Iron Born (Iron Palace Book 1)

by Lisa Ferrari

  I lift the lid and find a plate of salmon and broccoli. It smells incredible. I’m not the least bit hungry because I ate tri-tip and green beans at work.

  Kellan comes out of his office. He’s off the phone. He wraps his arms around me and gives me a big hug. “Hi. Welcome home.”

  The fact that he has repeatedly referred to his house as ‘home’ continues to confound me.

  But I do like it.

  It makes me feel welcomed.

  It makes me feel that he truly wants me here. With him.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Not really. I ate tri-tip and green beans at work.”

  “Okay. We’ll save it for later. What do you feel like doing?”

  “You.”

  Kellan laughs. “Oh really? How about a quick workout and we’ll see what we can do?”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll probably have to work after that, though. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do to get ready for the trip. It seems like no matter how far in advance I plan and coordinate and email and text and call, I’m always on the phone up to the very last minute, putting out fires and getting everything ready. See, that’s why I need you. I need a good assistant who can share the workload. Someone smart who knows what she’s doing to handle some of the logistics.”

  It’s tempting. Getting paid to spend time with Kellan. But my gut tells me it’s probably not wise.

  Don’t mix business with pleasure.

  Even if being all mixed up in the rock-hard and yummy pleasure that is Kellan Kearns is becoming my new business?

  I decide to change the subject. “Should we work out?”

  Kellan grins; he’s no dummy. “Sure.”

  AFTER A GRUELING shoulder workout, we ooze into the Jacuzzi for a soak. Once we’ve recovered, I attempt to have my way with him. But his phone keeps ringing.

  First it’s the promoter.

  Then it’s the tee shirt guy.

  Then it’s one of his business partners with a problem with the supplement delivery to the venue.

  Then there’s a problem with the rental car company and Kellan’s credit card.

  Then someone named Simone calls about a possible photoshoot for a website that Kellan hadn’t planned on.

  It becomes obvious to both of us that now is not the best time to fool around.

  We dry off and Kellan returns to his office.

  I put on clean clothes and grab my laptop and curl up on his sofa to write.

  But I’m distracted by the fact that he’s leaving in the morning.

  I fart around online for a bit, sending some tweets to promote my books, checking sales numbers on Amazon. But it’s the usual underwhelming trickle of activity.

  I close my laptop and give up for the evening. It’s almost eleven. We have to be up in four hours. That’ll be fun.

  I go to the kitchen and heat up the plate Kellan prepared for me. I sit at the kitchen island and eat.

  Kellan emerges from his office and pops a ready-meal in the microwave. He sits down beside me, exhales loudly, and begins to eat.

  “You still want to take the Huracan for a spin?” he asks.

  “It’s late. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I said we would, so we still can. I’m up for it.”

  I’m not. I’m bummed that he’s leaving. I want to be able to enjoy it. “That’s okay.”

  “We’ll do it when I get back, okay? Monday. Tuesday at the latest. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  His phone rings and he goes into his office, leaving his meal half eaten. He never comes back.

  I finish eating and put the rest of his meal in the fridge.

  After brushing my teeth, I put on my shorts and tee shirt and climb onto Kellan’s massive, luxurious bed. I figure I’ll read for a few minutes and try to get some sleep.

  Or maybe touch myself.

  While I smell his pillow.

  And perhaps Kellan will walk in and discover me doing it.

  The next thing I know, I wake up and the lights are off but Kellan isn’t in bed. I check my phone; it’s 1:17 a.m.

  I roll out of bed and find Kellan in his office, sitting in front of his computer. He’s answering texts on his phone while composing an email.

  “Coming to bed soon?” I ask. I kiss his neck and rub his chest with my hands, hoping to tempt him away from work.

  “In a little while. Two more emails to write. Those dipshits at the rental car company charged my credit card twice. Randy says we have eighteen cases of the Blueberries-and-Cream bars and eighteen cases of the Strawberries-and-Cream bars but zero cases of the Chocolate Brownie. It was supposed to be a dozen of each one, not eighteen of two and none of the other.”

  “Who’s Randy?”

  “Some guy I hired off Craigslist to help me out in North Carolina.”

  “You hired some guy off Craigslist?”

  “I had to do something. My usual guy is still laid-up. I know this super-hot girl who would be perfect for the job but she’s not interested. You think I should offer her more money?”

  This is clever. “You could try. But if she’s not interested it’s probably got nothing to do with money. Some people aren’t motivated by money.”

  “That’s true. That’s one of the many reasons I like her so much.”

  “What are the other reasons?”

  “Well…” Kellan pulls me down onto his lap. “She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s educated. She’s very beautiful, of course. She has a lovely singing voice. She’s got a great sense of humor and she likes a lot of the things that I like. Which is good; it’s important for couples to have common interests. She’s a dynamo in bed, too.”

  “Oh really? A dynamo?”

  “Absolutely. She gives the best blowjobs in the whole world.”

  “In the whole world, huh?”

  “In the whole…”—he kisses me—“…world.”

  I yawn.

  “Go back to bed. It’s late.”

  “Come with me.”

  “I’d have to be up in an hour-and-a-half. I think I’ll just stay awake. Maybe sleep on the plane.”

  I kiss him and go back to bed. I burrow into his comforters and pillows, inhaling the scent of him, warm and sweet, cradling a pillow in my arms and pretending it’s him.

  A SHORT WHILE later, Kellan wakes me with a mug of steaming-hot coffee. I sit in bed and drink it, trying to wake up.

  “You sure you want to drive me to the airport?” Kellan asks. “You could stay here and sleep. I can drive myself.”

  “No, I want to take you.” It’s needy and girly and kinda dumb, but I want to spend as much time with him as I can. Even if it means saying goodbye just before he goes through security.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, we’re exiting the parking garage and walking into the terminal. Kellan holds my hand while we walk. It feels nice.

  He gets his First-Class ticket and we make our way toward security, where we say goodbye. He pulls me aside, over behind a big potted plant. He kisses me. A long, firm kiss full of wanting, with his hands in my hair and on my face.

  It leaves me breathless.

  And wanting.

  And even more bummed that I’m not going to see him and touch him and sleep beside him for four days.

  I try to get a grip. It’s a measly four days. I have to work every day, anyway. It’ll give me time to go see Denise and see if she’s even the least bit compunctious after her inappropriate antics the other night. She can demonstrate her penitence by taking me out to dinner. Someplace expensive. I think a show of remorse and an expensive meal will bridge the rift between us.

  Kellan goes up the escalator toward the security line.

  I don’t. (Ticketed passengers only.)

  The line to get through security is surprisingly large for four o’clock in the morning on a Thursday.

  Kellan waves just before he gets into line.

  When I can no longer see him, I decide to go back to m
y car. But then I take a seat on a bench by the big glass doors leading outside to the curb. My parking fee won’t get any cheaper by me sitting here, but I want to wait until I know he’s on the plane. The bench is made of wooden slats and they hurt my butt. There’s a Cinnabon cart across the terminal. I can smell the cinnamon. I contemplate shoving one of those down my gullet to make myself feel better. Despite knowing that I’ll feel good while I chew it but like crap once it’s in my stomach, heavy and gross, leeching a gazillion grams of sugar into my blood, spiking my insulin and taking me so far out of fat-burning mode that it’ll take ten hours of fasted cardio to get back into it.

  I marvel at how much Kellan has taught me in such a short period of time.

  Why did I not know this stuff before?

  My phone pings. Kellan says he’s through security and on the plane. That was fast. The perks of flying First Class, I guess.

  A minute later, a pic comes in. It’s a selfie of Kellan in his seat, frowning and pointing to an empty seat next to his.

  It won’t be as much fun

  flying without you, Clay-bar.

  Why does he keep calling me that?

  Why do you keep calling me

  Clay-bar?

  I’ll tell you when I get home.

  Great. More suspense.

  Have a good flight.

  I want to tell him that I’ll miss him. But I also don’t want to appear desperate.

  I sit on the hard wooden bench. For some reason, I don’t get up and drive home. I should probably go back to bed, get some sleep before work.

  The warm aroma of cinnamon rolls fills my nose, calling me.

  I bet they can’t be more than four or five bucks. I’m pretty sure I have a five in my wallet.

  I bet they take debit cards.

  Should I get coffee or milk with it?

  I should probably get TWO of them….

  NO!

  Kellan wouldn’t want me eating that kind of stuff. We’re apart ten minutes and I revert to my old habits?

  This is bullcrap.

  I get up and leave. My butt cheeks are numb from the wooden bench.

  I get my car from the parking structure, use that lone fiver to pay for parking, and drive home.

  MY APARTMENT IS a mess.

  I don’t remember leaving it looking like a total pig sty when Kellan and I stopped in to get clean clothes the other day.

  Maybe it’s because I know I’m going to be here for the next five days, rather than at Kellan’s house. His beautiful, amazing, cozy house that I love. I don’t hate my apartment, but it’s nothing like Kellan’s house.

  I kick off my shoes and climb into bed. I’m not hungry. Goes to show how stupid it would’ve been to eat that cinnamon roll.

  I’m momentarily proud of myself that I pulled my head out of my ass and didn’t buy one.

  FIVE HOURS LATER, I’m at work.

  In my men’s work pants.

  Sweating my butt off.

  And wondering if Kellan has landed yet. He said he would call me once he’d landed. I’ll probably be carrying a tray when my phone buzzes in my pocket and won’t be able to answer.

  By the time we’ve finished our shift, have stuffed the soiled linen into the stinky green bags and have tossed them into the big bin out back, Kellan hasn’t called or texted.

  By the time I clock out and drive to Iron Palace and have changed my clothes in the car like usual and am warming up on the elliptical machine that I now know how to operate, there’s still no word from him.

  I crank up my tunes on my phone and decide to work my legs, since my shoulders are rubbery and sore from last night.

  I wish my vagina was rubbery and sore.

  I start to fantasize about Kellan. In my mind, I picture his erect penis. So hard yet soft, thick, and hot to the touch.

  Focus, Claire.

  The far right corner of the gym is where the squat racks and leg presses and hack squat and calf machines and other stuff are. The whole area is empty.

  It’s nearly seven p.m. and the after-work workout crowd is thinning. But all five bench presses are still in use. All seven flat benches in front of the dumbbell racks are in use. The Smith Machine with the cables has eight people using the various stations. And at least three-quarters of the cardio area is full.

  But the leg equipment is all vacant.

  I remember Kellan telling me how crucial it is to build legs, both as a foundation for a solid physique and simply to burn calories because legs contain such large muscle groups.

  I dare to be a tiny bit proud of myself for being the only person in the entire gym to train legs, and I head over to the squat rack I normally use with Kellan. I put a little 25-pounder on each end of the bar and squat 20 times to warm up. I’m already warm from the elliptical machine, but Kellan always says to do at least one light set of each exercise before moving on to the heavier, working sets because it’s important to work the muscles and connective tissue you’re planning to use through their full ranges of motion. This is important for injury prevention, which Kellan always says is the number one goal. Secondary goals are building muscle mass and burning fat, shifting body composition, and getting fit and sexy so you look good naked.

  I want to look good naked.

  In the mirror.

  With Kellan’s cock in my mouth.

  Focus, Claire.

  I pull off the 25’s and throw a 45 on each side. But just as I’m about to get under it, I realize Kellan isn’t here and I therefore have no spotter. I don’t have a weight belt, either. Crap.

  I’m not sure what to do.

  Should I proceed with the lift or move on to something else? Leg press, maybe, since no spotter is really required for that.

  There are three guys on the nearest incline bench watching me.

  They’re probably wondering why the sad, lonely, big girl is doing squats all by herself. Probably because she’s so desperate to have a smaller ass that she thinks squats are the way to get one.

  Well, screw them.

  I lift the bar off the pegs and do 15 squats with relative ease. It is only 135 pounds. My legs start to burn on the last five reps and it feels good.

  But now what?

  Normally, Kellan and I would go up. We’d add weight.

  But Kellan isn’t here.

  And those guys are watching me in between sets. They have a 45 on each end of their bar. I’m squatting the same weight they’re benching on incline. Kellan says incline bench press recruits the muscle fibers in your upper pectoral area, as well as your anterior deltoids aka the front of your shoulders, and that the best way to build an aesthetic, strong, balanced chest is from the top down.

  It looks pretty pathetic that I’m squatting the same weight they’re using for incline bench.

  I slide a 25 onto each end of the bar. That’s 185 total.

  I get under it, determined not to look like a dumb girl; determined to look like someone who knows what she’s doing.

  I don’t have Kellan’s thick leather weight belt, but I remember he always says to suck my stomach in a little in order to engage the abs, which will support my lower back. This is doubly important now that I have no belt.

  I go down slowly, testing the weight. I try to focus on my reflection in the mirror in front of me, rather than on the three guys now openly, brazenly watching me.

  I get close to my thighs being parallel to the floor, the way Kellan taught me, and then drive up. It’s a bit of a challenge, given that I have approximately my own body weight on my shoulders.

  I bang out eight more reps.

  Rather than go for a tenth, I rack it.

  I actually did it.

  I drink some water, pull each of my feet backwards up to my butt to stretch each quadriceps, and rest for a minute while I decide what to do.

  The three guys have resumed their workout, but they’re still looking at me. I wonder if 185 is a lot for a girl. There’s literally not one other person in the entire area wo
rking legs, so I have no one to compare to, male or female.

  In a defiant act of complete bravery or unquantifiable stupidity, I pull the 25’s off the bar and slide another 45 on each end.

  I’ve done this with Kellan before. Always with his help, but I’ve done it. I quickly add up the weights in my mind: 45 plus 45 is 90. Times two is 180. Plus the bar, which is 45, that equals 225.

  Crap.

  Is this totally cool or totally stupid?

  I take a sip of water and see the three guys watching me again.

  No backing out now.

  I decide to see if I can get 6 reps. I did 8 with Kellan, but he helped me on the last few. A lot. And I had a belt. I hope I don’t herniate a disc and wind up skyping with Kellan from the hospital on my way into orthopedic surgery.

  I stretch each of my quads briefly again, because Kellan said a quick static stretch has been proven to cause a temporary strength increase of 14%. I need every percentage I can get.

  I shake my legs out, get under the bar, and stand upright.

  Uh-oh. It’s heavier than I remember it being.

  I take a step back and remember Kellan telling me not to mess around when I have weight on my shoulders; don’t stand there and think about it, wondering if I can do it or what I’m going to have for dinner or who will be President of the United States ten years from now. None of that stuff matters; all that matters is this set.

  I tighten my stomach, inhale and slowly squat down. I get scared near the bottom and drive back up before hitting parallel. But who cares? This is heavy. I take two quick breaths, suck in my stomach, and go again. I get a bit lower this time and then drive back up. That’s two.

  I do it again. That’s three.

  My shoulders are burning because they’re sore from last night.

  Breathe, breathe, squat! I suck in my stomach and squat down and back up.

  Four.

  The guys are totally watching me now. I see two big black guys at the drinking fountain watching me too. Stupid mirrors.

  Two more. Two more.

  Breathe, flex, squat…down and up.

  Five.

  One more, one more.

  My legs feel like lime Jell-O. My chest hurts, my arms hurt, and I’m out of breath.

  I take a deep breath and squat. I go a bit lower than I did before, because all these guys are watching me and I need to get a full repetition, not some girly half-rep that they’ll laugh at.