by Finn, Emilia
Working out is my zen, and now someone else has put a kink in my plans.
I push my phone into a band wrapped around my arm, and as an extra zing to help me ignore my visitor, I turn the volume louder and head to the lone treadmill. This gym has a whole room set up with the treadmills and ellipticals. This room is just for the weights, but it’s as though the Kincaids have watched me train. They watched my habits, and because I do the same thing most days, they knew I needed the five-minute warmup. A month or so into my membership, a treadmill turned up in this room so I wouldn’t have to mingle with everyone else.
I adore this place, because those that want to talk to each other, do. And those that don’t are left the hell alone.
I turn the treadmill on and start slow, because my body aches from an extra-long sleep. I woke with a numb leg around four, having slept on it at a weird angle for six hours straight. My hand was asleep, my blankets tangled, and my leg stung as I turned and the blood rushed back in. I sleep like the dead on the last day after night shift, exhausted from work and exhausted from screwing with my sleep pattern, I force myself to sleep well into the next day to catch up. Then I have to work out to shed the nervous energy before I can settle back into regular daylight hours.
When my legs begin to warm and my eyes stray to the roaring lion on the man’s back a time too many, I turn the speed higher until I’m sprinting rather than jogging. My chest aches from my racing breath, but everything clears up. Every step I take helps clear my chest, my sinuses, my head. The fatigue that was hanging over me for no reason other than lack of sunlight fades away, to be replaced by the much more preferable physical exhaustion.
I love the burn in my thighs. The simultaneous icy cold and boiling hot in my lungs. I love that the thoughts of a gun and Oz in the same space fade away, and best of all, the leftover fear that my subconscious tossed at me in my dreams.
I woke a little past midnight last night with a sweaty brow, a racing heart and clammy palms. Greedily gasping for breath before dizziness took me under and thrust me back into my dream, I dove out of bed, toward the light switch. I flooded my room with light, then I ran through my apartment and flipped every switch from my room to the front door, because I could have sworn someone was watching me sleep.
Dark eyes in a dark room. Frighteningly broad shoulders, grabbing hands, and an angry grunt when I woke and threw myself out of bed. I raced around and double-checked my locks. I whipped the fire escape window open to make sure no one was out there, then I closed and locked it, shoving a length of wood into the frame to stop anyone opening it again.
I haven’t had a dream like that in… forever.
My breath whistles until my lungs literally feel like they’re seizing up. The roaring lion watches from across the room, but thankfully, his owner does not. I pull the plug on the treadmill before I fall on my face, and holding onto the handles, I jump onto the sides to let the belt slow without having to keep up.
Music buzzes in my ears, my shoulders heave to re-oxygenate my body, but then the endorphins hit and make me smile. The endorphins are why I come here. They’re better than any drug on the market. Better than anything the youth of today try to replicate with synthetic ingredients. Better than anything my father peddled and got rich on.
I would know.
When the treadmill stops, I step back onto the belt and reorient myself for a second, then stumbling off with a grin, I snatch up my water bottle and take a fast sip. My music plays, I keep my eyes down, and though I know someone else is here, I mind my own business and head toward the free weights.
I’m here to work out, not to study ink or men.
Stopping by the mirrors, I grab a long bar and begin loading it up with heavy plates. Eighty pounds on one side, and eighty on the other. Setting it in place on the floor and trying my damnedest not to look when my song switches over and, in the silence, I hear my neighbor’s grunts, I pat my hands on my thighs as though that helps them not ache from the bar. I don’t have lady hands. I have hands callused from the bar. Callused from the handle of my gun. Callused from hard work and my inability to be anything but a tomboy.
And I’m okay with that. I won’t ever be weak again.
When a new song comes on, I time the beat to my moves, and when the chorus thrums, I begin my first of many deadlifts. A hundred and sixty pounds make my arms sing. They make my shoulders burn. The small of my back strains, but it’s the best strain of them all. Being strong makes me happy. It gives me the freedom I never had when I was a child, the same way becoming a cop gives me freedom. I’m not at the mercy of others anymore. I’m the law, I uphold it fairly, and when an asshole points a fake gun at one of the only people I consider family, I get to smash faces and dislodge teeth.
I won’t ever be sorry for defending my family.
Concentrating on my breath, I lower my bar, slowly let it down, pause, breathe, then start bringing it up again. Twice. Three times. Four. I do three sets of four before I have to drop it again, and when I release it, I clap my palms to ease the sting.
Standing tall and swiping a hand over my brow, I study my pumped shoulders in the mirror. I love how lifting instantly builds my muscle. I love how you can see the blood flow, the veins, the gains. I love that I’ve created a diet that, although kind of bland sometimes, aids in maintaining my physique.
So many women are scared to lift weights, as though they might accidentally wake up looking like a young Arnold Schwarzenegger after the first day. Those people are uneducated, and thankfully, the people who own this gym are not. The women that run this place aren’t scared to lift a dumbbell, and they’re not scared to encourage other women to try it.
Well, except one of them. She seems almost terrified of ever raising her heartbeat above resting. And knowing that about her, knowing she weighs half of what I just lifted, knowing she never lifts a finger to work out, but she eats shit day in, day out, leaves me feeling a little… bitter.
I don’t talk to her, because while she eats chips and heckles those that do work out, I sweat and choke on my broccoli and chicken diet.
She’s nice, but I hate her on principle.
One song leads into another, and while Mr. Lion-Tattoo begins his pull ups and inadvertently shows off muscular lats, arms, and back, I move toward the bench press and load the weights on with slow movements. I have to remind myself today is a slow day, a relaxed day. Today is the day I get to be present in my workout, rather than somewhere else in my mind, planning my next step.
Laying back when the weights are set, I make myself comfortable and try to dial back in on my task. Push the weights, build my body, stop before I’m bigger than Arny, then go home to my chicken. And since it’s Saturday, I get dessert too. The real kind of dessert. The kind with sugar and bad fats.
I push my headphones in so they’re secure, then preparing my hands on the bar, I count my breaths and begin lifting.
My chest fires up, my arms and shoulders burn. I let my grunts come, despite my plans to keep quiet and not draw attention to myself. I lift the bar with an inhale of breath, then I slowly let it come down on an exhale. Music helps me focus on something other than the burn, but then a Disney song comes on, and I’m held prisoner, unable to change the song when my shuffle has a stroke and gives me all the wrong feels. I wanted hard rock, but instead, I get Troy and Gabriella.
I push my bar up again and fight the laughter that fills my chest. I expected to be mad, but instead, my exasperation comes out on a snort, and when the snort leaves my body, so does my strength. Halfway through a lift, my muscles give out, and the bar begins to lower. My feet lift off the ground, and my core fights to keep the bar away from my chest.
“Shit.”
I can’t get the bar back into the rack, so letting my left arm lower, I intend to drop it to the floor and reset, but then a bulging chest stops over the back of my head, hands grab my bar so what felt like it might crush me a moment ago now feels light as a feather. The arms help me move the bar
back into the rack while my breath whistles and my face burns from embarrassment.
I hate lifting weights in front of strange men, because they always, always assume we can’t do it. They assume anything above one-pound weights is beyond us, and I’ve reinforced that belief, all because Zac Efron began singing in my ear.
I sit up as soon as the bar is secure, tear the headphones from my ears, and turn to… I don’t know. Thank him? Or snap that I’m capable?
My brain wars with itself, but I do neither, because I turn and meet his blue-eyed gaze. He stares for a moment. He just stares when the rest of society knows they should look away after a second. His eyes bore into mine until heat touches my toes and my heart gives a fast knock. His chest is bare – not bare of ink, but bare of clothes. His pecs are fired up and full of blood from his workout, his biceps ropey and straining. His lips are thick, the kind that women act like fools for, coupled with long lashes that males are often gifted with.
He stares… and stares… and stares in the silence.
My music is tinny against my chest, still Disney, still Pop-y and not weightlifting worthy. I open my mouth to speak, close it, then open it again, because his eyes bore into mine and send my mind racing back to something long ago.
“Um…”
Classes out in the main part of the gym echo through to this room. The loud shouts from the karate class. The floor-shaking booms from those throwing bodies in the Jiu Jitsu class. The buzzer from the octagon, for those sparring. This gym is never quiet, but for a moment, it mutes, because this man stares and stares.
“Thanks…”
Finally, he blinks. Long lashes come down to brush the top of his cheeks, then open again to reveal blue eyes.
My brain scrambles to catch up, to stop believing I’m a child running through darkness, and to come up with something witty, but all I manage to force out is, “You didn’t have to help me with that. I had it.”
He doesn’t reply.
“I didn’t need a spotter,” I continue to argue my defense to a man that isn’t arguing back. A face that holds no bearing on my life, no resemblance, no memory. But his eyes… I know those eyes. “Maybe next time, you should stay on your side doing your thing. This ain’t my first day.”
His tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip, dragging my gaze down and sending my heart into a wild beat that my deadlifts didn’t. Polite society dictates he should have spoken already, that he should have stopped staring by now. Manners dictate he should have stopped licking his lips, but he considers himself above those expectations.
He stares, he studies me in complete silence, and finally, when I think I can’t take a single second more, he flashes a grin that makes my heart stop. “You okay?”
“Umm…” My eyes flicker across the room. To the door. To the mirrors. Then back to the blue eyes. “Yes.”
“I’m glad. It’d be a damn shame to watch you choke yourself out with a bar. I prefer women when they’re conscious.”
I pride myself on being tough, on being unflustered, and of never letting a man cloud my brain, but all I can manage is another, “Huh?”
He chuckles and turns away to snatch up a bottle of water and a set of keys, then flashing a wink, his grin grows the longer I sit in a clichéd daze. “Be safe, okay?” He shows off the powerful lion on his back as he turns away and out of the room.
Gone.
His absence is a powerful beast, like a black hole in the universe, sucking me in so my every thought is consumed by someone I didn’t even know existed a few minutes ago. It’s just…
“What the hell just happened?”
* * *
Ninety minutes and a long session in silence after stepping into the gym, I pass the front desk in fresh clothes after a shower, with my keys in hand and an inability to shake him off. Kit Kincaid is wife to Bobby, the former champion fighter who owns this gym. She’s spent every day for a decade and a half in this building, and not just behind the desk. She trains, she takes part in classes, she instructs classes, and if rumors are true, she has clout in the fighting world in a managerial-type position.
Mostly she became the spokesperson when her little brother was the champion, and as big sister, she made sure no one was taking advantage or selling him shitty contracts. In her position as manager, she laid down the law and secured lucrative deals for him, which, to her brother, simply looks like a big sister taking care of business, but to the sports world, she was the most formidable manager they’ve ever had the displeasure of negotiating with.
Now the original owners of this gym are retiring from competition, and training up the local teens for their shot at a title, which means Kit is still formidable, especially when she’s watched those kids grow since the day they were born.
For them, she’ll forever be in big sister mode.
She stands behind the counter alone, tapping at a computer and smiling at whatever entertains her. Stopping, I jiggle the keys in my hands and try to work up the courage to ask. I don’t know why I’ve let a two-minute encounter with a stranger get to me, but after yesterday with Donohue, then my dream, and now this… it’s too much.
“Kit?”
She hums under her breath, a “hmm?” type of acknowledgment, which would normally be enough, but when I don’t speak, she stops bouncing her knee and reading, and instead meets my eyes. “Hey, Lib. What’s up?”
“Um…” I look around, as though concerned he’s here. “I wanted to ask you something. About someone that was in here today.”
She lifts a brow. “Is something wrong? Are you a cop or a friend?”
I chuckle and force myself to relax. “Friend. Nobody’s in trouble.”
“Okay. Who’s got you acting all weird?”
“Uh… there was this new guy in here a little while ago. Brand new face, lots of ink on his shoulders and back.”
“Short hair?”
I nod.
“Blue eyes?”
I nod again.
“Lion on his back, and broad shoulders women would happily cling to?”
Heat burns my cheeks, but still, I nod.
She lifts a shoulder. “I have no clue who you’re talking about.”
My lips firm into a scowl, but that only makes the blonde snicker.
“I’m kidding. He’s kinda high-profile, and we don’t get weird about those types around here, do we?” She’s referring to the fangirls who have tried their luck at meeting a Kincaid over the years. Her husband, brother-in-law, and brother were all title holders at one point. They were massive names who had clubs of fangirls who would have sold their panties to the devil to get a minute alone with the guys.
The rule around here is no one is allowed to be weird. It’s a literal rule painted onto the wall “Don’t be weird!”, which helps others who are high-profile feel comfortable training here, when many other establishments would use the moment to call in the press and have their business splashed all over the six-o’clock news.
My mind races over the options of who the blue-eyed high-profile man could be. That’s why I know his eyes, no doubt. That’s why my subconscious is screwing with me.
“I’m not gonna be weird,” I promise. “You know that about me. I never get weird.”
Laughing, Kit reaches up and pushes her laptop closed. Resting her hands on top, she lets her fingernail tap the metal casing and her smile grows. “You know Theo Griffin?”
“Griffin Industries?” My eyes shoot back down to her tapping finger, to the lion logo, then back to hers. “Oh!” My eyes widen. “That was Theo Griffin? No way.”
She nods. “But we respect our clients’ privacy, so leave him alone.”
“I left him alone.” Warmth fills my cheeks when I remember him helping me. “We were in the weights room at the same time. He spotted me for a sec; but I was certain I knew his face.”
She shrugs. “Guess you know him from the internet or something. I can’t say I recognized him. He came in and said he needed a place to work out wh
ile he’s in town, tossed down a shiny credit card, and paid for a month straight up.”
“He’ll be in town a month?” I frown and study the wall behind Kit, the framed photos, the memories for the family that own this place. “I wonder what he’s doing here. Griffin Plaza is hours away.”
She shrugs. “It’s most of a day’s drive away. He didn’t say what he’s doing in town. Maybe he’s working with the Checkmate crew on something techy? You could ask Cruz.”
“Eh…” I pick up my bag and roll my bottom lip between my teeth in thought. “It’s not important to me. I’ll leave him be. I just thought I knew him, but now I know he’s Griffin, I guess that explains that.”
“Okey dokey.” Smiling, she shakes the topic off and reopens her laptop. “Get a good set in?”
I shrug. “It was okay. Music sucked today.”
She chuckles. “You win some, you lose some. Heading home now?”
“Not yet.” I turn away and step toward the door. “No rest for the wicked.”
She flashes a filthy grin until a single dimple pops in her cheek. “Don’t I know it. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah.”
I give myself only a minute to stare into the street once I walk outside and climb into my car. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel and unwillingly remember the long mane of hair that man’s lion possessed. I’m not running late for my next thing, so I allow another minute and mentally study Theodore Griffin’s blue eyes. How could I possibly know them, if I’ve never met him? How could I feel this sense of camaraderie if he’s a recluse multi-katrillionaire?
Katrillionaire might be an exaggeration. And perhaps not a real word, but it’s how it feels in my brain. I know millionaires. They own that gym behind me. And I knew billionaires, they sold drugs to kids.
Griffin Industries feels like more than that. So what is more than billions? Katrillions. I’m going to spend half my night Googling if that’s a real word now, and when I inevitably find out it’s not, I’ll have to figure out what the real word is.
“Whatever.”
