His

by 12 Author Anthology

  I may not be able to go home, but I can make a new one.

  The End

  www.shylacolt.com

  Other Books by Shyla Colt:

  www.evernightpublishing.com/pages/Shyla-Colt.html

  SLAVE DRIVER

  Copyright© 2013

  Lila Shaw

  Chapter One

  The stench of sweat hit her first as she walked past the open garage door to the adjoining office. Even outside the air felt heavy and cloying and reached for her like the grubby hands of a beggar. Bodies under duress—overheated, contorted and straining. Welcome to Inferno Crossfit. Kristy had died and gone to hell.

  She stepped into the cool air-conditioned office adjoining the warehouse-like gym. The odor inside the tiny room wasn't as pungent, at least. A buff she-male, with multiple facial piercings and tats on her arms, neck and head, sat at a paperwork-covered desk. Her hair was buzz cut on the sides with a mohawk-like swath of dark brown and hot pink down the middle. The club monogrammed kelly green polo shirt she wore stretched taut over biceps too large for a woman. A nametag on the breast identified her as “Phyllissa-T”. Wasn't that just precious?

  "Hello, I have an appointment with…." Kristy unfolded the small piece of paper and read the name of the personal trainer she was to meet, "Blake Smith."

  Phyllissa-T hoisted a studded brow and with a nod, ran her finger down an appointment book. She made a "hmph" noise and snatched up the phone. After punching a few buttons, she held the phone away from her mouth and asked, "What's your name?"

  "Kristy Kreem."

  Both of Phyllissa-T's brows lifted, and her lips twitched. "Like the donut?"

  Kristy rolled her eyes. God. Why hadn't she changed her name back? Married she gladly bore her cross. Newly widowed, she'd honored his memory. Too bad she hadn't known about his philandering then. Now she was stuck with wonderful but delusional memories and a crappy name that was a craptastic memorial to the man behind both. Nine months later and moving on with her life, the moniker had worn paper-thin. "No. Kristy with a T instead of a P and the last name's K-R-E-E-M."

  "Right. Hey, Blake. Your six o'clock is here." She enunciated each syllable of the name, "Kristy Kreem," snickered and turned in profile. "Yeah, I get it now. Okay, will do. Thanks." She hung up and fixed her gaze upon Kristy, sober and unsmiling. "He said he'd be right out. Go ahead and have a seat over there." She nodded to indicate a row of uncomfortable looking chairs against the wall. A propped open door behind and to the right of Phyllissa-T marked the entry to the workout area. To the left of the chairs was another door marked "Members Only". The place was really nothing more than a commercial storage unit or garage they'd converted into a gym. Her friend Curtis had sworn by the place and convinced her to give it a try. Curtis had transformed himself from cute doughboy to cut Olympic god in nine months.

  She settled in the chair that looked least likely to have been sweat all over, and pulled out her phone to check for messages. Her office had been mercifully kind and left her alone for a change. Being the Operations Manager seemed to put her at almost everyone's beck and call. Computer broken and can't get through to IT? Call Kristy. Can’t find a document you need on the server? Call Kristy. Looking for that announcement from the CEO from last year? Good old Kristy will conjure it up at the snap of your fingers. Your fingers, not hers. Was it any wonder she'd gotten so out of shape physically that her doctor had ordered her to engage a personal trainer and nutritionist?

  A shadow fell over her. Satan had arrived without even making a sound. "Kristy?"

  Kristy looked up and there he stood in his beefy, sadistic glory, all muscles and skin and scars. And vaguely familiar. "Yes. You're Blake?" Scrambling, she grabbed her purse and gym bag and jumped to her feet, stuffing her cell phone in her pocket.

  "Yes, but you might remember me as BJ. We went to high school together. You were Kristy LaRose back then, right?" Blake extended a massive hand to shake hers. No, not a hand, more like a paw or a catcher's mitt.

  "BJ Smith. Wow. You look ... different. Why'd you change to Blake?"

  "Got tired of being propositioned all the time," he deadpanned.

  Normally she would have laughed, but something in his demeanor extinguished her humor.

  Blake's gaze took a decidedly clinical perusal of her physique from head to toe before meandering back to meet hers. Clinical to her perception because he drew his brows together once he finished and pressed his lips together. The results of his assessment had obviously been lackluster. "You’ve changed too. Let's go to my office and chat first."

  "Okay." She gave him a brittle smile. He didn't return it. Her anxiety inched up another notch. BJ Smith had been one of the smokers who frequently skipped school and got into fights, the kind of boy who both fascinated and frightened the bejeesus out of her then.

  Blake led the way through the Members Only door, striking a brisk pace that kept her in his wake. There wouldn't have been room to walk beside him anyway. The man was so large, he created an eclipse of the lighting at the end of the hallway.

  They passed the Men's and Women's bathrooms and changing areas before he stopped at the last door and motioned for her to precede him inside a thimble-sized office. He hadn't completely forgotten his manners, she noted hopefully.

  "Take a seat, there." He pointed to a folding chair opposite the large leather one he assumed. Although his chair was huge, Blake somehow made it seem tiny. He made the entire office seem like a kid's makeshift fort.

  "So tell me why you're here," he began, arms crossed at his massive chest. His biceps popped out from below the armband of his green polo shirt, a match to Phyllissa-T's.

  "Doctor's orders," she replied, opting to omit the embellishments. Short and simple with the man who could snap her like a twig and then clean his teeth with her bones. Maybe a few extra pounds had crept onto her small frame, but not enough to label her as fat. Her doctor, however, had called her "skinny fat" and warned her that both her blood pressure and cholesterol were on the high side. A treadmill stress test had yielded humiliating results—an average forty-year-old woman was healthier than Kristy, who was only thirty-three.

  "And why Inferno and not some dancing franchise or a fou-fou corporate gym with state of the art equipment?" He reached for a pad and a pen, clicked the top and hovered, waiting.

  "That's quite the endorsement for this place," she said. "My friend Curtis Beirgarten recommended it."

  The shrink-wrap on Blake's face fell away and he smiled. The transformation amazed her. The scalp of his nearly bald head shifted backwards, his strong dark brows lifted. Cool blue eyes previously hooded stretched wide as his cheek muscles pulled outward. His lips parted revealing an even row of perfectly formed white teeth. This was no forced smile, and it actually looked as alluring on him as it did out of place.

  "Curtis is one of my best success stories. How do you know him?"

  "He works for me."

  Blake's smile loosened. "Really? Huh."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all. I'm always happy for a referral." He jotted down a few words on the pad he kept angled away so she couldn't see. "What are your goals then?" At her silence, he prompted, "What do you hope to achieve? Weight loss? Improved cardiovascular fitness? Strength? Or are you in training for something?"

  "Probably all of the above except I'm not in training for anything other than a long, healthy life." She gave him a wry smile.

  He scribbled more on his pad. Not even looking up he said, "You were the mascot in high school, weren't you?"

  Kristy sighed. "Yes, the Cleveland Beaver, and don't you dare make a single joke about it!" She ended with a wag of her finger at him.

  Blake lifted his head, a smirk firmly in place. "I wasn't going to say a thing, even though my fondest memory of you is during that torrential downpour for senior year Homecoming when the emcee announced over the loudspeaker if anyone had seen the wettest beaver in Chisholm County." He snickered. He would.
Asshole.

  "Yeah, yeah. That's exactly what I'm talking about. And you didn't go to that game, I'm sure. You and your posse of hoodlums would never do something so conformist."

  He fixed her with an unflinching gaze. "For the right reason, I conformed more than you give me credit for, all the good it did me. But that was a long time ago. So your last name is Kreem now. Married?"

  “Widowed.”

  His head lifted and held her gaze. “Bit young to be a widow, aren’t you?”

  “He was a cop. Killed in line of duty.”

  “I’m sorry.” He seemed genuinely sympathetic with his lips turned downward and his brows drawn.

  She nodded. “Thanks. It’s been nine months. Other than being out of shape, I'm doing okay now.”

  After a few more scratches on his pad, he slipped it beneath a folder from which he withdrew a stapled set of papers. "Here's our contract. First session is free. After that, if you're still interested, you'll need a contract to continue."

  "If I'm still interested? Do many of your customers lose interest after only one session?"

  "Yes." No embellishment, no explanation, certainly no reassurances. "Looks like you brought your workout clothes for tonight, so if you're ready, I'll show you to the ladies' changing room."

  Kristy hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “We passed it on the way here, right?" He nodded. "I can find it myself. Where do I go after I change? Out into the main area?"

  Blake tapped his finger on the contract and extended his pen to her. "Yes. Take the last door on your left before you get to the one leading back to Reception. But before you head off to change, you need to sign the medical waiver at least. Last page."

  She took the pen and narrowed her eyes. "Am I likely to get hurt during my first session?"

  He locked gazes with her, no trace of humor in his eyes. "I'd say you should hope for the best, but expect the worst."

  "Words to live by." She stood to leave. "I'll see you in a few."

  "Double knot your laces."

  Chapter Two

  BJ, 16 years earlier—

  “Hey, Beaver girl, come here!” BJ yelled to his high school’s mascot. She was Kristy LaRose when not in her uniform. Something about her made him itch. Maybe it was those pale hazel eyes of hers or that long silky dark hair. They ran in different circles—she of the holier than thou crowd that made straight A’s and went to hoity-toity colleges—but he was never one to shy away from a challenge no matter how impossible it seemed.

  Kristy glanced his way and smiled. His heart gave an extra thump. How did she do that to him with so little effort?

  When she didn’t come, he crooked his finger at her. Hell, it was a gamble, but no harm in trying.

  ****

  Present Day—

  Dressed in a sports bra, t-shirt and workout capris, Kristy navigated her way according to Blake's instructions. He had just been messing with her. No one ran a business by injuring their client, at least not until after they had signed a contract and put down a non-refundable deposit.

  The main workout area had been sub-divided into three areas, all open to the other two but separated by equipment racks, cubbyhole type shelving for belongings and water coolers. The floor was covered in interlocking mats, probably atop concrete.

  The entrance she'd used had spit her out into an area where members did yoga, stretches, and sit-ups. A couple of cardio machines sat unused and lonely in the corner. A ballet barre mounted to a mirrored section of wall had her wondering who in this testosterone-oozing venue would deign to use it.

  Racks held stability balls, resistance bands and steps. Affixed to the far wall were ladders. Dangling in front of those from the nearly two story high ceiling were ropes. Oh goody. A girl can never climb enough ropes.

  The next area boasted all black kettlebells of increasing sizes and weights lined up in a stoic row against a wall. Two men grunted as they turned opposite ends of thick ropes between them, like they were warming up for an intense double-dutch jump roping match.

  In the area that opened to the outside she spied six muscle men and two women moving in a circular fashion around the area, lifting free weights, doing chin ups and pull ups, swinging from hand to hand on a set of old fashioned monkey bars. No wonder it had smelled so bad when she passed.

  A warm hand clapped on Kristy's shoulder, startling her. "Ready?" its owner asked. Had his voice been this rich and deep in high school? Had it hit her like a steamy cup of coffee made from the darkest, most flavorful beans and infused with hint of cream and served after a long, hard trek through the snow? Nah, not likely.

  "Ready as I'll ever be." She hoped she didn't sound as much like a lost lamb to others as she did to her own ears. At work, she could fake bravado with the best of them. Here, at Inferno Crossfit, there was no point in even trying.

  Blake started her on the stairclimber, and then moved her to a rowing machine. Kristy thought she did okay in that forty-five minutes. The first session wasn't so bad. He had just been trying to scare her. Ha, ha. Good one, Blake.

  "Now that you're warmed up—"

  "Warmed up? Aren't I almost done?" she asked, peering up at him through a frown.

  Blake's laugh started deep in his chest, rumbling upward until it spewed from his mouth, echoing through the gym.

  An hour later—after some grueling cardio and resistance circuits that included a five-minute wall squat—his laughter made perfect sense. He now had Kristy hanging from a chin up bar, her biceps trembling, tears threatening to make an appearance.

  "Do not let your chin drop below that bar," Blake bellowed at her. "If you do, the clock starts all over again."

  He wasn't kidding either. She was on her third attempt to maintain the topmost position of a chin up for five minutes. Her arms burned; her grip begged for mercy. She probably would have succeeded the first time except Blake hung a light kettlebell from each of her feet to increase the resistance. And if that wasn't bad enough, the drop to the floor was nearly four feet once Blake had kicked away the chair. But the worst part was being hoisted up, her ass in Blake's face, so she could get her head above the bar. No way could she pull herself into that position, though he promised her she would some day.

  Kristy whimpered. Her groans turned into a soft cry. "How much longer?" she grunted out.

  "Another minute," Blake said from the opposite side of the area. The bastard wasn't even nearby to help her down if she couldn't last that long. What if she fell onto the kettlebells and twisted her ankle?

  "Shouldn't you be ... spotting me?"

  "I can watch you from over here," he said. "In any case, you don't need a spotter."

  Her fingers slipped a little, and she screamed.

  "Okay there, Donut Girl?"

  "Stop calling me that!"

  "Doc says you've been eating a few too many, so it's a fitting name—Donut Girl."

  "Shut the fuck up, you bastard." He'd been taunting her since the warm up ended and if Curtis hadn't warned her of his abrasive motivational style, she'd have been outta there an hour ago.

  His laughter rankled her, but when he said, "Maybe if you lost a little bit of that ass the size of Texas you could hang better," she seriously wanted to cut him.

  "When I ... get down ... gonna kick you ... in the ... nuts!" She let out a shout of pain as her biceps spasmed. "Son of a bitch! Mother-fucker!" One of the kettlebells shifted painfully on her instep.

  "Now you hush that filthy mouth of yours. This is a family gym, Donut Girl." He chuckled, but his voice sounded closer.

  "How much ... longer?"

  "Hmm?" More tittering, and not just from Blake. "Probably another forty seconds. You're in the home stretch. Don't you dare give up now."

  "I can't feel my hands anymore!"

  "That means they're working hard."

  "Holy Mary, Mother of God!"

  "Should I hang a rosary from your feet too? I got a ten pound one over here."

  She belted out a scream. "You wer
e mean ... in high school ... and you've only gotten ... meaner, BJ!"

  "Fifteen more seconds, and I was a pussycat in high school."

  Another scream burst from her. She shifted her hands, to ease the pressure, but that only made it worse. Sweat dripped from her head onto her fingers, making her grip more tenuous. "Sadist!"

  "Five more seconds. And now that I look at it again, your ass isn't as big as Texas, but it's nearly as wide as Pennsylvania."

  "Five-four-three-two-one ... get me down now, you son of a bitch!"

  "Tsk, tsk, language, language, Kristy. Hey, Joe, can you take the k-bells off her feet for me? Thanks."

  Two arms wrapped around her legs. "Okay, go ahead and straighten your arms first then let go. I got you."

  Kristy eased up the tension in her biceps only to have them cramp up. Pain shot up her arms and into her fingers. "I can't!"

  "Just let go. Don't be such a drama queen."

  "Fuck yooooou...." She lost her grip and fell.

  True to his word, Blake had her, slowing her descent as she slid down his rock hard body, inch by maddening inch. When their faces were even, he grinned at her. A current of awareness zinged through her, of heat melting and thawing parts she'd stashed away in deep freeze since Dan's death. Blake's gaze dipped to her mouth and his smile flickered. Oh no, no, no.

  "Ready for some lunges now?" He still held her at his eye level and a smirk had replaced his smile. Her feet dangled nearly a foot above the mats, giving her no leverage and underscoring just what a sad pathetic wimp she was.

  His mocking attitude undid her. She jutted her head forward and bit him.

  Blake let go of her with a yelp. Her legs collapsed beneath her and down she fell onto her back, her arms still bent in the gripping position.

  "You bit my nose!" he yelled falling to the mat to sit beside her.

  "Serves you right!"