  He shows me how to stand with my legs apart and bend over, stretching my hamstrings, then go side to side, touching each toe. And how to do a runner’s stretch by doing a static lunge, stretching the muscles on the front of my pelvis. God, it feels good.

  “I never knew stretching could feel this good.”

  “Remember that,” he says. “Stretching is crucial. It’s a key component of injury prevention. Never stretch a cold muscle and never work an over-stretched muscle.”

  “What’s an overstretched muscle?”

  “You ever been out jogging and one of your hamstrings starts to hurt a little? So you run a bit more, and it still hurts. So you stop and stretch, and it feels a little better. But when you start jogging again, it gets worse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s an overstretched muscle. The best thing to do is to stop.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “So, if that ever happens, let me know. Okay? Your set. Here, I’ll spot you.”

  I have a 45 and a 25 on each side of the bar, for a total of 185 pounds, including the bar. It’s a lot. Kellan stands close beside me as I position my feet in front of the bar, tighten my back belt, kneel down, and grab the bar. He puts one hand on my butt and the other hand on my chest just above my breasts while I lift.

  There’s no way on God’s green earth I can concentrate on doing a proper dead lift while Kellan Super-Hunk Kearns is caressing my ass and boobs. But I try anyway.

  The first rep is hard. Really hard. Almost scary hard.

  The second rep is easier. I guess because I know what to expect.

  The third rep is the toughest. My form starts to falter, especially at the end, and before I can contemplate a fourth rep, Kellan says, “You’re done.” And I drop the weight with a satisfying loud clanking sound.

  “I did it.”

  “See? I knew you could. In life, you can always do more than you think you can. Whether it’s in business or in the gym. That’s true for everyone. Me included.”

  “Will this make my ass look better?”

  “Absolutely. Why do you ask?”

  I can’t believe I’m about to say what I’m about to say, but I say it anyway. “You know that expression guys use when they say, ‘I’d eat a mile of her poop just to see where it came from’?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I want guys to say that about me.”

  Kellan nods pensively. He chuckles. “Guys, huh?”

  “You know what I mean. I see the way women look at you.”

  “How do they look at me?”

  “Like you’re the most beautiful, sexy, hottest man they’ve ever seen and they’ve never been with a guy like you and for one tiny infinitesimal moment, they entertain the notion of what it would be like to have sex with you, to be seduced by you, to get their brains…you-know-whatted-out out by a guy with a body like yours. And…like they’d be willing to do almost anything for that opportunity. It’s like when you see someone you find attractive, like really, REALLY attractive, like a person who is exactly your type, and you get butterflies and you have to pick your jaw up off the floor because you lay eyes on them and you’re all like, ‘Who is THAT?’ That’s how women look at you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really. You mean you don’t see them doing it?”

  “Sometimes. I mean, yeah, of course I catch women looking at me but I’m always thinking that they’re looking at me and thinking how big and muscular and veiny and disgusting I look, and that I’m just a big dumb ape who goes
to the gym six hours a day to make his muscles bigger because he got picked on when he was a kid or because he has a small-man complex or because he has a tiny dick or no money or his father never loved him. And then he goes home and slams a bunch of steroids, which he’s almost surely dealing to kids on the side in order to finance his own habit, by the way. I’ve had more than one woman, and a of couple of dads, accuse me of that when they saw me in a high school parking lot in my Mercedes.”

  “What were you doing in a high school parking lot?”

  “Selling steroids. Duh. No, the school invited me to come speak to the kids during an assembly, to tell them how to succeed in life.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “To work hard and not to expect to have stuff handed to them. And not to feel sorry for themselves, because the only person stopping them from achieving anything they want in life…is them. They seemed to enjoy it. I know I look different. I am different. Most of the time, I’m terribly self-conscious about it. Why do you think most bodybuilders wear baggy sweats and huge oversized sweatshirts a lot of the time? They’re trying to hide their muscles. It’s one of the reasons they all like to train together at the same gym. They feel accepted. They don’t feel a need to hide.”

  “Why do they work so hard to make themselves look like that only to cover themselves up? It makes no sense.”

  “Sure it does. In an environment where they’re the only ones who look like that, it can be difficult. It requires a lot of mental fortitude and a certain attitude to know everyone is looking at you and judging you and to not care. I don’t think anyone can be in that state of mind 24/7. And no matter where you go, there are people who can be real assholes.”

  “Like where?”

  “Like at the Turtle last night. You didn’t hear it but there were some people there talking shit.”

  “To you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were they saying?”

  “One guy out in the parking lot said the car was stupid and I should give the money to charity. Another guy said I’m just a fucking roid monkey and that I suck dick because everyone knows women think bodybuilders are disgusting and the only people who like bodybuilders are other bodybuilders so therefore all bodybuilders are gay. Stuff like that happens all the time, everywhere I go. Like at some friggin Planet Dipshit gym where you’re not allowed to grunt but it’s okay because hey, free bagels and pizza. Heaven forbid you pull out your smart phone and do a little research about what all that sugar and flour is doing to your body. They go to the gym every day and do an hour on the elliptical, sweating all over it, and after three months they’re all like, ‘Hey, I lost three pounds. I’m going in the right direction.’ No, you’re not. You’re treading water. I suppose the effort is commendable and yeah it’s helping their heart and maybe even their cholesterol, which is another discussion entirely, but three pounds in three months? It should be a minimum of three pounds a month. At least a pound a week if you’re eating right. Instead of being judgmental, why don’t they find someone like me who looks good and clearly knows what he’s doing and say, ‘Excuse me. I don’t mean to bother you but you’re clearly the fittest person in the gym. Would you mind giving me some tips about what I’m doing wrong?’ I guarantee you that ten out of ten people would be happy to help. But no, they want to wallow in their fear and talk shit about lunkheads like me and never get under a squat rack. Like squat racks are the problem. Their fear and timidity are the problem. Removing squat racks caters to that timidity. It reinforces it. Grab some balls and start lifting. Find out what you’re made of. And besides, what about the way guys look at you?”

  I’m thrown by the sudden shift towards me after Kellan’s rant. “Guys don’t look at me.”

  “Of course they do. I see it all the time. They look at you, then they look at me, then they look at you again. And then they take one last little glance at me to see if I caught them looking at you.”

  “Why are they looking at me? I’m sure they’re all looking at you.”

  “Lots of guys look at you. Yes, people look at me because I’m a spectacle, but they look at you, too. Trust me. I’ve seen it.”

  “When? Where?”

  “For example, at the Hollywood Classic. When you were working the booth, tons of guys were checking you out.”

  “Probably laughing at the delusional fat chick who doesn’t belong with the super-fit sexy dreamboat.”

  “Would you stop. Look at you. Claire, you are beautiful. You don’t see it because all you see is a woman wearing clothes that don’t fit right who hates what she sees in the mirror.”

  “I don’t hate it. But I don’t love it. I mean, look at you. You look amazing in your black Adidas training pants with the shiny red stripes and your red Nikes and your black tank top. You look amazing. Like you belong here. Look at me. I look like one of your pathetic little fat-ass training clients who doesn’t stand a chance, like I’m never going to look the way I want to look. I’m never going to look like Stacy.”

  “Stacy? What’s she got to do with this?”

  “I thought you said you don’t dip your pen in the company ink.” I pull out my phone and show him Stacy’s Instagram page and the pics of her and Kellan. “See, look. You guys are practically doing it.”

  Kellan sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. “Look, Stacy and I did date. For about two weeks. All those photos were taken during that time. But the whole time, I had misgivings because of our business relationship. So I broke it off and it was amicable.”

  “Amicable, huh?”

  “Yes. Very much so.”

  “She wants to have sex with you.”

  “Claire…”

  “She does. I think she’s in love with you.” It occurs to me to tell Kellan about Stacy questioning me during the Hollywood Classic, but I decide not to.

  “Maybe she is and maybe she isn’t. I have no control over that. I try not to worry about stuff over which I have no control. Stacy knows where I stand.”

  “Yeah, in her bedroom with your dick inside her.”

  “Claire!”

  I don’t know what it is about competing for men that makes women think and speak and act like this. I’ve seen Denise do it a thousand times. It’s not healthy. It’s certainly not rational. And men sure as heck don’t like it.

  I know all that.

  But I’m doing it anyway.

  I’m behaving in the same petty, insecure manner.

  “You’re not going to get back together with her?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not in…like…some friends with benefits kind of thing?”

  “No. We’re not friends with benefits. Don’t repeat this but we’re actually not even friends. Not really. We don’t hang out all the time or anything. We communicate fairly regularly but it’s all business stuff. We never do anything socially. Last night was the first time I’ve seen her outside of the gym or her clinic in a long time. Months.”

  I hold up my phone as proof to the contrary.

  Kellan sighs. “Look, a bunch of those are from last night. The rest of them are really old. How pathetic is that?”

  I scroll through the pics of Stacy in her little shorts and strappy shoes. “But look at her. She’s like…an eleven. What am I compared to her?”

  “You are amazing, Claire, as I’ve told you. You’re beautiful, you’re kind, you’re smart.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, “Way smarter than Stacy.” He makes a frowny ‘yikes’ face. “And you’re much smarter than I am,” he resumes, “with all those books you’ve written. That’s something I could never do. But look, don’t compare yourself to anyone. There is only one person on earth you should compare yourself to. Or, to whom you should compare yourself, because I know grammar matters to you.”

  And it does. His attempt at proper grammar is touching.

  “And that person,” he says, “is the person you were yesterday. Okay? Every day, you need to ask yourself ‘What have I done toda
y to make myself a better person than I was yesterday? What have I done today to get one step closer to my goals? What have I done today to get one step closer to becoming the best, strongest version of myself?’ The only thing standing between who you are and who you want to be is the work required to get there. You can endure the pain of hard work or you can endure the pain of regret. I prefer the former. Most people seem to be able to live with the latter. Not me. If you work hard in the gym, work hard out of the gym to stay on your nutrition plan, and you’re patient, your body will change. You will be one of those girls with a perfect ass who has guys looking at her and saying they want to eat a mile of her doo-doo just to see where it came from.”

  Despite Kellan’s moving and profound and clearly correct diatribe, I have difficulty believing what he says is true. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. I guarantee it. But you have to do the work. I can’t do it for you. No one can. It’s all on you. And if you do it, you’ll be the one to reap the rewards. See, it’s a peculiar thing. A perfect body is something everyone has to work for. Everyone. You can’t inherit it. You can’t win it in the lottery. You sure as heck can’t buy it, no matter how much money you have. All the plastic surgery in the world simply can’t do it.”

  “But how long will it take?”

  “Well, it’s not like turning on a light switch where it’s dark and a second later it’s light and you have the body you always wanted. It’s a process. Your body will change and evolve over time. You’ll be able to see it changing. Your muscles will get bigger and fuller. Your body-fat percentage will drop and you’ll get leaner and will be able to see those muscles more and more over time. But to get where you really want to be, like to be ready to step on a stage for competition, for example—not that I’m pressuring you to do that—but to be in THAT kind of shape, you probably need six months minimum. And that’s under perfect circumstances with you training regularly and eating really, really, really, really, really well. I mean, really well. In real life, it’s probably more like nine months. Maybe ten. Or eleven. Or twelve.”

  “That long?”

  “It all depends. I’ve had clients do it in six. Others in eighteen. But it depends on where they’re starting from and how focused they are. Besides, it’s not that long. I read that when the Rock was training for Hercules, he worked out every day and ate his ass off and his plan was 22 weeks. That’s six months. Even for someone like him with blessed genetics and a great body to begin with. It takes time. It’s not like I came out of the womb looking like this. I didn’t look like this in high school. Or even in college. I really got into lifting in my twenties. I fell in love with it and have been doing it ever since.