Hot Pickle: A Best Friend's Sister Romantic Comedy

by JJ Knight

It feels like more than a new day. It’s a whole new world.

  For a long time, my deli was why I got up every day.

  And then for a while, it was the workouts, the muscle mass, the challenge.

  But now, it’s her.

  24

  Camryn

  I spend much of the day reminiscing over my night—and morning—with Max Pickle.

  I’m even sentimental about the coffee he made me, unwilling to wash the mug or rinse out the coffee pot until late afternoon.

  Every time a bird flies by my kitchen window, my heart hammers.

  What has he done to me?

  But by afternoon, I have to pull myself together, and fast. Max isn’t the only one competing this weekend. So is my brother.

  Thankfully, Franklin is easier to tan than Max. He does the physique competitions, so he wears lengthy board shorts and requires much less hands-on work.

  Because that would be weird.

  As I set up for my brother’s tan, I make sure I have my head straight. Don’t gush about Max. If Franklin asks about him, shrug off the question quickly as if Max is nothing more than another client I have to deal with.

  Don’t forget I wasn’t supposed to be at the evening show with Max, so don’t mention it.

  Definitely don’t bring up his magnificent cock.

  My brother’s knocking on the door when I suddenly remember all the L.A. Pickle containers in my fridge.

  I take a deep breath, remind myself not to let Franklin anywhere near my kitchen, and open the door.

  “Sis,” he says with a thrust of his chin. “Are you stoked for me? I’m finally moving up in the world.”

  I step back to let him in. “I am. I really am. Let’s make sure you look perfect.”

  Franklin kicks off his slip-on shoes and pulls his T-shirt over his head.

  “You’re going with the red shorts again for this competition?” He’s wearing them now.

  “They’re my good luck shorts,” he says.

  “Red requires a deeper color.”

  “I trust you to fix me up.”

  I look him over for any dry spots that will absorb too much tanner and pass him a bottle. “Moisturize the tops of your shoulders and your elbows. I’ll be right back.”

  Franklin squirts lotion into his hand as I head to the kitchen. My nerves are jangling. I’m not ready for him to know about me and Max, and I can’t have him figuring it out.

  I open the fridge and quickly shove anything marked with the deli’s logo to the very back and hide it behind a watermelon.

  “What’re you doing?” Franklin calls.

  “Grabbing some cold water. You want some?”

  “No. Trying to keep my muscles defined.”

  “Right.”

  I quickly dump some water in a glass to explain my disappearance.

  I pause at the doorway as he rubs moisturizer in his elbows. “You might want to get your hands and feet, too. I feel like they were blotchy last time.”

  He nods. “Did that tall chick make it?”

  “No. Dahlia didn’t advance. But one of my female clients at your meet also moved up. Camille.”

  “Are you gonna be there Saturday?”

  Of course I’ll be there. With Max!

  But I keep my face neutral. “There’s no beginner meet that day, so I can devote myself to the qualifier. I’ve got both you and Camille to manage.”

  “Don’t forget Max,” he says.

  “Oh, right. Max.”

  Damn, I’m good.

  “It should be an easy day for you,” he says. “Just us three.”

  I cross over to the tanning tent to switch out the color. “It will be a nice break. I guess you and Max will get to hang out the whole time.”

  “Yeah. I get the sense he was all alone last time. I’m sure he’ll be glad to have company.”

  My memory flashes to our hot and heavy make-out session in the room with the chairs.

  “I bet he will.”

  “Good thing we’re back at the same level.”

  “Seems like he was a good influence on you.”

  Franklin drops the bottle to the floor. “Hardly. I’m the one who got him started.”

  Apparently, Franklin’s planning to take credit for everything.

  “Time to spray,” I say. “Maybe Max needs some bodybuilding friends.”

  “He’s got a hell of a surprise coming tonight. I think we’ll have the whole gym coming to see us compete.”

  I turn to him. “Really?”

  “Buster’s putting us on the banner over the gym door.”

  “Instead of the MMA fighters? You’re replacing the McClures?”

  Franklin rocks back on his heels. “We sure are. Buster’s even paying for tickets for everyone to go. That sort of makes the gym a sponsor. Damn.” He rubs his hands together. “I should get a logo for my bag. Or a shirt or something.”

  I have to hold back from rolling my eyes. Franklin’s always had a chip on his shoulder that he’s never had a sponsor. He thinks it’s the mark of having “made it.”

  “Good for you. I’m ready for you if you want to step over here.”

  Franklin heads into the tent and turns to face me. “What do you think of Max? You must be getting to know him with all the tans he’s had to do.”

  My throat constricts. Keep it cool, Camryn. “He’s polite. I can see why you were friends in college.”

  Franklin laughs. “Too bad he’s stuck running that crappy deli.”

  My ire rises, but I stuff it down. “I’ve eaten there. It seemed all right.”

  “It’s no five-star restaurant.”

  “Here comes the spray,” I tell him, mostly to make him shut his mouth.

  I run the spray over him quickly and evenly. I’m not feeling particularly charitable about him, but I do my usual good job.

  “Turn around.”

  When I finish, he steps out to dry under the fan, and I make sure I’m calm before I approach him again.

  “I guess I’ll probably mostly hang out with Camille,” I say. I’m realizing it might not be a good idea for Max to be around me while Franklin is there.

  My brother might see right through us. There are a million tiny things we could do to give ourselves away. Glances. Easy touches.

  Franklin picks up on these things easily. He’s always on the prowl to make sure men aren’t looking at me too long or standing too close. Max will do both of those things.

  “That’s cool,” he says. “Maybe we can grab lunch together between the prejudging and the evening show.”

  Right. Because we always do that.

  But I simply say, “Sure.”

  I drag the stool out to the middle of the tarp. “Let me do your face real quick, so you have a base coat.”

  He’s mostly quiet while I apply a light layer of tan to his face, ears, and neck.

  But when I step away, I can tell he’s been holding something inside for a while.

  “If you were seeing Max, you’d tell me, right?” His dark eyes pierce mine.

  Wow. He’s hitting it head-on.

  “You know I’ve sworn off bodybuilders.” And that’s not a lie.

  But sometimes even when you swear something, it happens anyway.

  “I guess you heard Malachi dropped out of the circuit entirely.”

  My belly drops at the mention of the evil ex’s name. “No, I wasn’t aware.” I blocked Malachi on every social media, and I either unfriended or unfollowed anybody close to him so news wouldn’t accidentally trickle my way.

  Still, I scan the rosters of the open meets, so I won’t be caught unaware if he shows up. I hadn’t seen him this year, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t competing somewhere.

  And despite not wanting to know his whereabouts, I have to ask. “Does anybody know why?”

  Franklin laughs. “Probably got fat.”

  “How do you know he dropped out? He doesn’t usually compete at these lower-level competitions we do.”

/>   Franklin stands up and heads to his shoes. “I have my ways. I keep an eye on that jerk. He’s not signed up for anything in the L.A. area this year.”

  “Just as well.”

  “If he ever comes near you again…”

  I hold up a hand. “Enough. It’s been over a year. I’m over it.”

  Which isn’t true.

  Or is it?

  I haven’t thought of Malachi since I met Max.

  “Well, I’ll bust his ass, or anybody’s ass who lays a hand on you. There isn’t a bodybuilder on this planet worth your time.”

  “Sure. Okay.” I’ve learned not to bother arguing with him on this.

  As Franklin leaves and closes the door, I sit down on the stool myself.

  We’re going to have to tread carefully.

  But I don’t think we should confess. If Franklin thinks Max needs to go down, he might have the ratty connections that could wreck his rising career.

  25

  Max

  Franklin insists we go to Buster’s Gym early that night.

  I’m not in the mood for a lot of shenanigans. I fielded calls from Anthony, Dad, and Jason, all getting on my case that the fiftieth anniversary of Grammy Alma’s deli is approaching, and the entire Pickle franchise is hosting an insane amount of events, specials, and other time-consuming plans for the occasion.

  I’m grateful for a competent manager and hard-working staff, because I’m stuck in my office most of the day fielding calls from family. Jason even manages to joke that I’m looking as negligent as he did a year ago.

  Like that could happen.

  I know he and Nova are the deli hotshots, ready to open a second Austin Pickle franchise. And Anthony is the heart and soul of the chain, dreaming up all the recipe creations and keeping the dishes clever and fresh. But I do have other things on my mind.

  A clandestine relationship.

  A burgeoning bodybuilding career.

  A double-double life.

  But I don’t confess anything. Now is not the time.

  When I lock up the front door of the deli, Franklin’s beat-up green truck idles outside.

  Great.

  I’m bone tired after the late night with Camryn. Dehydrated since I can’t drink as much as I ordinarily would with the competition on Saturday.

  The lack of carbs is going to my head.

  And now the best friend whose sister I’m banging is outside my deli as if he knows I’m thinking about ditching a workout.

  Franklin slithers out the driver’s side window and pops his head over the hood of the truck. “Max, my man! It’s time for our hero’s welcome. Hop in.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, and I don’t want to do this. But this is exactly the scenario training partners are for. They make you work out when you don’t want to.

  So I snatch my bag from the trunk of my car and hop in the passenger seat of his truck. It’s a big week for Franklin. He’s finally getting where he wants to be. I don’t want to bring him down.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “You’re going to have to wait and see.”

  He blasts down the street toward Buster’s Gym.

  He’s darker than he was last night. “You see Camryn today?” Saying her name sends a zip through me. I might be exhausted, but it was worth every minute.

  “Yeah. She felt I needed to bring on the color for the red shorts. She always tries to make me go with blue.”

  “No way. The red’s good. A power color.” It feels right to take his side on this small thing, to throw him off.

  Even if she’s right.

  He punches my arm. “Exactly. That’s what I told her. Bitches don’t always know best.”

  I have to grit my teeth, but I’m not going to tip him off.

  “What’s all the hoopla about?” I ask.

  “Not going to give anything away.” Franklin laughs and bangs his hand on the steering wheel. “Damn things are good.”

  He looks like the cat that ate the canary as we pull up to the front of Buster’s Gym. “Now lookie there,” he says, leaning forward over the steering wheel to peer out the front windshield.

  I follow his gaze. A new sign flaps over the door.

  Work out with bodybuilding champions Franklin Schultz and Max Pickle.

  Oh, damn. Just what I need. Bodybuilding publicity. “What the hell is that?”

  “What you mean what the hell? It’s awesome. We’re celebrities.” He opens his door and jumps out, jerking his bag from behind the seat. “Come on.”

  I heave a sigh and follow him. Inside, the foyer is crammed with the regulars and two guys with cameras.

  Buster stands by the front desk. “And here they are, everyone, our rising bodybuilding stars.”

  Everyone claps and cheers. A few flashes pop off.

  Great. Hopefully this is some small specialty rag and the picture will only appear on a random bodybuilding blog. I do my part, smiling and waving, wishing I was wearing anything other than an L.A. Pickle shirt.

  The rumble dies, and I think we’re done. But no, there’s another roar, and another surge of people approach from the weight room.

  Now there’s a ton more cameras, an absolute strobe effect going off.

  What now?

  The crowd parts, and none other than MMA fighter Colt McClure and his brother-in-law Hudson approach the desk.

  Colt is wildly tall, his curling blond hair lit up close to the lights. He’s in a full suit, and I feel even more stupidly dressed in my green T-shirt. Hudson is shorter and considerably leaner, but he looks like he could drop you in a single punch. He, thankfully, is in fighter workout gear.

  They’re formidable.

  A woman steps forward, and her press ID reads Los Angeles Times.

  Oh, great.

  “What a winning tradition you have here at Buster’s Gym,” the woman says. She holds out her hand and Franklin shakes it first. “Nice to meet both of you. We plan to run a feature on the gym. Would you mind doing some pictures before you change into workout gear?”

  More cameras flash. The woman leads the McClures, Buster, Franklin, and me out to the front to take pictures under the new sign. Franklin strikes the first bodybuilding pose, and the photographers ask us to both show them some muscle. I’m not keen on doing this in jeans and my Pickle shirt, but I do as they ask.

  As soon as the story hits the websites, our social media person will pick up on the tags.

  And my family is going to be all over this.

  I’m cold busted.

  Finally, we’re allowed to change to workout gear and ushered into the private annex where the MMA fighters work out.

  I’ve been in it before. Gym members are allowed back here when there are no private workouts.

  The massive octagon where the McClure clan spars, and where frequent amateur matches are held, dominates one side of the room. Around it, a few bleachers are set up for the workouts. The entire room can be converted into a small arena when needed.

  Inside the cage, two women punch and kick. When we enter, they stop to look. A slender woman with a long ponytail ducks through the opening above the stairs.

  It’s Jo, Colt McClure’s wife. She’s a popular MMA trainer and the reason there are so many women at the gym. I’ve spotted more than one of her fighters on workouts. They are fierce.

  “Is the paparazzi coming this way?” Jo asks.

  “Any second,” Colt calls up, already removing his tie and jacket. He doesn’t seem to enjoy them.

  Jo shakes her head. “I’m out of here, if you don’t mind. I’ve had more than my share of photographers in my life.”

  Colt laughs. “I’ll sneak you out the back.”

  While they take off, Hudson approaches to shake my hand. We’re about the same height, although I’m probably bulkier. Even as a fighter, he’s retained a boyish quality. “I’ve seen you around,” he says.

  “I’ve seen you on TV.”

  He grins. “You follow MMA?�
��

  “Definitely the fighters from this gym,” I say.

  Franklin charges right up and extends his hand. “I’m Franklin Schultz. Pleased to be back here with the other star athletes.”

  I wince. Franklin is something else.

  But Hudson takes it in stride. “Nice to have you. It’ll be fun seeing how you guys do your thing compared to ours.”

  “We can’t mess up our beautiful faces.” Franklin waves his hand across his ugly mug. “It’s all about the judging.”

  Hudson laughs and shakes his head.

  The photographers set up numerous shots of us doing push-ups and performing the bodybuilding poses. They have Buster stand behind us, arms crossed, as if he’s overseeing the champions himself.

  I want to argue that this is an awful lot of fuss for a couple of guys who only won some small meets, but this is Franklin’s moment. He can have it.

  I keep my reservations about my future in the sport to myself.

  Eventually the reporter and photographers head out, and we’re left with the family and Buster.

  “We may not have everything you need back here,” Buster says. “But I can have some things moved in if you need it.”

  I glance around. The area is set up for fighters. A kettlebell station. A line of punching bags. And of course, the cage.

  But there’s an entire set of free weights in the back corner. Mats. Stretch bands and sandbags. “I think we’ve got everything but maybe a lat pull,” I say. “We’re fine going back out to the main room for that.”

  Franklin cuts me off. “A lat pull would be great,” he says. “And make sure the stacks go in increments of twenty-five and ten.”

  Buster nods. “I’ll take care of it. You guys have fun.” He claps me on the back and heads through the accordion door back to the regular weight room.

  Franklin seems positively giddy. “Well, we’re here. What do we do?”

  “Our workout,” I say. “We have a competition on Saturday.”

  Colt pops through the back door. He’s chucked his suit for fight shorts and a tank top. “Photos over?”

  “All clear,” I say. “Do they follow you around?” Colt’s been off the circuit for quite a few years. He and his wife have at least two kids, but before all that, they were quite the newsworthy couple. The L.A. papers were all over them in my college years.