“Aw, man, no,” Hal says, pouting a little. “Come on. I want you to meet the guys.”
“Yeah…” Luke’s heart thunders, that aching gallop that comes with waking up to bad news. “I’m pretty sure the guys won’t want to meet me.” He cringes, though Hal can’t see it.
“What?” Hal sounds genuinely shocked. Affronted. “Of course they will. Why would – dude, you’re my best friend. They want to meet you. They were all excited when I told them you were coming.”
“You told them about me?”
“Well yeah.” Hal’s hand closes over Luke’s bicep, a firm squeeze. “Of course.”
Luke groans. “I need coffee.”
Hal stands. “Coming right up. You get dressed.”
“How have you become my mother in all this?” Luke asks as he sits up and flips the covers back. He shouldn’t have had a drink with Will last night; his headache is already setting up, dull but persistent.
Hal calls something from the kitchen he can’t hear.
In the bathroom, Luke ops not to take a shower – what’s the point if he’s just going to get sweaty? – and brushes his teeth, washes his face, makes sure his glasses are clean. He doesn’t have real workout gear in his bag, but his favorite old tattered sweats and a plain t-shirt will have to do. Damn. This is going to suck.
He pushes his hands through his hair, gives his reflection a hard stare, and tries to convince himself that Hal’s friends won’t hate him too much.
~*~
Hal chatters happily, and mostly to himself, on the drive to the gym. He talks about his friends, the gym bros: they all work security out of the same firm, and in Hal’s words are “a good group of guys.” Luke hates that phrase; it’s what men say about other men when they can’t think of anything complimentary to say.
By the time Hal parks the Jeep, Luke can feel his shirt clinging to his back, and his breath is coming in shallow little hiccups. He wants a smoke. He wants a shot of something. He wants very much not to walk into this glass-fronted gym and embarrass himself on some piece of overly complicated machinery.
But Hal slaps lightly at his chest and pops his door open. “Let’s go,” he says, all good cheer and rippling muscles.
Luke gulps down one last breath, grabs his bag, and follows.
His sweat-damp shirt freezes in the four steps from the Jeep to the front door, and he steps inside shivering, hurrying a little too quick in Hal’s wake in a way that he knows looks nervous. Whatever. Heisnervous. Let people think what they want.
Eli’s Gym occupies four storefronts of an upscale stucco-and-stone shopping center, the kind with high-dollar landscaping, brass shop numbers, and brick sidewalks out front. The inside boasts row after row of machines: treadmills, elliptical trainers, weight machines, and stationary bikes, all overlooking the street beyond the tinted glass. Luke spots a long juice bar off to the right, and a sleek front counter manned by two fit, tan women in workout gear. Men and women make use of the equipment, scattered across the floor, all of them with white earbuds hooked to phones and iPods.
Hal tosses a wave to the women, gets a “Heya, Hal” in return. “Here, we’re in the back,” he tells Luke, steering him with a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Honest to God, if all thistouchingkeeps up, Luke is going to lose it.
They move down a short hall and into a smaller area in back, ceiling fans twirling above, free weights and barbells set up along one wall, three treadmills facing them. Early sunlight pours in through the windows, catching the sweat sheen on the huge arms of the three intimidating men lifting weights.
The white guy notices them first, racking a set of dumbbells and turning around with a shouted, “Hallelujah!”
Hal snorts. “That doesn’t get any less lame the more you say it.”
“Dude,” the guy protests, and steps forward to slap palms with Hal. “Do you know how hard it is to come up with a cool nickname for ‘Hal’?”
“You’re just sore aboutyournickname,” the Latino guy says, rolling his eyes.
“Hey.” The first guy turns and aims a warning finger at his friend. “Coming for you next, man.”
“You can’t improve upon perfection.”
“Stop scaring the new guy with all your stupid,” says the very tall, very built, very terrifying black guy, face splitting in a dazzling, not-terrifying smile that makes Luke feel fractionally better. “Hey, you Luke?”
“Yeah,” Luke says, and resists the urge to knuckle his glasses further up his nose. He sticks out his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Lee Carter,” the big man says, and presses his hand in a way that feels like he’s practiced being gentle with people smaller than him.
