Receipt in the bag? Of course. I’m keeping it. It’s Exhibit A in my trial of personal reinvention. And maybe the first artifact in my healing scrapbook/sexual awakening diary.
I leave the store armed with journals, heart-shaped sunglasses, and a legally dubious amount of motivation to move on from Hank.
The sun glints off my floppy hat, possibly blinding a pilot mid-descent. I radiate glamour and probable air traffic violations.
But I’m prepared for field research.
Jett, my chaotic little rage blossom, had a logo on his shirt during group. Red lettering. Angry font. I memorized it, obviously.
Google Maps is a girl’s best friend.
So now I’m standing in front of IronBlood Athletics, which sounds like either a gym, a protein powder, or a Scandinavian death metal band. Apparently, it’s the first one.
My sunglasses reflect the sterile gleam of floor-to-ceiling windows, but I press a palm to the glass and squint inside anyway like a Dickensian orphan eyeing roast goose and emotional closure.
There’s no sign of Jett. But I do see weights. So many weights.
So much testosterone.
So few shirts.
I push the door open and step inside. The air smells like eucalyptus and ego.
A man behind the counter looks up. Flirty Gym Guy. Tan. White teeth. Muscles like he curls his own emotions.
He smiles, catching the scent of commission in my delicately layered floral desperation. “Hey there. First time?”
I smile back. “Hi. Do I need a membership to walk on your little treadmills?”
He narrows his eyes, the customer service version of “what the fuck?”. “Uh, our cardio equipment is available with any basic plan. Did you want a tour?”
“I’m more of a self-directed learner.” I lean on the counter and tilt my sunglasses down just enough to look predatory. “Do you work out here? Or just... supervise the weak?”
He laughs, blushing a little. “I do both.”
Poor sweet meat puppet. I’m not here for you.
I scan the floor like a sniffer dog for chaos. No Jett. Just men grunting under weights, trying to evacuate demons from their lungs.
“Do you offer… personal training?” I ask, absently. My gaze skims over benches, mirrors, beefcake. Nothing.
Flirty Gym Guy lights up. “Absolutely. We’ve got great packages. I handle some sessions personally. Strength training, boxing, posture correction, glute activation. Whatever your goals are.”
My goal is your coworker’s soul. But sure, glutes sound nice.
And then I see Jett. The Viscount of V-Cuts.
Far corner of the gym. Backward cap, tank top, fingerless gloves.
He’s spotting some girl in lavender shorts. His hands hover around her waist, seconds from either praise or violence.
She giggles.
I try to remember the group therapy tips about managing triggers. Because did she just giggle at Jett?
My Jett?
Tip One: Do not commit a felony in a gym.
