by Chloe Plume
And this wasn’t your typical gym. Instead of those Life Fitness machines and scrawny benches you saw at the run-of-the-mill commercial places, all you got here was an open expanse of hard rubber flooring, racks sticking out everywhere like torture contraptions and large stacks of thick metal plates.
This was Wild Iron—a gym for fighters. We affectionately called it the dungeon. We didn’t train like bodybuilders, doing endless curls with 30-pound weights. We loaded hard, cold, iron, hundreds of pounds of it, on our shoulders and pushed our strength to the limit. We’d go outside into the parking lot and drag a 250-pound metal sled until it scraped up the concrete. Then we’d swing 150-pound beer kegs straight above our heads before throwing them over a raised metal pole where they’d crash into the pile of wrestling mats on the other side.
And that was before we even got to the bags and conditioning. This was for strength. There was no better way to break through your limitations than reaching into that deep, primal need to absolutely wreck something, exert yourself and your presence in the most basic sense. We called it beast mode.
“Didn’t think you were the kind to get so attached you’d bring a girl around.”
Jay suddenly announced his unwelcome presence. I shrugged and began loading up the weight plates. I’d start with squats and work my way to shoulder presses. Strong legs were key.
“Always thought you were the poster boy for the hit-it-and-quit-it kind of life,” Jay continued. “You two steady or something?”
“Fuck no,” I snapped back in a knee-jerk kind of way. Just because Saylor was getting to me didn’t mean I was about to throw away my guiding principle: don’t get too attached to anything.
“So it’s not too serious is what I’m asking here,” Jay pressed on. “Same old, right? On to the next?”
“Sure. Whatever.” I finished loading up the weight.
“Good man. Good. Just asking.” Jay held up his hands in some indication of feigned deference. “Because she’s some fine looking piece of ass.” He stared out into the distance like he was contemplating something of great significance. “I mean…when you look at that juicy ass, those plump tits, and fuck man—remember I always said you want the girls with the lips that look like they can really get that soft, tight grip on your dick—well, that”—Jay nodded thoughtfully—“that’s the real deal, something I’ve been looking for myself.”
Something inside of me snapped. I shouldn’t have cared.
Why would I?
Jay and I talked the worst, filthiest shit about women all the time. I didn’t mind at all. We were both consummate chauvinists. Came with the territory and the girls never minded. Not like we cared. It was all about racking up the score points, one lay after another.
But this was different. Even though nothing had happened between us, she was mine. I had no idea why, but just the thought of another man thinking sexually about her brought a rush of hot blood to my head and my muscles tightened.
“If you ever”—I raised a pointed finger in front of Jay’s surprised face—“say any of that shit about Saylor again, I swear I’ll throw you in the fighting cage and put you in a world of hurt.”
He was taken aback, to say the least. His eyes widened with instinctive fear and emerging regret. He backed away and finally left me to my work.
I thought of Saylor. The image of her worked its way into my mind. Somehow I’d let her lay siege there. Somehow, she’d suppressed my capacity to reason. And now I had to admit it.
She’s gotten to me and I hate it.
There was a load of trouble waiting, but there was nothing I could do. So I stepped under the bar and pressed up until the weight sat on the shelf formed by my flexed back muscles. The cold, crushing iron dug deep, but I gave back that and then some. I needed to get her out of my mind.
Chapter 8
I sat in the coffee shop with a book I bought at the supermarket. It was the latest release by a name-brand author and it honestly wasn’t any good. Sometimes they got too big and things went downhill. I didn’t find an unimaginative reiteration very attractive. I was exhilarated by the unusual and drawn to the mysterious.
Like Dean.
He was stuck in my head, playing over and over like a Taylor Swift song. Even though I knew he was bad for me. Even though I knew every minute I stayed with him put me in more and more danger.
I mean, what did I think was going to happen?
Besides staying with Ace, I didn’t really have any other options. I could run. Get a job, move away from all of this. But who was I kidding? I wouldn’t survive one week in the real world. My life had been one carefully controlled situation after another. Plus, Ace would find me. And my stepfather, Roman Carmichael, didn’t want me around.
Or was I expecting Dean to save me?
Dean was a rough, rude, inked fighter. I’m Roman Carmichael’s stepdaughter. That’s the only reason a man like him was helping me—because Roman’s his boss. In a couple days, Dean would be back to the strip clubs, back to the easy girls at Headlights, and back to only giving a shit about himself.
I knew how hot-shot underground guys like him worked. My mom was married to the biggest criminal kingpin in the South. I spent two years of my life with the man who managed his massive illegal gambling network. I heard things.
And what made Dean all that different from Ace anyway? They were both men who worked in the underground. All they knew was crime, corruption, egotism, and greed. They solved all their problems with violence and their lives were full of problems.
Except Dean isn’t Ace.
One look at the two of them and the conclusion was obvious. Dean was built like a god, with bronzed washboard abs and muscles that could crush any man. Ace was a goon. Dean had a box of military service medals he kept hidden away; he was closed-off, abrupt, a mystery of a man. Ace paraded around in expensive suits and hid behind a bullshit nickname; he was smug, pompous, an overbearing windbag.
I remember that day we left the Sunshine Fellowship. My mom told me there were two types of men in this world. There’s the charmers, the duplicitous charlatans, those sweet talking phonies. They were the pseudo-men who tried to maneuver their way into respect and admiration.
Then there’s the other type. The real men. The kind that don’t say too much or care about winning people over, because they don’t seek approval. They walk into a room and they dominate it. It’s the way they stand, the way they take up the space around them, the way their very presence demands awe and deference. Dean was the embodiment of that type of man.
But there was something primal about him and it scared me. He had an edge. A dimension that both captivated me and scared me half to death. I was playing with fire—I knew that. But I couldn’t help but be drawn to it.
The coffee shop had an old clock in it, one of those antique wood ones that added whimsical charm. It struck 2:00 with a satisfying old-worldly ding and shocked me out of my protracted reflection.
Time to go
Dean said I should meet him back at the gym around 2:00. After a shower, he’d take me up to Wilmington to go shopping and get some clothes.
I knew it had to end. I knew the logical thing here was for us both to go back to where we belonged. But I was going to savor every moment I spent around him. Just being in his presence was a heady, exhilarating experience. I never wanted it to end.
When I walked through the door, the man at the front desk who’d been eyeballing me earlier was just staring at his magazine with an almost fearful fixation.
“Where’s Dean?” I asked.
He pointed without looking up.
Holy shit…
All the way across the wide expanse of the rubber floor, there was a huge steel rack. A long steel bar rested across it, five or six large plates fixed to either end. Thick metal chains hung from either end.
And there he is.
Dean stepped into the rack with a wide leather belt fastened around his impressively streamlined waist. He wore a tank top th
at strained as his back muscles bunched and he stepped under the bar and locked his body into position.
He grunted and lifted the massive weight off the rack, stepping back while it balanced on his upper back. The weight was so heavy, the bar was bending. His arms were so tense and pumped, I could see the veins running through them. The expansive cuts between his muscles grew even deeper as striations ran across the surface of his back, shoulders, and arms.
Then, with one fluid motion of his body, he bent his knees, the weight bounced on his upper back, and he heaved hundreds and hundreds of pounds high up into the air until his arms were extended almost fully. I could see his face in the mirror, red with massive, determined effort. And with something else. There was rage in his eyes, some kind of power beyond just that single act of unfathomable energy.
He let the weight fall back down onto the rack. It crashed, the sound of metal on metal resounding through the gym.
I walked over to him. He was removing his belt, the veins in his shoulders and arms slowly retracting back from the surface of his skin until he was smooth and hard as marble again.
“Let me shower and we’ll go.”
I nodded.
That was it. Dean was primal—a stirring mix of passion, power, and provocation all wrapped up in the perfect package. He bewildered me. He scared me. He aroused me.
Dean Hunter was all I could think about.
Chapter 9
We drove up alongside the Cape Fear River. I’d decided, in spite of knowing better, to let her stay the weekend. She said she needed Saturday and Sunday—apparently it had something to do with sea turtles. I’d find out tomorrow. I’d told her I’d take her to Holden Beach for some hatching or whatever it was when they all crawled out into the ocean.
There goes my Saturday…
For a guy who avoided commitment, I sure was getting involved. Funny thing is, it didn’t feel so bad, though I was frustrated by my lack of self-control. Every hour that went by was like stacking up the chips for the final hand. At some point Roman would call, I’d have it all on the line, and we’d turn the cards over. Was I really willing to go all in? Was I really willing to take it to the river?
Speaking of rivers, this one was fucking beautiful. When I moved here after my father’s funeral, I went up in a helicopter with a buddy of mine. He was another of us Marine guys looking for a second life. He worked with some company that did tours over by Oak island or something—I hadn’t seen him since.
From up there, the river was magnificent. It twisted gently, a bright deep blue, through the wide expanse of rolling flat valleys. Major highways converged around that river valley, and you could see them twisting together where US 17, 76, and 421 carried across the Cape Fear Memorial Bridge.
The USS North Carolina commanded your attention whether from high in the air or—as we were now—passing over the bridge and into downtown Wilmington. That old beast of war was the first of the fast battleships constructed to fight in the Pacific during WWII. Now it sat tethered in a small inlet, a memorial to citizens of the state who risked their lives in wartime. That ship and I shared a small moment every time I passed into Wilmington—two discarded wartime relics trying to rediscover a sense of purpose.
I revved my ’79 Pontiac Firebird 400 WS6 into historic downtown Wilmington.
“You know, USA Today named this the nation’s greatest riverwalk last year.” Saylor sat up and watched the scenery fly by through the window. “I always love coming down here,” she said with that eager, open tone that I was starting to get too attached to. “Well, for me it was down…Ace’s house is up further North and he would usually just drive right through to meet with Roman.”
I looked her over through the corner of my eye.
Fuck, she’s delicious.
“Yeah. They used to film a lot of movies and shows over here,” I noted. “Big time stuff, lot of jobs and tourism draw. They got rid of the financial incentives though. State managed to screw that one up.”
Saylor nodded. We were almost at the part of the riverwalk with all the shops and boutiques. I figured—what the hell else did I have to do—we could turn the shopping trip into something else.
“So, you ever been on the riverwalk?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“What! Really? How’s that? You live like half-an-hour north of here.”
Saylor turned, facing me with those wide-open eyes. “I know. I never had the opportunity given…”
“Yeah, I get it.” I looked her over from her bright, shining hair to the feminine curve between the swells of her hips and breasts. It boggled my mind how someone could have a girl like that and treat her like Ace did.
Fucking moron, that guy.
“I’ll park up ahead,” I told her. “Figure we can get you some stuff to wear for the weekend at one of those stores along the walk or whatever—I don’t know very much about all of that. But, listen, it looks like a nice night for a stroll.”
Saylor perked up. Enthusiasm was the defining mark of her personality, and for some reason it was driving me crazy. Why else would I be doing any of this?
“I can’t wait,” she exclaimed.
It was something in the way she got genuinely excited. She was open to the world and welcoming to every possibility in the most heartfelt way.
It was almost the opposite with me. I’d close-off at the slightest threat to my self-control and ordered approach to each and every day.
So, why’s she getting to me?
I couldn’t answer that, and I’m not sure I cared. If I wanted her, I’d have to have her.
The riverwalk stretched over a mile in front of us, seemingly endless and twisting sharply and suddenly as it weaved across the multifarious parts of the historic city.
“Just like life,” I mused out loud.
Saylor stood to my side, by the dry wood fence that marked the start of path across the weathered wood boards of the boardwalk.
“What do you mean?” She asked.
I shrugged, realizing too late I was talking out loud. “Just saying, you know, it doesn’t go straight across the bank of the river, or just a bit inland, or cut through just one part of town. It winds its way across all these different parts, twisting unexpectedly.”
Saylor gazed out over the river, which sparkled with the setting sun and the gentle descent of the summer dusk. “It is amazing, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“This place played such an important but immensely different role through so many different periods of history. It was a key port in the Civil War, launched battleships in WWII, and dozens of major movies were filmed here.”
“It still has the largest television production studio outside Los Angeles,” I added. “Not to mention, Roman’s legal gambling riverboats that never actually end up in international waters. But that’s legal fiction for you.”
Saylor smiled. “Well, that’s just it. That’s just my point. Nothing changes, it’s just one thing after another. Things build up, fade, but are always present in one way or another. Backdrops to famous movies and the USS North Carolina and the antebellum homes, and even all these microbrew places—it’s like seeing hundreds of years layered on top of each other, with the parts showing through.”
I’d never heard someone think about it like that. I paused to reflect and smiled. “Damn. Well, I mostly just came here for the beer, but let’s check it out.”
We started down towards the river marinas and the stretch of high-masted ships bobbing in the current. As the evening settled in, the night lights across the water and straight ahead into the distance brought a frenzied, energetic feel to the scene. In the morning, the wide banks of the river seemed almost sleepy, the town a proud but fading relic of American history. But then, at night it came alive. Innumerable lights glistening off the mirror-like spread of gentle water in yellow, white, orange, blue, red—every color imaginable.
As she scampered ahead of me, Saylor was the very picture of genuine excit
ement and buzzing enthusiasm. The way she ran from one side of the riverwalk, peering out over the bank across the water, and then back again towards the many shops and restaurants which formed at the other side of the old, weathered wood planks—it stirred something in me.
I worked out, got in the ring, drank… That’s about it. I hadn’t been enthusiastic about anything in years.
For good reason.
But her lively exuberance was starting to wear off on me. I was noticing things I’d been numb to for years.
Fuck, she’s beautiful.
Saylor scampered off in front of me and headed into one of the many stores showcasing strange and billowy clothing.
Hmmm…not my speed.
That was another thing. The girls I’d drowned myself in—those fast and easy women of the low-lit bars and drunken night—wore the tightest skirts and dresses, advertising each and every swell and curve of their bodies with overeager desperation. Saylor was different. And somehow, I wanted her even more because of it. Every glimpse of her body, the flash of a soft breast under the flow of her white top, the outline of her exquisite ass in those tight jeans—it drove me wild. I didn’t know how long I could resist, even though I knew I had to. My life depended on it.
Yeah, and how much is that worth?
It’s not like I was living the dream, with everything figured out. More like getting by, growing unhappier each and every day.
I followed Saylor into the boutique and sat on the couch in the corner—though I couldn’t be sure if it was for decoration or actual use—and waited until she came out of the dressing room.
Holy fucking shit.
When she did, I froze. Unexpectedly, since it wasn’t a lingerie store or anything.
Not even close…
This place sold all that billowy, flowing stuff that stylish girls liked to wear to the beach. It wasn’t exactly my speed. Left too much to the imagination, if you asked me. But hell, when Saylor came out of that dressing room, there was something in the way that everything she was wearing came together. Something in the way her skirt, though loose, accentuated the feminine, smooth lines of her legs. Something in the drape of her top over the prominent swell of those delicious looking breasts. It made me want her more than I’ve wanted any woman.
