by K. C. Crowne
He’d built his wealth on being able to sculpt people's bodies into perfection, but his was the most perfect of all. There wasn't an inch of fat anywhere on him, and his skin was the color of caramel. Then there was his face. Square-jawed and blue eyed with cheekbones that could cut glass. He could make a gal flood her panties with just a look. Not that he ever looked at me as anything more than the daughter of his best friend. No matter how much I stared at him and willed him to notice me, he didn't so much as glance in my direction unless it was to give me advice on my dribbling.
But he didn't look at any of the girls or their mothers. He was a one-woman guy, and although people gossiped and imagined what a little extra coaching from him would be like, he couldn't have been more respectful to any of us. Despite being surrounded by a team of girls, he behaved like a saint.
But I didn't want a saint. I wanted him to be bad, and I couldn't stop the rampant fantasies about him in my mind. As I lay in the bath, I'd fantasize about him taking me to the side during practice with one of his strong hands gripping my wrist.
"You need some extra practice," he'd tell me in his gruff, low voice. "It looks like I'll have to give you some one-on-one drills after the rest of the team leaves."
The thought sent me reeling as I imagined the court emptying, leaving just the two of us. But soon, thoughts of basketball would disappear, and he'd be sliding his hands down my sides and pulling me toward him.
"I can teach you things," he'd murmur before pushing his lips against mine.
The fantasy always ended the same way, with him taking my hand and leading me into the empty locker room where he'd lift me in his strong arms and press me up against the wall. With my legs around his waist, he'd fuck me slowly and lovingly, but firmly. He would take control and dominate me, but his eyes would always be fixed on mine.
I'd had my first orgasm to this, then my second and third and hundredth.
Even when I grew older and moved away to college, where I met boys my own age and started to date, my mind always drifted back to him. Nobody ever came close to him, and as short-lived relationships blossomed and dwindled, one after the other, I came to the realization that subconsciously, I was holding out for him. Always hoping that somehow, at some point, he would be the one I ended up with.
But I knew how ridiculous that was. He would never be interested in someone like me. He probably still remembered me as the snotty nosed tomboy who used to run around the yard playing ball with all the neighborhood kids.
Back then, I was indistinguishable from most of the boys on the block. I loved sports, never wore pretty dresses or makeup and my idea of a good weekend was getting muddy and running around with the dogs. I was nothing compared to Olivia. But then again, I wouldn't want to be.
At last, just as my eyelids grew heavy, I could see the roof of my dad's house as I turned into the street.
"Jesus..."
The place looked scruffy as hell and the leaves had clearly not been raked in weeks. Meanwhile, the garage had spilled its guts and there were bits of cars and gym equipment littering the drive. As I climbed out of the car and stretched my legs, I sighed heavily.
"Don't look so happy to be here," Dad's sarcastic voice called from the porch. He was standing in the doorway with a beer in his hand and his gym clothes still on.
"Dad!" I ran up the steps and threw my arms around him. "Aw, it's good to be back."
"You're looking great, kiddo," he said, kissing my cheek.
"Yeah, well, I can't say the same for this place. Looks like a bomb went off."
"Yeah, I keep meaning to tidy up but..." He took a sip of his drink and motioned for me to enter the hall. "Since when do you care about cleaning up?"
"And since when did you start drinking beer? I thought you only liked a single malt on special occasions."
"Yeah well, since Matthew's been free and single, he's kinda been gettin' your old man back out in the bars again. Think I'm getting a taste for this Budweiser shit."
"Well, don't get too much of a taste for it. Mom hated Budweiser. She said it tasted like pee."
He laughed and wrapped his arm around me. "God you sound just like her," he announced. "And you look more and more like her each time I see you too."
We walked into the lounge and fell silent. Her picture was framed on the fireplace, looking at us. For a second, I imagined she was in the kitchen cooking dinner. When I was younger, I used to stand in front of that photo and talk to it as though she was there. But she wasn't. She hadn't been since I was seven, when she had succumbed to the breast cancer that had ravaged her body.
I took a seat on the armchair by the window and looked up at her photo. Oh, Mom, if you could see the state of this place.
Just like my dad, she had been a fitness fanatic and had meticulously high standards in everything she did, from working out to cleaning the house to cooking a dynamite dinner.
She would not have been impressed with the house and what Dad had let it become in her absence. I reached over to the coffee table and ran my fingers through the thick layer of dust.
"First thing tomorrow, we're cleaning the shit outta this place," I said to myself, but Dad heard me from the doorway.
He had set down his beer and replaced it with a coffee for him and a hot chocolate for me.
"Wow, that was quick," I smiled, taking the cup gratefully from his hand. "You must have had it waiting for me."
"Hey, I remember how my little girl likes her hot chocolate. Especially after a long journey."
He sat on the couch across the table from me. Beside him, the television screen flickered on his face. There was an old ball game playing, a re-run from the nineties and I paid it little attention. I was too busy looking at the electric light shine across his face and how old he seemed to me.
He had always been one of the cool, young dads, the kind that let you stay up late and eat all the candy at Halloween. And he was always the first guy to help out with school activities. But now, he looked exhausted, just a shadow of what I remembered.
"Dad, are you okay? You look tired."
"Been putting in extra hours down at the gym."
Just like Matthew, he had also become a personal trainer, but instead of being the multi-millionaire fitness and nutrition tycoon Matthew had become, he'd opted for a humbler career path. After my mom passed, he took on a small, run-down boxing gym and took just about every position in the place from janitor to boxing coach to tax man.
At first, keeping busy had benefited him. It gave him something to focus on and distracted him from the grief, but now I was starting to wonder if he should take some time out and relax.
"Anyway," he said, sipping his milky coffee. "I don't wanna talk about me. I wanna hear about you! I can't believe you're back, Becca."
"Neither can I," I replied with a roll of the eyes.
"Don't be like that. It'll be great for you here. Boston's where your roots are. It's where you belong."
"I know. I know. I really love the place. Really think I can make a go of it,” I said, smiling slowly. “As long as I can get a job."
There was a weird glint in his eyes as if he was holding back a secret. "And where are you thinking of working?"
"A gym, obviously. I'd love to work my way up from personal trainer to business owner, just like you, Dad."
He smiled and his cheeks flushed with warmth. "Any gym in mind?" I shrugged. "What about that one gym you always talked about when you were younger?" There was that mischievous look in his eyes again.
"What? Matthew's gym?" I asked.
He nodded. "Remember what your dream used to be?"
I looked into my chocolate and thought of Matthew. Would I see him again now that I was back? I was bound to at some point.
Was he still as hot as I thought he was?
Was he still as cheeky and fun to be around?
Or had he aged badly like my tired dad?
"My dream…" I mused.
"You used to say you'd love t
o make it into corporate at Matthew's company so you could be in charge of making all the big decisions. You used to say you'd like him to expand away from all his celebrity clients and target everyday people. Do you remember that?"
"Sure, I remember. But that was just some silly dream I had," I said, trying to play it down. "It's not like it's going to actually happen."
The look on his face intensified until it looked as though he was ready to burst.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I asked.
"Like what?"
"Like you're going to explode."
He stood up and walked over to me, the light from the television flickering on the newly formed gray hairs on his head.
"Becca," he said, sitting on the arm of the chair beside me. "I was talking to Matthew last night. He knows you're coming back and that you need a job, so..."
"So?" My heartbeat began to quicken.
"So, I asked if he could help you out. Lord knows I've helped him out over the years."
"And what did he say?" I asked with a touch too much enthusiasm.
"He said the least he could do for me was give my little girl a job interview. "
At first, I thought he had to be joking. Could I really be so lucky to land an interview for a position in Matthew's office?
"Anyway," Dad said, slapping his hand onto my shoulder. "He's known you your whole life and he knows how smart you are."
I sat dazed for a second. I'd had interviews in the past for temp jobs while I was at college, and they always made me anxious. But an interview with Matthew? That was something else entirely! It was both nerve wracking and exciting. I'd get to see his office, and I'd get to be face to face with him for the first time in years.
Immediately my mind fell into the gutter. I imagined walking into his office only for him to ask me a series of naughty interview questions.
"Honey?" Dad interrupted my thoughts. "Are you okay?"
I realized I'd been staring at the TV with my mouth dropped open like a fish. "Yeah," I replied. "I'm just a little nervous.”
Matthew
"Oof," grunted my assistant, Sandra, as she staggered into my office.
She was getting bigger by the day and waddled to my desk with her iPad in her hands. Her previously pale, thin face was now full and rosy, and her hair, which used to be tied up in a tight bun most of the time, hung loose around her shoulders.
"Sandra, I told you to take time off," I said to her as she perched on the edge of my sleek, black glass desk. "It's ridiculous, you coming into work every day when you're seven months pregnant."
"What am I supposed to do? Go home and put my feet up?"
"Yes, that's literally exactly what you're supposed to do."
She waved her hand dismissively at me and flicked through files on her iPad. "That sounds like hell," she said. "I hate being stuck at home. It's too boring. I'd rather be here getting on with things."
"You'll have to take time off eventually."
"Yeah, when the baby drops."
"Well, I hope you don't drop it on this carpet. Just had it steam cleaned." She gave me a look, one eyebrow arched as I chuckled. "Look," I said, leaning toward her. "You've been with me since the start. You're not just my assistant, you're..."
"Like a sister?"
"I was going to say friend, but sure. You're like my little sister, I suppose. I don't want you working too much when you should be thinking of the baby. Please, promise me after this week you'll take some time off."
She looked back down at the screen and said, "I'll think about it. Besides, the holidays are coming up. I’ll get a short break then."
I nodded, knowing full well that she’d spend the holidays cooking like she always did.
"Anyway," she said, clearly ending the conversation. "You've got a busy day ahead of you. Wanna hear the schedule?"
"Shoot."
"Okay, so your first meeting of the day is with Gigi Deloma at nine thirty."
I looked up at the clock and saw it was twenty past already.
"But she's always late," Sandra added.
"True."
"After that, you've got a meeting with Eddie Goldwyn."
"Goldwyn? Already? I wasn't supposed to meet him until Friday."
"He called first thing this morning. Pretty much forced me to slot him in today."
"Shit!"
That didn't sound good. It had been two months since I put forward the plan to buy the Goldwyn chain of gyms. As far as I was concerned, we had a few minor things to smooth out before the big day on Friday when we finally shook hands on the deal. But he was here today? Something about that felt all wrong.
I knew Goldwyn. Not only was he my idol growing up, but he was my closest business competitor. I had studied him closely and knew that he didn't make decisions lightly or rush a meeting. Whatever he was here to talk about had to be important.
"Who's after him?" I asked Sandra.
"You're interviewing for the position of operations consultant with a woman named Becca Canmore?"
Becca, I thought. She had been such a sweet kid, and it had been years since I'd seen her. The last time had been when she was packing her things to move away to college. I could barely believe she was that age already, but time flew like a motherfucker.
When I'd seen her dad, Bob, last night, he'd said she was back in town and borderline desperate to get a job in fitness. He mentioned she had some big ideas to share with me and that he thought she would be a great employee.
On the spur of the moment, I'd told him to bring her along to an interview. I wasn't sure if I could hire her, but an interview wouldn't hurt. Bob had been my best buddy for over two decades, and I'd watched Becca grow up from being the apple of her dad's eye to a basketball champion and now a college graduate.
The least I could do was give Becca a chance and interview her. She might even be a good fit at the company. Not to mention Bob hadn’t helped me through my finals in college, I wouldn't even have the career I had now.
From outside in the waiting room where Sandra's desk sat, a buzzer sounded.
"That'll be Gigi," she said, sliding off my desk with a groan.
"I doubt it. She's never on time for anything. Pretty sure she was late to her own birth."
"She'd be early for you," Sandra laughed as she pressed the button for the door. "She can't take her eyes off you. I reckon she's got you in mind as her next ex-husband."
"Don't say that. I couldn't find anything less appealing than lying next to her plastic ass every night."
“Ouch!”
It sounded harsh but I meant it. She was the fakest woman I'd ever met; more silicone than human. The majority of men found her attractive, and why wouldn't they? She was a celebrity pop star, the hottest thing since Britney Spears. But for some reason, she was as sexually appealing to me as a wet fish and had a worse personality.
"That's her coming in just now," Sandra told me.
I rose from my seat, ready to welcome her. She sauntered in with her entourage in tow: two bodyguards, a life coach who followed her everywhere to help her manage her anxiety, and her manager, a squat man named Bertie in a white suit.
Gigi herself stood just under five foot five even in her high heels and was clad head to toe in fur. Even her boots were made from what I recognized from Olivia's wardrobe as rabbit.
"Matthew dahling!" she cooed and gave me an air kiss.
I reached out to shake her hand, and she slipped her icy fingers between mine.
"What's the need for formality?" she asked, sliding off her sunglasses to reveal her pale blue eyes lined with thick makeup. I couldn't help but notice on either side of her nose were two small bruises from where she'd recently had fillers.
"I'm so excited to be here," she trilled, taking a seat while her entourage gathered behind her. My office was by no means small, but with everyone packed around my desk, it felt cramped.
"Sandra, some drinks in here, please?"
She nodded and depart
ed, returning a few moments later with a tray of sparkling water.
"So," Gigi said, picking at her long fingernails. "How’s the campaign going?"
It was a simple question, but I didn't have a simple answer. Six months ago, all the big boys in corporate decided that a great way to boost publicity would be to place some of our celebrity clients in the commercials with before and after shots of their bodies.
"People will go nuts for it!" one of my consultants, Alan, had told me. "It'll pull in the big bucks, I swear!”
It had sounded like a solid plan, except the results hadn't been what we'd expected. We got all the biggest names we could muster from our client books, actors, singers, models, and sports stars, and plastered their images beside our name. But for some reason, the public wasn't biting. If anything, it looked as though they were put off by our new advertising strategy. And from the feedback we'd collected from the public, it looked as though Gigi's commercial was the least popular of all.
"She's so annoying!" one viewer commented.
"She looks so fake!"
"We know her body wasn't built in the gym. It was created on the operating table."
And so it went on.
People might love watching Gigi up on stage, but they hated her in our gym. But how was I supposed to tell her that?
"I'm afraid," I began, choosing my words carefully, "that it wouldn't be the most efficient strategy to see the campaign into the next phase of proceedings."
"What does that mean?" she asked, whipping her neck and pointing her nails at me.
"It means he's dropping you from the campaign," Bertie announced harshly. "An unwise decision, if you ask me."
"Not unwise," I replied. "Just sensible regarding our market feedback."
"I hate all you business boys and your jargon," Bertie spat. "Come on, Gigi. We've well and truly wasted our time here."
He stood up to leave, gesturing for the rest of the group to follow him out. Everyone trotted out after him except for Gigi. She hung back until it was just the two of us in the room and sauntered over, swaying her hips.