Beyond Heat

by Ashley Logan

  “Brood all you want, but I need you to spot me when I do my lifts today. Can you do that?”

  Looking up from the sidewalk with a strange smile, it’s as if he didn’t even realize he was closed off. “Of course I can spot you,” he says. “I wouldn’t trust any of the pansies in there at this time to do it. And if you ever ask one of those grunters dressed in a muscle-T, I will change gyms to avoid you.”

  I try not to show my surprise at how much his response differs from his earlier behavior. Taking a moment to absorb it, I smile. “What if I start grunting when I lift?” I ask lightly. “Will you leave then too?”

  “Yes. If you have to grunt your way through a workout, I might be forced to kill you. It would therefore be better if I left, yes?”

  “What if my grunting is really cute? Like a piglet?”

  Stopping, he laughs as he looks at me sideways. “If you have to grunt like a piglet while you work out, you’re doing it wrong.”

  “You make an interesting point, Mr. Jackson.” I smile at the lighter mood and open the door to the gym. “Bootcamp warm up?” I ask.

  “No better way,” he says, adjusting his gym bag. “See you in two.”

  He branches off to the men’s locker room, and I head to the women’s. It’s virtually empty, which is why I love coming at this time of the day. We basically get the run of the place if we slot our workouts between the classes during business hours. When I walk out again, Bruno is already waiting. He smiles, but not before I catch a flash of disappointment cross his face.

  “What’s that look for?”

  His smile fades. “What look? Smiling?”

  “Before the smiling. That... ‘Oh man, really?’ look before the smile, but after you saw me,” I explain without humor.

  Glancing at me sideways, he lets out a long low breath. “Why are you assessing my face so closely all of a sudden? You never cared before.”

  Stepping closer, I prod him in the chest. “Maybe because you were never nice to me before, and now I’m trying to gather clues to figure out what the hell is going on here. Now tell me.”

  “I was always nice to you,” he argues, “I was just rude to you as well.”

  “Why?”

  “So you wouldn’t suspect that I liked you,” he says, becoming irritable. “But you know now,” he adds more quietly, walking away to the area we warm up in.

  I fall in beside him and begin stretching. “And you did that to delay any potential connection between us because you’re not ready for it. Is that what I’m to believe?”

  Sighing, he switches leg positions and leans back into his stretch. His calves immediately bulge into definition and I wish his shorts weren’t so long, so I could see his quads too. Bruno has the best body I’ve ever seen on a guy, but when he’s not on stage, he dresses as if he’s trying to deny it. No muscle-T for Bruno at the gym. He’s all baggy shorts and T-shirts.

  “Believe whatever you like, Scar. I like you. Okay? A lot. I’m just not... I’m not a complete package and I refuse to offer you anything less.”

  Again he moves away, progressing to more dynamic movements in his warm up. That will keep me at a distance, but if he thinks I’m dropping this, he’s deluded. This whole weird vibe between us just got that much more fascinating. I follow his lead and get my heart rate up next to him.

  “You think you have game, Jackson?” I ask, trying not to laugh. “You think if you offered me your whole package, I’d just swoon at your feet?”

  His eyes narrow at me. “I have game,” he says, stepping so close to me I have to step back to keep from falling. An elliptical machine appears at my back, preventing me from retreating any further. Bruno rests an arm on it, fencing me in on one side.

  He’s so close, I can feel his breath on my face. It’s rapid from his warm up and smells of mint, which mingles with the smell of his deodorant in some sort of heavenly man scent invented to make women melt. Damn it. Stay strong, Scarlett.

  His chest rises and falls with each breath and I become terribly aware that my own chest is doing the same, as if my breasts are seeking to press against his chest with every inhalation. My heart rate is definitely on the rise and it has nothing to do with my warm up.

  Okay. He has game. All my lady-bits want all of his man bits.

  Looking up, I find his gun-metal gray eyes boring into me. They are the icing on this tasty caramel cake; a unique and powerfully attractive feature. I try to look away, but somehow I can’t find the strength. Trapped in his gaze I see an intensity there that tells me he is after so much more than some casual fling. It’s that look that gives me the strength I need to duck out the side of our little moment.

  “See,” he says as his eyes follow me. “Apparently I’m not the only one who needs time either.”

  Ignoring him, I drop to the floor and focus on my technique as I alternate arm positions during my press-ups.

  “Keep your ass down and your bellybutton in,” he says, falling comfortably into our usual gym partnership.

  “You changed the subject,” I say, making the adjustments.

  “To your bellybutton?”

  “I wanted to know what your disappointed expression was for.”

  Sighing, he changes from crunches to Spiderman press-ups. “I make the same face every time you emerge from the locker room.”

  I stop. “What? Why?”

  Bruno doesn’t stop; his movements speed up. “Because every time, I hope that you will be wearing something different, but you never do.”

  I look down at my clothes. “What’s wrong with my workout gear? Black doesn’t offend people like the fluorescent rainbow some people wear. My gear is fitted, it’s breathable and it allows for ease of movement. It’s perfect.”

  “It also long-sleeved and covers you from ankle to neck. Have you ever seen anyone else in the gym wear anything like it?” He holds his finger up to stop me from speaking as I open my mouth. “I don’t need you to tell me about those full-length suits that swimmers wear, Scar. You’re not in a pool, or competing in a triathlon.”

  Closing my mouth I scowl at him. He knows why I wear what I wear.

  “Why would you think I’d wear anything different?” I ask, feeling my anger building below the surface. “I am scarred over nearly half of my body. Not pretty little scars, but big, nasty, hideously-colored scars on my arm, my stomach, my back, ass and leg. I’m hardly going to parade about in a crop top and hot pants!”

  Bruno looks at me as if he’s bored.

  “I’m not saying you should. And that would be messed up, because you hate ‘gym bunnies’ that dress that way - on principle, not because they’re flaunting scar-less bodies,” he says, hitting the nail on the head. “The thing is, you make the excuse that people stare at your scars, and I can understand that would be uncomfortable at times, but there’s hardly anyone here, and once they’ve seen you get on and do your thing, they wouldn’t care. And you shouldn’t care what they think anyway. It’s an excuse and you know it,” he says, his tone becoming pointed and sharp. “The truth is, you cover up because you think your scars are hard to look at, which means you can’t even fathom the idea that people could see them any differently. You’re beautiful, and every day, I hope it’ll be the day you see it,” he says plainly, as if it weren’t some colossal notion or admission, just straight, simple fact. “That’s what disappoints me. When I see you in your full-length armor - I know that it won’t be today.”

  Running a hand over his face, he exhales roughly as he looks me over. “I think we should run a while before we start on weights. I’m not apologizing for anything I said, but I realize I may have made you fragile and maybe also hate me a little. It’ll affect your lifts, so run it off. Then we’ll lift, you can go do your class and pretend you’re kicking the shit out of me and I’ll meet you in the quiet studio after. Deal?”

  Torn between crying and kicking the shit out of him right now, I grit my teeth and nod.

  Bruno gets me in a very strange and
challenging way; has for a while now, but only since I learned that he likes me has it made me uncomfortably aware of just how much attention he must pay me to be so accurate in his assessments.

  Choosing the treadmill as far away from him as possible, I pound out my frustration until I’m dripping. Hitting the stop button, I suck in oxygen as Bruno arrives and hands me my towel. Saying nothing, he walks to the free weights and starts loading up our bars.

  Neither of us says anything outside the context of lifting weights. Bruno doesn’t push me to make a personal best, apparently still considering me ‘fragile’. The thought irritates me. Mostly because he’d be right.

  When we finish, we tidy the weights away in silence. Wiping down the equipment, we reach for our towels and do the same to ourselves. Our eyes meet.

  He’s standing firm on what he said, even his eyes reflect it.

  “You don’t flaunt your body at the gym either. What are you ashamed of?”

  “Nothing. I have a time for exhibition, and working out isn’t it. Why did you use that word?”

  “What word?”

  “Ashamed. Are you ashamed of your scars?” he asks, taking a step closer. His eyes drill me for answers.

  I take a step back and look at the clock.

  “Of course not. I survived burns and infection and skin grafts and all the pain that came with every one of those things. I’m proud to be a fighter.” It’s the truth. I am proud of my recovery. I also just happen to be ashamed of how I got the scars in the first place. “I have to get to combat class before it starts.” Turning my back on him, I leave Bruno and his stupid questions behind.

  When class is over, an hour in fight-mode has left me feeling less sensitive, and it’s with a thicker skin that I make my way to the quiet studio. Looking through the glass, I can see Bruno in an upside-down pose that takes a lot of skill to hold. The t-shirt he’s tucked into his shorts has slipped out on one side, revealing a glimpse of his highly defined abs.

  As I watch, he slowly maneuvers into a new pose without his feet ever touching the floor. Holding that a while, he transitions into a series of the same exercises I’ve seen him complete every time he’s warming down. Opening the door, I quietly move to the opposite side of the room to do my own series of upside-down poses before stretching, including the side stretches I do several times a day to maximize the limited flexibility of my scarred skin.

  While I’m arched to the side, I watch Bruno complete the series and begin again in slow, measured movements.

  “Why always the same poses?” I ask, having to hold my own boring pose for quite some time.

  “Rehab.”

  “You are rehabilitated,” I say, confused. “Do you mean you learned them in rehab?”

  “I’m not entirely rehabilitated,” he says, changing poses and still not looking at me. “Spinal cord injuries are tricky. Some things take longer to return to normal; some things never do. Walking again was just the tip of the iceberg. These poses promote energy and blood flow to the areas that still need attention.”

  “Like where? Seeing you dance, it’s hard to believe there was ever a time when you were unable to feel your legs.”

  Sighing, Bruno changes into down-facing dog. Whether it’s to avoid looking at me, or because it’s in his usual line up, it’s hard to say, but I’m pretty sure he’s usually half a camel after his bow pose.

  “It’s nothing you’d notice unless you were looking,” he says slowly. “It’s more nerve stuff. In some places I have little, or no feeling at all. It’s like the wires don’t connect; like pieces are missing. Nothing that effects my dancing, obviously. Most of the connections are fine now, but I keep doing the exercises to get a little more sensation back. I might never get it all back, but I keep trying, in the hope that I will one day feel whole again.”

  “You walk around feeling like there’s something missing?” I ask, straightening up.

  Laughing quietly, he shakes his head as his face comes into view for that camel pose. “Some of it’s more like patchy coverage of surface sensation,” he says, gesturing to a section of his thigh. “Like I can’t feel light touch here, but I can feel deeper pressure. Or here,” he says, pointing to a similar level on his other leg. “I can’t feel pain in this section, so if for some strange reason I get cut there, I wouldn’t notice until I saw the scratch, or the blood, or whatever. It’s not like something has disappeared altogether, it’s just not doing everything it’s meant to.”

  “Oh.” Nodding, I carry on with my warm down.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” I ask, wincing as I twist, but pushing myself to go further anyway.

  “Do you have messed up sensation in your scarring?”

  “Oh. Sure. Heaps. Mainly everything is over-sensitive, so I can’t like... have my showers too hot, or wear rough kinds of fabrics, or even think about anything that scratches,” I say, cringing involuntarily. “But there’s a section right here,” I say, circling the small area on my right side, “Where I can’t feel anything at all.”

  “Do you miss it?” he asks, his eyes glued to my side as if he’s trying to memorize the area I’m highlighting. I drop my hand and his eyes return to mine.

  “That bit? Not really.” It seems an odd thing to ask, but I guess if the majority of my scars had no sensation, I’d definitely miss the feeling. “I used to wish I felt the rest of it less, but I’m learning to live with it.”

  Bruno just nods. “Six years and we’re still learning to live in different bodies.”

  “Yeah.” It’s a small admission. He’ll probably take it as me conceding to his earlier comments about me not accepting my own body. Maybe it is. If Bruno sees it that way, he doesn’t rub it in.

  “I’m going to take this body to the showers,” he says, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “See you at home later?”

  I’d forgotten that he often disappears after the gym on a Monday. “Sure. Later. Where are you off to today?”

  “Here and there,” he says evasively.

  “Cookie delivery?” I ask, prying deeper.

  “Among other things,” he says, eying me warily. “You never ask where I go.”

  “I know. That’s why I am clueless as to where you will be and have to ask.”

  “Right,’ he says, drawing the word out. “I’m going to do some dancing and some reading.”

  “With your library books,” I add, wondering why he is cage-y all of a sudden.

  “Yes. I have some in my bag,” he says, as if this information is helpful. “But I’m showering first. Okay? See ya,” he says, leaving before I can weasel more information out of him.

  Rushing to the showers myself, I forgo my usual lengthy processes and dress as quickly as possible. My clothes stick to me where I haven’t dried properly, but I dismiss the discomfort in my haste to make it outside before Bruno.

  I wait in the wide doorway of the building next door, apologizing to the woman who has to step around me to get out to the sidewalk. Not much time passes before Bruno exits the gym building, looks up and down the street briefly and heads in the opposite direction from me.

  Waiting until he’s turned the corner, I rush after him, pausing at the last building to find him again. I catch sight of him already halfway down the block. Stopped to look in a store window, he causes foot traffic to detour around his large frame before he steps to the door and slips inside.

  Walking down the street, I ignore the strange looks I get from other people as I cling to the buildings, ready to hide myself in any available crevice. I make it all the way to the store and Bruno still hasn’t emerged. Taking in the overhead sign, I frown. It’s a lingerie store. A racy lingerie store, though I can see through the window that they have a section for men.

  I wonder if he’s buying for himself. Or someone else. Frowning at that thought, I choose to believe the initial option. We all go in search of a new costume every now and then. I almost giggle as I wonder if the boys try theirs on to
get the right fit and if they have a term for ‘cup’ size to differentiate for say, a man of small build with a large package or a big man with tiny junk. Not that it would matter for Bruno. Everything on that man is large.

  Sneaking inside, I use the racks of satin and lace for cover as I spy Bruno heading for the changing rooms. Taking the first thing I see, I notify the lady at the counter I’ll be trying it on as I slip into the short row of curtained cubicles. The curtain at the end is drawn shut and I tip-toe toward it, ready to bust Bruno in a thong and tease him for being too shy to share. I reach for the curtain, but a strong arm hooks around my waist and pulls me into a different cubicle before I can object.

  Bruno presses me against the wall with his hard body as he smiles down at me, shaking his head.

  “I was Special Forces, Scar. You think I don’t know when I’m being followed?”

  Looking around, I realize he’d been hiding behind a bunched curtain, waiting for me to pass. “What gave me away?” I ask in a husky voice I hardly recognize as my own, suddenly much more aware of his body leaning into mine.

  Laughing, he doesn’t release me. “I knew you’d follow me, because I didn’t tell you where I was going and you’re so curious, you can’t help yourself. You don’t even know why you want to know, you just want to know.”

  I hate it when he’s right. Smug bastard.

  “Stop knowing me so well. It’s disturbing,” I say, beginning to get restless in the heat between us. “Why were you too shy to say you were shopping for new gear?”

  He laughs again. “I’m not shopping. I only came in here to see what you’d do.” He looks down at the item in my hands. “A thong?” He raises my hand for a closer look, apparently confused. “You don’t wear thongs.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I’ve never seen you wear one on stage. And I stare at your ass a lot, and we use the same laundry room,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “You stare at my ass,” I repeat, a little stunned. “A lot?”

  “Yeah,” he says as if I’m dense. “I think we’ve established that I’m into you. And your ass.”