by Lisa Ferrari
“Why did he give that fat kid a pig tail?”
“That was Dudley. He was a dick. He was Harry’s cousin and Harry had been foisted upon them as a baby after his parents were killed. The Dursleys didn’t want him there so they made him sleep in the cupboard under the stairs and wear Dudley’s old hand-me-downs. Total dicks. Uncle Vernon got pissed when Harry’s Hogwart’s invitation arrived on Harry’s ninth birthday but Vernon refused to have anything to do with Hogwarts so he tore up the letter but another one arrived. Then another one, and another one. They arrived by messenger owl, by the way. Pretty soon, their whole house was covered in owls bearing letters. Letters came flying down the chimney and out of the fireplace. So Vernon totally freaks out and they all pack up and jump in the car and drive to the coast and take a boat out to this tiny little island with an even tinier little shack where Vernon figures the mail can’t find them. Well, tough luck for poor, fat ol’ Uncle Vernon because Hagrid finds them. He brings a new letter and hand delivers it to Harry, along with a birthday cake he baked himself.
“Well, whilst Hagrid is explaining to Harry how Harry is a wizard and telling him all about Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, fat-ass Dudley is over there eating Harry’s cake. Hagrid catches him and takes his umbrella, which is actually a magic wand, and points it at Dudley’s ass and uses magic to put a pig’s tail on him. It’s even funnier because he asks Harry not to mention it because Hagrid isn’t allowed to do magic. He sorta flunked out when he was younger and had his wand confiscated because he was friends with this giant spider named Aragog who everyone thought killed a girl at school even though he was actually innocent. But that’s a whole ’nother story.
“Anyway, so yeah, that’s why Dudley got that pig’s tail. Vernon later says they had to spend a bunch of money having it surgically removed, too. Which I thought was awesome. Hermione probably could’ve removed it for free in about three seconds. Porcus Reducto, or something. Snape, too. And definitely Dumbledore.”
“Wow, you really like Harry Potter.”
To my delight, Kellan sounds earnest, and not as though he’s mocking me. (Unlike Denise, who thinks Harry is a retard.)
“Of course. It’s a wonderful world to get lost in, with great characters to both love and hate. It’s a classic tale of good versus evil. I’ve read the series three times and I own all the movies.”
“Wow. Maybe I should check it out, give it more of a chance.”
“You totally should.”
“I guess growing up I didn’t spend that much time trying to get lost in another world, you know? I mean, we played D and D a little and I liked video games. But I remember the Lord of the Rings trilogy was all the rage and I tried to read it but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t even get past the first chapter.”
“Why not?”
“Okay, don’t laugh, but it was the name. Bilbo Baggins. I hated that name. I think it reminded me of dildo or something. I dunno. I just couldn’t get into it.”
“Did you see the movies?”
“Yeah…. I know they’re great and Peter Jackson’s the man and they won all kinds of Oscars and everything but.… I dunno, I just couldn’t get that into it. Anyway, do you want to be a college professor or a teacher?”
“No. Definitely not. I have no interest in standing up there every day pouring my heart out trying to teach people who don’t want to be taught.”
“Then why English Lit?”
“I’m a writer. I probably should’ve been a Creative Writing major, but I didn’t know.”
“What do you write?”
“Novels. Mostly.”
“I bet you hate that question, huh?”
“Vehemently.”
“Vehemently. Well, I apologize for asking.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s a standard question. I need to work on having a better answer prepared. I just feel stupid because I write what I feel like writing and I don’t care what the hot new bestseller is or what the marketing trends are or what the Big Six are putting out.”
“So are you looking for an agent or trying to get published?”
“Not really. I went through all that a few years ago. Spent more than a year querying agents and publishers. Rewrote my stupid query letter a thousand times. I hated it.”
“Why?”
“I hate the idea of selling my work to someone. It’s my story. They’re my characters. It took me a friggin year to write it and I’m just supposed to sell it for five, maybe ten grand and lose all control over it? No, thank you.”
“That’s it? Five to ten grand?”
“Yeah. If you’re lucky. They’re really not paying big advances like they used to. Publishing is way down because of ebooks and the legacy publishers are crapping their pants trying to figure out what to do about it. Amazon is kicking their butts.”
“So what’s the alternative?”
“Self-publishing.”
“Isn’t that amateur, though?”
“Some of it is, sure. Of course. But more and more professional writers are self-publishing. New York Times bestselling authors are realizing they can make more money and retain the rights to their work if they publish it themselves. I mean, sure there are debut authors who still hit the freakin jackpot and sell their manuscript for a six-figure advance and get the validation of being quote-unquote published. But even then you better pray to God that your book sells well because if it doesn’t sell out all the copies they print, guess what? They want their advance back and they’re probably going to drop you and then you’re screwed.
“A lot of people like to say the world of self-publishing is all crap and that there are no good indie writers out there but that’s not true. It’s pretty easy to write a book, hire a freelance editor to help you refine it and figure out what the heck you’re writing, then do another draft, polish it up, hire some beta readers to read it, usually for free, in order to get some people who don’t know you or care about hurting your feelings. They read it, tell you what they thought, you revise, send it to a proofreader, hire an artist to make a cover for you or buy a premade one, and then publish it yourself.”
“And you can make money?”
“You can make butt-loads of money.”
“Are you making butt-loads of money?”
This is one of the most embarrassing parts of my life. But this Kellan Kearns guy seems cool. So here goes. “Not yet. I’m still working my catering job until that happens.”
“Cool. Well, I wish you the best of luck.”
That wasn’t so bad. He’s smiling. He seems sincere.
“I need to eat,” he says. “I’m hungry. Do you want to go to Denny’s or Mel’s and get a big-ass egg-white omelet with a bunch of avocado on top and a huge pile of cottage cheese and oatmeal?”
I’m suddenly terrified. But intrigued.
Kellan says, “I’d like to hear more about this self-publishing thing. I’ve been toying with writing a book but I’m not sure where to begin or how to go about it or what to do with it after it’s written. What do you say?”
It’s tempting. But also odd. Is it a date? Is it just more talking? Deep down, I want to go. Despite my fear, I want to say yes. But I have to work in the morning. “I can’t. I have to be up hella early to work a golf tournament breakfast. I’m working the buffet. It’s a small event but I have to be there at 5:00 a.m.”
Kellan checks his phone. “That’s in five hours. You’re going to be one tired puppy. Especially when the domes kicks in.”
“Domes?”
“Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. It’s an acronym. D-O-M-S. But don’t worry, that’s what’s supposed to happen. It means you tore down the muscle fibers and now your body is going to build them back up bigger and stronger and better. Well, let me walk you to your car.”
“I can find it.”
“What sort of gentleman would I be if I didn’t escort you to your car? Bad stuff happens in gym parking lots at night. I see broken glass on the ground all the time. I’ve
called the sheriff’s department a dozen times, too.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me that. Now I’m going to be all freaked out every time I have to walk out to my car.”
“It’s fine. It’s just kids breaking into cars and stealing stereos mostly. No violent crime or anything. We’re in the suburbs, after all. Go home. Go home and eat. Eat some egg whites or some chicken with veggies. No bacon.”
We say goodnight and I get in my car and start it up. I watch as he carries his gym bag over to the white Mercedes convertible and gets in. He puts the top down and waves and smiles as he drives by. His beautiful blue eyes are caught in my headlights for a moment.
Holy crap. What just happened?
Suddenly I hear a distinct vrooming sound. A car rushes up to mine. It’s Kellan in his white Mercedes. He gets out, comes over, and hands me a business card.
“A friend of mine owns this sports medicine clinic. Call them and tell them you want to come in for a hydro. Ask for Stacy. Tell her Kellan said to call. Good job tonight. See you around, Iron Born.”
He hops into the shining white Mercedes and peels out, leaving me reeling.
Chapter 2
I WALK INTO my apartment carrying a bag of groceries. I stopped at the 24-hour Safeway because Raley’s and Bel Air were already closed. I bought all the ingredients Kellan mentioned in the parking lot.
I cook up egg whites with avocado, and oatmeal, like he said. I sit on the sofa, watching Conan on my DVR, staring at the business card Kellan gave me and thinking about him. Kellan. That’s his name.
My phone pings. It’s Denise.
OMG OMG OMG OMG
GIRL WHAT DID YOU DO????
Wow. All caps and four question marks. She’s really excited. I have no idea what she’s talking about, but she’s excited.
Huh????
There. I can do it, too.
You worked out with Kellan Kearns?
THE Kellan Kearns?????
Whoa. How does she know that?
I guess. How do you know that?
A pic arrives. It’s of me on the bench press with Kellan standing over me, spotting.
Apparently some guys were there
and saw it and they found out your name
and tagged you in the Facebook post
and I got an alert. Holy shit!!!!
What’s the big deal?
It’s Kellan Kearns!
A blue hyperlink comes in. I tap on it. It brings up pictures of Kellan in all sorts of places, a lot of him working out, a lot of pictures of his food, plus some with other people, especially with his arms around super-hot fitness girls at expos and restaurants and clubs. Plus one of him standing between a green car that looks European and a black Corvette, with his hands on his chin, captioned Italian Stallion or American Muscle? Decisions decisions!
I read Kellan’s bio: 4x Mr. Universe, Businessman, Entrepreneur, Dork.
I go to the original Facebook post. It’s from some guy I don’t know. It says
The Killer killin’ chest with a killer whale.
Sha-MOOOOO!
And then a bunch of commenters piling on about the poor fat girl and about how Kellan won’t be able to find her pussy.
Sure he will, he just has to roll her in flour
and aim for the wet spot.
I’d titty fuck that.
I wouldn’t titty fuck that with your dick.
You wish your mom had a dick.
My mom is a dick.
I stop reading.
I’m… I’m furious.
And crushed.
I feel so betrayed and angry.
Another post goes up. Me standing over Kellan while he benches 405 pounds. I’m standing behind him, with my hands ready to catch the bar if Kellan needs help. I felt stupid doing it, thinking I could possibly spot someone like him. If he got stuck, I could never in a million years help him lift 405 pounds. But he did it for me so I did the same for him. In the photo, my Iron Born tee shirt is clearly visible. My breasts look huge.
There are a bunch of shitty remarks.
Iron Born? Like born in prison?
Dry anal rape baby.
Two niggers raped a white prison guard
and this is the result. She clearly hates herself.
She’s a load that should’ve been swallowed.
The best part of her ran down the crack of
her mama’s ass and ended up as a brown stain
on the mattress!
I want to cry.
Another text comes in from Denise:
At least your boobs look good.
Uh-huh.
At least you weren’t wearing the Chunky Monkey shirt.
Oh, God. The horror, the horror. Eat your heart of darkness out, Joseph Conrad. A book I actually read.
Uh-huh.
I have to be at work in 4 hours
TTYL.
K!
I switch off Conan and go shower. I avoid looking in the mirror as I put on my pajamas and go to bed.
I lie there in the dark, thinking about Kellan. Four-time Mr. Universe. I wonder why they call him The Killer.
I think about his blue eyes. He seemed so nice. Was it all a setup with him and those guys to make me look stupid?
I grab my phone and search for him on Instagram and find him. There’s a post from one hour ago. It’s him in what I assume is his killer pad, out by the pool and Jacuzzi with purple lights. Kellan is in the Jacuzzi. He looks positively god-like in the hot, steamy water.
Is he naked?
I can’t quite tell. He has a huge bowl of what looks like scrambled eggs and avocado, and some oatmeal. The same thing I just ate.
The caption says
Had a “killer” chest workout tonight
with a new workout partner.
She “killed” it too.
Good job, girl. Iron Born all the way.
TrainHard #NeverQuitNeverGiveUp
EverybodyStartsSomewhere
TheJourneyOf1000Miles…
PorcusReducto!
This last one makes me laugh out loud. He remembered!
I pinch and zoom on Kellan. That chest. That tanned chest. Those arms. Those abs. I want to lick them. And under the bubbly water… is that dark pubes or a shadow? Is that his penis?
I read the caption again:
Had a “killer” chest workout tonight
with a new workout partner.
She “killed” it too.
Good job, girl. Iron Born all the way.
TrainHard #NeverQuitNeverGiveUp
EverybodyStartsSomewhere
TheJourneyOf1000Miles…
PorcusReducto!
Before I realize it, my hand is inside my boxer shorts and I’m touching myself. I remember the feel of Kellan’s warm hands on mine, wrapped around the cold bar.
I stare at the pic.
His face.
His hair, that’s shaggy and wet like he’s been swimming.
That chest.
He said it wasn’t as good as Arnold or Serge somebody, but it certainly looks fine to me.
And those arms. Each one has a big vein on the bicep. It’s actually kinda hot.
I study his nipples. I wonder if they’d be soft in my mouth.
I try to see what’s under the water. Bodybuilders shave their body hair because it makes the muscles stand out more, but does that include pubic hair? Is Kellan smooth down there, under the water? Or do I see a soft patch that’s the same color as his hair?
A new workout partner. She killed it, too. Good job, girl. Iron Born all the way.
Yes, all the way.
Those eyes. So blue.
That smile. Perfect white teeth. Clamped around my nipple.
Then I’m on top, my hands on that chest, those freakin abs, his hands hard and firm but soft and loving on my hips as he thrusts himself up into me, staring into my eyes, his blue blue eyes.
I come. Thinking about him coming inside me, us coming together at the same
time, our eyes never parting. And then falling asleep on his chest.
Chapter 3
THREE HOURS LATER, my alarm goes off.
Noooooooooooooo….
I roll out of bed.
My chest hurts. Holy cow it hurts. But I asked for it.
I quickly throw on my black pants and white tuxedo shirt. I can’t find my bowtie. It might be in the car.
Outside, it’s still dark. I hate going to bed and waking up when it’s still dark. It’s depressing.
I haul ass to work.
WHEN WE BREAK down the buffet and carry the chafing dishes to the back room, Chris stops me.
“Hey, Claire, I made extra bacon for you.”
“Um, no thanks.”
“What? You always kill the bacon.”
“I know. But bacon isn’t exactly conducive to sexiness. A couple pieces on Sunday morning are okay, but people who think they’re going to go on Atkins and eat nothing but bacon and butter are high off their ass.”
Chris laughs. “Good point. I heard you worked out with Kellan Kearns last night.”
“How did you hear that?”
“A little thing called social media. I’ve always wanted to meet him. What was he like?”
I’m thrown by the fact that Chris seems to not only know of Kellan, but to know a lot about him.
“Um, he was cool. I was doing cardio and he was doing abs. The gym was pretty empty so he came over and did some cardio next to me and then asked if I wanted to train chest. So we trained chest.”
“Wow. That’s awesome. I’d give anything to train chest with him. Kellan Kearns, man. I knew he lived around here but I’ve never actually seen him. I think he has a house in Los Gatos or something. John Travolta and Eddie Murphy have houses there. How long have you been a member at I.P.?”
“What’s I.P.?”
“Iron Palace.”
“Oh. Um, about a year. Haven’t been going much, though. Just decided to go last night. Funny running into him there.”
“Not really. It’s his gym.”
“You mean like where he trains?”
“No, I mean like he owns it. It’s literally his gym. You didn’t know that?”
“No.”
“He didn’t mention it?”
“No.”