Chapter Two
Giles
“Seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”
Can I do more? I ask myself. Yes, I decide.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen.”
Do I have another three in me? Let's try. Let's try.
“Sixteen, seventeen... shit.” This last rep is going to kill. But I'm going to do it. I have to do it. I have to make it to eighteen. If I don’t…
I just have to make it to eighteen.
“Eighteen!” I pant and I see a flash of light behind my closed lids as I've scrunched up my face with all the effort.
That was my last rep of my third set. Thank fuck.
With arms still on fire, I return the dumbbells to the rack, wipe my towel over their grips three times each, and then move back to my position and extend my arm, engaging my tricep.
It pops under the gym's very deliberate lighting and I am pleased enough with the results.
Because it could always be better. I could always be better.
Relaxing out of the flex, I roll my shoulders and get ready to move on to some shoulders and back training.
Today is mostly about arms, but I like to incorporate other exercises into arm day, to give everything a bit of a boost whenever I come to the gym, which is around four or five times a week at the moment.
Apart from legs. Legs are strictly for leg days and those days are my most hated.
However, after training like this for over twenty years, I've learnt that nothing comes easily. And as much as I hate leg day, I fucking love my quads. Most of the time.
I'm facing the cable machine and contemplating what weight to start with when a voice interrupts my thoughts.
“Fancy seeing you here.”
I turn my head and blush, furiously.
It's Tony, a guy I've been, well, I don't really know what I've been doing with him. Chatting? Yes, in passing, here at the gym. Flirting? A bit, I guess. Fancying? Kinda. Sort of. I haven't quite decided yet.
Because he's not unattractive. Slim and toned, and a few inches shorter than me, he has a sort of mature twink vibe about him with his perfectly combed blond hair, his shorts that are honestly a little too short for certain exercises, and apparently a whole wardrobe of T-shirts that all shrank in the wash.
He has a big smile, like, really big. Almost like it's a bit too big for his face and he hasn't quite figured out how to control it, but it's not unappealing, just a bit surprising.
As is the way he flutters his eyelashes a lot during our brief conversations, which nearly always start with him saying exactly what he just said.
“Hi, Tony.”
“Shoulder day?” he asks and his eyes roll over my body, nowhere near my actual shoulders.
“Actually, I've just finished up with arms. But want to keep the back and shoulders warm too.”
“I can think of a few ways to keep you warm,” he says with a cocked eyebrow.
I see. Going straight for the jugular today.
My blush deepens and I hope Tony puts it down to my workout.
“I'm sure you can,” I say and I do try to sound flirtatious but perhaps it doesn't work when I shift my gaze back to the cable machine and lean forward to put the pin in my chosen weight. When I straighten back up Tony is looking up at me with narrowed eyes.
“Am I actually going to get your number one of these days? Or do I have to keep wearing my best gym clothes each time I come here? I've never done so much washing these last few weeks.”
Yes, definitely going for the jugular and I almost feel the discomfort of my main artery being poked and prodded. A wave of nausea lifts my stomach and I feel a little light-headed.
Which is silly because Tony is... nice. He's got a good job – as cabin crew for British Airways, if I remember rightly – and he's only a few years younger than me. He works out, he clearly takes care of his skin and hair, and he seems to be keen on me.
What's not to like? But of course this isn't the real question I should be asking myself.
Do I really want to do this, again?
Do I really want to swap numbers, go on a date or two, end up fucking and then have yet another guy immediately lose interest and then walk away from me? Or just want it to be a no-strings sex-only arrangement?
Didn't I say after the last, I don't know, twenty-plus guys I dated that ended up like this that I was going to stop? That I was going to just not date. Just not fall into this trap again.
Because it never makes me feel good. Never.
“You don't need to impress me,” I say.
“So you'll give me your number?” Tony lifts up on his toes.
“I... I'm not really interested in seeing someone new right now,” I reply.
Tony's eyebrow lifts again. “Oh? Already spoken for?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Then what is it?” He puts a hand on his hip. “Don't like what you see?”
I let my eyes roam the length of his body up and down and it feels like I do it more for his benefit than mine. “You're a very attractive man. Great calves.”
“I know,” Tony says and kicks up his foot behind him as he flashes me that too-big grin.
“But I'm just not dating right now.”
Tony steps in closer. “Who said anything about dating?”
While this comment helps confirm I'm rejecting his advances for the right reasons, a small part of me knees myself in the balls, because it has been a while since I've felt another under me or, not wanting to make assumptions about Tony, above me.
I pull in a deep breath. “Thank you, Tony, but no, thank you.”
Tony leans back and I can see he's finally got the message.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”
“I will,” I say and again it doesn't feel like I'm saying it for my benefit.
“And P.S., you have great calves too,” His gaze drops again and takes its sweet time to come back up my body. “Great everything from what I can see.”
And then he turns – almost pirouettes, in fact – and waltzes away back to the cardio section of the gym, leaving me with nothing but my red cheeks and the most lacklustre quarter-chub of an erection.
“Not worth it," I tell myself in the lowest whisper. “Not worth falling into that trap again. Not when it makes you... feel so shit.”
I blink away that thought, and in many ways the whole interaction with Tony and reach for the cable's handles and assume my position for some overhead tricep extensions.
I've kept the weight relatively low as I'm going more for mobility and warmth than exertion and I'm quickly blasting through my reps, breathing deeply and counting under my breath again.
I keep my eyes fixed on an indeterminable point on the floor ahead of me for the first two sets of twelve and then as I start my last set, I look up. I don't know why my eyes look in the mirror's reflection towards the cardio section at the back of the room but they do.
Located in a vast basement of an office block just a couple of streets away from my tailors, the gym is dimly lit with mirrors, black floors and mostly black and silver equipment.
But there’s just enough light to look around and see other people, even at the back where all the cardiovascular machines stand in long rows.
Am I looking for Tony? Am I thinking about changing my mind?
Am I really that keen to get my dick wet again after what, little more than six months?
But it's not Tony I see when I start looking around the treadmills.
It's Marcello, the manager of the Italian café that makes the best chocolate croissants within a one-mile radius.
I know this because I've done extensive research, on cheat days.
I also drink one of their coffees every single day thanks to my employee Radia having a year-long crush on one of the other workers at the café, Chloe.
At least they're finally dating so I sometimes get my extra hot almond latte and a croissant for free these days.
I rarely go in there much myself on account of Radia insisting on doing so for either a quick glance at the objection of her affection or more recently for a ten-minute conversation and possibly a snog or two.
On the occasions I have done our coffee run, I've always got on with Marcello.
Which is why, when his eyes catch mine in the reflection, I nod and smile at him.
He looks away. As quickly as if someone called his name from the opposite direction but there is nobody doing so. He just turns his head and then his whole body, and he walks away into the furthest corner of the gym and out of the mirror's reflection.
As I'm on my last set, I push past twelve, then fifteen and then even beyond eighteen and stop at twenty-one, all the while wondering what exactly that was.
Maybe he didn't see me? Maybe he didn't recognise me? Maybe it wasn't Marcello but somebody who has his height – six foot two at a guess – his dark eyes and brown hair pulled into a bun on top of his head? Maybe it’s some other man who has his perma-tan olive skin and that cute pot belly that makes me wonder how soft it would be to lay my head on? I’m aware this is a weird thing to think about a vague associate's stomach, but it's better than wondering whether the thick hair on his arms stretches out over his chest and yes, that pillow of a belly.
At least I've never wondered about that. Much.
What can I say? Marcello is an attractive man. An attractive man who has just run away from me.
Or maybe I got that wrong. Maybe I should just be a mature adult and go and properly approach him and say hello. I've never seen him at the gym before. Maybe he needs some help.
I wipe down the machine with three deliberate swipes of my cloth and then make my way into the cardio section of the gym.
I see Marcello – and yes, it's definitely Marcello – on one of the rowing machines wearing an almost pained expression of concentration although he's barely breaking a sweat as he pulls back on the machine.
Just as his head lifts and he catches my eye again, I lift my hand to wave and open my mouth to speak. But it's not my voice I hear next.
“Changed your mind?” Tony bounces into view in front of me.
“Tony, hi, yeah, no, not exactly.” I trip over my words.
“Then what are you doing in the CV section of the gym.” Once again, his gaze dips down my body. “Those quads aren't exactly elliptical machine thighs.”
I feel heat rush to my cheeks and I really hope he doesn't take my blush to be anything other than what it is. Awkward embarrassment.
“I thought I saw someone I knew,” I say and I look around Tony to locate Marcello again but the rowing machine he was on is now vacant and he's nowhere to be seen.
Tony folds his arms. “You must know everyone here. You practically live here.”
A few years ago, this kind of comment would have felt something like a compliment.
To be recognised for my commitment, for my consistency, to be noticed.
But today it makes my shoulders sink. It feels.
.. sad. Because some days I wonder if the only reason I get out of bed in the morning is to work and to work out.
I'm not ashamed of that, but I can't help but wonder if there's more to life, if there's something I'm missing.
I have no idea what that thing is but I'm almost certain I'm not going to find it by swapping numbers with Tony, who is still eye-fucking me as I finally respond.
“Well, I'm going to get back to my reps,” I say and before he can say anything else, I turn and head back to the weights. As sad as it may be, at least the weights have never let me down.