“A man after my own heart,” she said. “Now, let’s keep me from turning into another Tania Marie.”
“No worries there,” he said, reaching for the door. “At least you don’t have to sneak into a fat ladies’ gym and wind up with your ass plastered all over the newspaper.”Ass, she thought. Not boobs, not abs. “You should have given Tania Marie my phone number, especially since she appears to be in the Killer Body family now.”
“Not on your life. You know too many of my secrets.” The floor was quieter than usual, only the clank, creak and groan ofthe weight machines. Rochelle lifted two fifteen-pound weights from the rack and began her traveling lunges, motivated by the ass comment as well as by the Nordic picture of perfection beside her.
Blond Elvis, as everyone at the club called him, was the ideal personal trainer. He knew how to coax extra reps out of her, pushing her beyond her limit while keeping her form perfect. And he didn’t judge.
At the end of the session, she wiped a towel across her forehead, patted down her neck, feeling more animal than human, a feeling she relished. Her body ached from within, and her head spun in a whirlwind of endorphins.
Her hand trembled as she filled in the check.
“Here,” she said, handing it to him. “You might be as expensive as a shrink, but you’re a hell of a lot better.”
“That’s what I tell everyone.”
Then she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Her damned ass, and in navy blue, at that. How the hell did it look in street clothes? To Bobbo? Jesse, for that matter?
“What’s wrong?”
“My ass.” She met his porcelain-blue gaze and tried for a comedic, scrunched-up grin.
He frowned and walked around her, shaking his head. “Looks pretty good to me.”
“Don’t stroke me, Blond. With Tania Marie out of the way, assuming I’m that lucky, the Killer Body job is between Princess Gabby and me.”
“Damn.” He couldn’t hide the doubt dimming his eyes. “Princess Gabby is pretty hot.”
“I don’t want to hear it, okay? I just want to know what I can do. I need something now, and I need results right away.”
“What are you eating?” It was a Jesse question, but before she could conjure a Jesse answer, he said, “Don’t lie to Blond Elvis.”
She laughed. She should never underestimate this man. “Actually, with that new cut, you look more like Billy Idol.”
“But we aren’t talking about me, are we, Shel?”
“Minute Rice. Are you happy now?”
He put a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. I did the same thing when I was competing.”
Jesse would have chided her. Blond understood. “A whole cup for one-third the carbs.”
“And zip nutritional value, but this ain’t Nutrition 101. What else are you eating? Let me guess. Baby food vegetables?”
“It’s Survival 101, and yes. Tuna sometimes, though.”
“By the tablespoon?”
“Quarter cup.” Damn, it felt good to talk like this.
“Taking Clen?”
Clenbuterol, Clen, for short. She leaned so close that his sweaty, husky scent burned her nostrils, like smoke. “Sounds like a venereal disease, doesn’t it?”
“It works in the short run, and that’s what you’re concerned about, isn’t it?”
In that second, she realized something that hadn’t occurred to her before. Her entire life, from the time she’d left home, had been the short run. Every role, every goal, had been the short run. Jesse and Megan were her only constants, her only long-time commitments. Her husband. Her daughter. And her damned, betraying body, of course.
“I’ve used it before. What’s the price these days, after you take off the trip to Mexico? About a dollar each?”
