“I’m basing this life choice on being physically attracted to you. If I choose to do a naked coffee table book, it will also be for my own personal reasons.”
“I’m not giving you my corporate documents.”
“Why not? Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. With certain things. Not everything. We’re done talking about this.”
“Good. I don’t want to talk.”
“I’m not going to be your rebound fuck.”
She looked like she’d been slapped in the face. “You honestly think that’s what you’d be?”
“How should I know what I am to you?”
She shook her head and headed for the door. “Right.”
I didn’t want to leave things on that note. “Vivian—wait.”
“What?”
“Just hang on a minute.” I left the room, unsure of what I was making her wait for, and came back with a bag of Epsom Salts. “If you soak in an Epsom Salt bath for twenty minutes it’ll help relieve sore muscles.” I held the six-pound bag up to her. “Take it. On the house.”
“You want me to carry it home while I’m running and also holding a bottle of water?” She was incredulous. It’s not like I was handing her a sack of potatoes.
“You’ll have to leave the water bottle here. It’s a ten-minute run, you’ll be fine. Just stretch when you get home, but drink tons of water first. A liter. You should also be taking magnesium supplements. It’ll help with the sore muscles.”
She glared at me. “It would have been fantastic if you’d told me that on the first day.”
“No pain, no gain.”
She gave me the water bottle, took the bag of Epsom Salts from me, and went out the door, grumbling.
I leaned out the door. “Hey.”
“What?!” she snapped, as she turned back.
I licked my lips. “You’re an even better kisser now than you were junior year.” I shut the door, so I didn’t see her reaction.
The hot bath she’d take that night would relieve tension in more ways than one, I was sure of it. I know, because after doing a hundred push-ups I took one myself, even though I’d just showered.
I also knew that I should have picked a lane and stayed in it, and that we’d be very lucky if we didn’t both crash and burn by June.
Chapter Eight
VIVIAN
They say that the brain is the largest sexual organ. First of all, whoever “they” is has never seen the bulge in Brad’s sweatpants, and secondly, Brad Mitchell’s brain was the biggest cockblocker I have ever had to deal with.
He was so stubborn! Why couldn’t he just let go of his memories of high school? It was another world. It had been eight years since we graduated. We were both different people now—we had almost all new cells in our bodies. Granted, I probably had fewer brain cells than I did in high school, thanks to some heavy partying my freshman year of college—but I used the ones that I hadn’t killed yet a great deal!
I couldn’t sleep at all that night. I lay in bed groaning and touching myself all over, thinking about his body…how it looked like every muscle was lovingly sculpted from clay as opposed to chiseled from stone—there’s a warmth to his physique that commands you to reach out and touch it…the way he had breathed me in and kissed me…the feel of his hands on my hips. For that glorious minute that we had our hands and mouths on each other my own growing muscles had forgotten that they were throbbing with pain. Now a whole other part of me was throbbing with pain. Oh God it was excruciating.
I had never felt this kind of lust for a guy that I actually knew before. This was like a lust tornado of all the hormones and feelings I’d ever had for boy bands and the stars of Marvel movies and pastries combined, but it was all for Brad.
Maybe I was experiencing my Dirty Thirties four years ahead of schedule…
Maybe all that exercise and stretching was making me more aware of my body than I had been before.
But mostly, I knew, it was Brad. The Hottest Brad I Had Ever Known.
I was completely functional at work, but when it came to Brad/Mitch, I was a crazy person. I had never been so forthcoming (aka obnoxious) about my attraction to a guy before. Despite his protestations, it felt liberating. Why should I hide how I felt about him? We had once been so close, it seemed ridiculous to be demure or to play games. Besides, he already deplored me—what was the worst that could happen?
I sent him a photo of two whole beefsteak tomatoes with an enormous cucumber between them, pointing downwards, and a head of lettuce below it, one leaf of it was touching the tip of the cucumber. It looked ridiculous, but it was suggestive nonetheless.
Shockingly, he did not respond.
When I showed up to the gym for our next appointment, I handed him the weekly questionnaire, all filled out.
Ultimate goal: to bone Brad Mitchell
Why: because he would enjoy it
Strengths: fellatio
Weaknesses: too good at fellatio
He folded up the paper and shredded it with his fingers, while glowering at me. “Ms. Sparks, if you aren’t going to take our training sessions seriously…”
“Oh calm down and check your email. I filled out a serious version too.”
“This was a waste of paper.”
“You’re wasting your good sense of humor.”
“You’re wasting time. Go get warmed up. Meet me by the lat pull down machine in fifteen.”
“Yes, coach.”
“Don’t call me coach.”
“Yes ma’am.”
That’s how it went, at each of our three private sessions that week. I’d see the other trainers laughing with their clients, slapping their butts and taking selfies with them—especially the gay guy named Sebastian—his clients were toning their core from laughing so much. Meanwhile, I kept trying to remind Mitch that “resistance training” did not refer to the resistance of sexual attraction or intercourse, and he would wordlessly remind me that I was an unforgivably idiotic asshole in high school and also a client who shouldn’t even be talking about sexual intercourse with him.
But then, I’d sometimes catch him watching me from across the gym when I was working out on my own. He’d be standing there, with his arms crossed over his chest and his feet beyond hip-width apart, perfect posture, the stance only used by male athletes and bouncers, and there’d be this one hot moment when his eyes were still being controlled by his body and his infuriating brain hadn’t kicked in yet. I’d hold his gaze, his lips would part slightly, and I could see that he was thinking about us making out the other day too. I could feel the heat between us from thirty feet away. All I’d hear was my heart thumping and heavy breathing—like I’d just done twenty kettlebell swings, except all I’d done was share a look with him. But then he’d snap out of it and look at something else and I’d go take a bracing shower and wonder if I’d imagined absolutely everything—was this all a sugar withdrawal-induced fever dream?
Late at night I’d get a text from him about the kitten, for instance: Hi. LB’s been sleeping for like two hours straight. Should I wake her up to make sure she’s okay?
I’d write back: Kittens need a lot of sleep! So do older cats-that’s why they’re so nice to live with. You’re worrying too much. If you require assistance in getting to sleep or reducing stress, I have some ideas and suggestions…
After waiting half an hour for some kind of a response from him, which would never come, I’d reach for my vibrator and Justin Timberlake would leave the room because he was so ashamed of me.
By Friday afternoon, I had convinced myself that he just wasn’t really attracted to me and was using the high school stuff and the personal trainer-client rule as an excuse. Frankie was so sick and tired of my moping that she swore she wouldn’t speak to me again unless I promised to go out with her Saturday night.
“What is the point of getting in shape and not eating comfort food if you’re going to feel bad about yourself? You’re a hot awes
ome lady. You’re a catch. There are so many great bars and bistros and people in PDX and you haven’t actually enjoyed them as a single person yet. Let’s find you one other person that you want to have sex with who isn’t holding a ridiculous grudge against you. Whoever that guy is probably won’t have as amazing a face and body as Brad, but at least he’ll be nice and put his penis in you.”
She was right. I could not disagree with that statement. I was tired of feeling bad. I was ready to get out there and let a nice guy put his penis in me.
Chapter Nine
BRAD
I couldn’t stop thinking about Vivian.
Just talking to her was so exhilarating—what would having sex with her do to me? Was it crazy to deny us both this pleasure, or was I averting certain ruin?...Christ, all this restraint was turning me into a fucking Jane Austen character…Fuck that. I wanted to fuck her. I’ve never wanted to fuck anyone so much. I wanted to fuck both our brains out.
But on some level I actually believed that if I couldn’t control my desire to fuck her, then the dam would break and I’d start wolfing down Doritos and donuts, binge-watching Dr. Who, and be a fat nerd again within days. I knew it was a totally irrational belief, but I clung to it like a life raft filled with monks.
Saturday night, my last client was one of my favorites—a sixty-year-old guy named Larry who’d made millions in tech and lost much of it to his ex-wives. He was going through his fourth divorce when we started the personal training sessions a year earlier. He was doughy and his energy levels were low. He never admitted to being depressed, but I believed he had a low-grade depression. His fourth wife left him for a younger man, and it hit him hard, but on his first questionnaire he said that he wanted to get back in shape and to feel good so he could fall in love again. I kept pressing him to find out if that was really what he wanted—and he did. Now he could bench press ninety percent of his body weight and he was running 5Ks. He was engaged to the lady who owns the café down the street from my gym.
Often, a personal trainer can take on the role of a personal therapist or life coach for a client (even though he isn’t qualified), but with Larry it was almost immediately the other way around. I respected the guy, he had a lot of experience and he had a way with words.
He was using the cable biceps bar. His form was perfect, and he usually liked to count his reps out loud, so I let my mind wander for a moment.
“You have the distracted manner of a man who’s falling in love, my friend.”
“What? No. I was just thinking about how far you’ve come since we started.”
He guffawed. “Please. I know pussy brain when I see it.”
“I did just get a kitten.”
“Aw cute. Tell me about the woman.”
“There’s no woman.”
“There’s always a woman.”
“Well, there is someone from my past, who’s back in my life again.”
“From your past? You say that like you’re an old geezer like me.”
“From high school. She broke my heart.”
“Ah. When you were a fatty.”
“Yes. Why don’t you come over to the triceps bar now. Good job with the biceps. Thirty reps.”
He shook his arms out and jumped up and down before positioning himself at the triceps bar. “She’s all over you now that you’re a Greek God?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well. The people who break our hearts make our hearts, that’s what I say.”
I wrinkled my brow. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, we’re all children until we get our hearts broken for the first time. It’s how we react to getting our heart broken that defines the kind of adult we’ll become. Look at how well-defined I am,” he said with a chuckle.
“You certainly are.”
“You probably started working out because of her, am I right?”
“Well I wouldn’t put it that way.” Okay, yes, it’s true.
“Yeah, well. We all want to tell our stories a certain way. Me, I don’t see it as five separate love stories in my life. It’s all part of one epic tale of a guy who never gave up. A broken heart is an open heart. Remember that. Enough girl talk.” He started on his triceps push-downs, and I started to get a lump in my throat.
When I got home, I kept checking LB’s litter box every fifteen minutes, to make sure she didn’t have diarrhea after switching her from formula to watery canned kitten food. After about two hours, she made a hard poop and I did a happy dance. She was such a little badass. I could feel my heart opening up a little more every time I looked at the tiny adorable monster, but I was still afraid of who else I’d let in if I let my guard down completely.
I had told Sebastian and Marnie from work that I’d meet them for drinks, and I was finally ready to leave the house, now that I knew my girl’s digestive system was on track. Sebastian had a friend in town who was supposedly dying to meet me, and it seemed like just what I needed to get my mind off of the V-word.
But then the V-word sent me a text: About to leave a party with twenty-three year old blonde guy who says I’ve got a “smokin’ hot bod” and that I have “blowjob lips.” He said to give his compliments to my parents and my personal trainer. Probably won’t tell my parents about the blowjob lips part. That’s the only reason I’m texting you. Good night.
I immediately wrote her back: Where are you? Text me address, I’m coming to get you. Idiot.
I called Sebastian to tell him I had an emergency friend situation so I wouldn’t make it to drinks.
It took me five minutes to find parking in the Boise neighborhood where Vivian was being a drunk idiot. It had taken her several minutes to text me the address, and I’m pretty sure someone else had typed it for her. I was so glad that I had outgrown the partying phase of my life, and then I remembered that I was only twenty-six. Owning a business ages you.
There were a lot of people outside the party house, smoking. If I had lived on that street I probably would have called the cops as soon as the clock struck 11:01. I nodded at people as I walked up the path to the front door. I heard one woman say “holy shit” beneath her breath when she saw me. It still made me a little uncomfortable, being ogled. It’s not like I was a celebrity or something. I entered the house without knocking, because no one would have heard me anyway.
A Black Keys song was blaring from the record player, and some people were watching Ghostbusters. That’s where I’d have planted myself if I were a guest here. I looked around for Vivian. I considered calling her, but I didn’t expect her to be paying attention to her phone.
A cool-looking woman with lavender-colored hair was staring at me and pointing her finger. “I know who you are,” she said. She was trying pretty hard to stand up straight. “You’re Hot Brad.”
“Depends who you ask,” I said. “Do you know Vivian?”
“Are you here to have sex with her?”
“I’m here to take her home so she doesn’t have sex with anyone.”
“Booo! Go away. She’s moving on.”
“Oh really.”
“Nah. She’s waiting for you on the green sofa.”
Vivian was on the green sofa, sandwiched between two dudes who weren’t old enough to rent a car, both of whom were talking to her even though her eyes were closed. Neither of them were blonde, so perhaps Blowjob Lips Guy had gone home with someone else. She was wearing a red scoop neck sweater and a push-up bra. Her breasts looked outstanding, and I was surprised only one guy wanted to take her home tonight, although there were probably more that she hadn’t told me about. She did look smokin’ hot.
“Ready to go?” I said, loud enough to jolt her out of her drunken reverie and to intimidate the two dirty dogs that were flanking her.
She smiled and stood up so fast that the guys on either side of her fell into each other. She put her arms around me and pressed herself against me. “You came!”
“You must be cold,” I said. I immediately put my coat on her and button
ed it up.
She giggled. “You’re dressing me. You should be undressing me. You’re the idiot.”
“You’re not wrong,” I muttered, hoping she wouldn’t hear me.
“I love your beanie,” she said, adjusting my knitted cap. “I love beanies.”
“Don’t touch the beanie.”
She stopped touching the beanie and started running her fingers across my stubble. “Are you here to have sex with me?” She was trying to make her voice husky, but she was yelling.
“No. I’m here as your friend.”
“You aren’t nice enough to be my friend.”
“I’m very nice. I’m helping you to not make a terrible mistake.”
“You’re helping you to me not make…nice…mistakes…” She was drunker than I thought she’d be.
“You didn’t drive here, did you?”
She shook her head. “Frankie drove.”
“Frankie with the purple hair?”
“Frankie’s my friend. She’s helping me get laid.”
“I don’t think you need any help in that department.”
“What’d you say, coach?”
“Nothing. Let’s go.”
She did an impression of me like I was a grumpy old man. “Nothing! Let’s go!” It was dead-on.
She hugged her friend Frankie. They yelled into each other’s ears for a minute and kept looking over at me. Vivian kept nodding her head and laughing. Frankie was giving her some kind of pep talk.
Then some dude with shaggy blonde hair came over and put his hands on Vivian’s hips. “You ready to go, Baby?” he said to her.
I put my hand on his shoulder, pulled him away from her and said: “She’s leaving with me, kid. Have a good night.”
“Uh, I think I was here first, man.”
I looked him straight in the eyes and got between him and Vivian. “Think again.”
Every Inch of You Page 7