8. Graham
8
GRAHAM
I resolve not to “go through Katia.” For one thing—I can’t afford Silas’s rates now that I’m no longer practicing law. Making sure Avery has everything her heart desires to live out her Upper East Side dream isn’t cheap.
I could sell my Chelsea apartment, but its value keeps going up. I’d hate to let it go and in a year realize I could have made another hundred grand or more from the sale. Still, it’s a solid backup if I ever need one. Getting laid isn’t a reason to activate my emergency plan.
Besides, I’m not that guy. The night I hired him was a one-time thing—out of character. I was relatively content before I ran into Silas again, and there’s no reason that has to change as long as I stay focused on my life’s current path. It’s a good life—free of loose ends and packed with potential.
But then there’s the bench press.
A seemingly innocuous piece of gym equipment meant to serve one purpose. The thing is, when I’m on it, and Silas is spotting me, I can see up his shorts. The way to avoid this, of course, would be not to look when he leans in to make an adjustment or help me rack the barbell, but my eyes have a will of their own. He wears the kind of gym shorts that have compression shorts underneath. They’re white and mostly transparent.
The outline of his dick makes its way into my line of sight more often than not as I’m struggling with my upper body strength, which is especially challenging when my cock gets hard.
He never fails to notice. The sight of it elicits heavy sighs from him during our forty-five minute sessions and whatever small talk we might have been exchanging comes to an abrupt halt.
“Sorry,” I always say.
“Don’t worry about it,” he typically responds, sounding exhausted and put out.
By our fifth session, he’s straight up annoyed.
“Is it the movement itself doing it or something else?” he comes out and asks.
“I can see up your shorts,” I admit.
“Oh.” At that, he excuses himself, is gone for three minutes, and returns with sweatpants on over said shorts. “Better?”
No, I want to tell him, but I nod and try to look grateful.
“Have you been keeping up with your cardio? I don’t feel like your endurance is improving the way it should be.”
I am breathing pretty heavy for someone who can only bench press fifty pounds. “I’m not really sure what to do for cardio. I get bored.”
“Maybe a class?—”
“What do you do?”
Silas looks up from the weight rack, lips pursed at my interruption. “I’m a runner.”
I give him a defeated look. Nothing is more boring than running on a treadmill. “A runner, huh? Marathons?”
“When I have time. I haven’t done one in a few years though.”
“There’s no playlist in the world…”
“Or you could just run in the park like I do. Give your brain some time to breathe without listening to anything. ”
“I’d feel like I was wasting time.”
“Thirty minutes? Who doesn’t have thirty minutes? Or a better question—who can’t find a spare thirty minutes to do something purely for yourself.”
When he says that, I remember the last thing I did purely for myself, and my dick threatens to chub up again. “I take your point.”
He tacks on in a mumble. “I mean if I can do it…”
“When do you fit it in?” I ask.
“When I get off my shifts at Hanover.”
“After being up all night?”
“I always have a burst of energy in the morning.”
“How old are you, Silas?”
“Twenty-seven. Why?”
“A lot of energy,” I say, sitting down on the mat to attempt to touch my toes again. I still only make it to my knees. Sometimes when I arrive for these sessions a few minutes early, I’ll catch a glimpse of Silas finishing up another client’s session. He’ll be down on the mat with them, holding their hands to help stretch them out. He’s never offered that service to me, but I haven’t said anything. I figure he has his reasons.
Although… “Can I get some help here?”
Why shouldn’t he help? It’s not like we have to interlace our fingers. He just needs to tug on my wrists a little.
He looks down at me. “You’ve got it. Walk your fingers a couple inches down your shins. There you go.”
My back and ass protest wildly at the intensification of the stretch. I immediately walk it back.
“You ever hear the saying practice makes perfect, Senator?”
“I’m familiar with it,” I grumble.
“Then how do you expect to get more flexible if you don’t push your limits? For that matter, how do you expect to make it through a whole weight set without losing your breath if you don’t give your heart and lungs what they need to support your muscle groups?”
I glare up at him. Generally, Silas is polite to me. Not much more, but not much less. He’s not even a particularly harsh trainer, but he’s no cheerleader, either. Still, I sense an undercurrent I can’t pinpoint. All I know is it makes me feel small. A little like shit. I should ask if another trainer has availability. I’m invested in the cause of getting into shape, but I don’t need to walk out of here hating myself half the time.
“Do you speak this way with all your clients? Is this tough love or something? Do I look like I need that?”
“Speak what way?”
“Like I need to be taught a lesson or something. Like you can’t wait for me to get out of your face.”
“I don’t sound like that,” he says dismissively.
“If there’s another trainer you can hook me up with, I’m happy to take myself off your hands.”
“I didn’t say that, either.” He looks mystified.
I cross my legs and sit up. “Is there a different conversation we need to be having, then?”
He stiffens. “Like what?”
I shrug, letting him fill in the blanks.
He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glances over at the row of ellipticals. “Not here,” he finally says.
“Do you want to?—”
“Meet me at 66 th and Park at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Wear running shoes. I guess I do have some things to say.”
I don’t know why, but those words put a pit in my stomach. Nevertheless, I nod. Better to hash it out than go on like this.
I had to buy running shoes after I left the gym yesterday evening. I’ve never put much thought into athletic footwear, but Silas made it sound like the ones I wear to the gym are something “else.” I got asked a lot of questions in the store. What’s your weekly mileage? Trails or road? Usual pace? Even after I told them I was just getting started.
The shoes I wound up with are hideous. They’re bright white with a large neon green stripe and orange accents. They feel like nothing on my feet, which made the sticker shock that much more apparent. Two hundred dollars for two ounces of shoe? Insane.
But they’re the first thing Silas notices when I meet him at the appointed place and time. “Those look new.”
“I didn’t have running shoes.”
“You’ll get blisters.”
I sigh, staring at him with defeat on my face. He looks good this morning, despite having worked all night. It’s early November and cold, so he’s wearing a knit hat, a skin-tight, long-sleeved shirt, and compression leggings that show off every bulge and curve of him.
“You really have an outfit for every occasion, don’t you?”
“The wardrobe builds up over the years. Tech fabrics are a good investment. Although you don’t sweat that much yet, so you should be fine.”
“What does that mean I don’t sweat much? Is that bad? Or is it some kind of dig?”
He sighs. “It’s not a dig. Your body has to learn to sweat properly if it’s not used to it. You’re not there yet. Not a big deal.”
I still catch a note of something I don’t like in his tone. I wait, anxious, while he messes around with his smart watch before looking back up at me. “Let’s go.”
I catch up with his brisk walking pace as we head into the park. “I’m not gonna charge you for this ‘cause it was my idea, and we do need to talk, but normally, I would, since this is technically my time.”
“Okay,” I say but don’t thank him for the favor or whatever he thinks this is.
He’s a fast walker though my legs are just as long as his. It leaves me ample opportunity to trail behind him and get a view of his ass. It’s not on purpose. I’m genuinely trying to keep up with him, but I guess I’m not as comfortable in my body as he is. I’m having to make constant adjustments.
His ass in those pants, though. All firm, flexing muscle between trim hips lead to legs I can only describe as shapely. Curves in all the right places as they say. I pat my own ass, wondering if it’s even got the potential to look like that, which begs the question: who am I trying to impress?
“You get an awful lot of boners for someone working out with a trainer,” is how Silas starts the conversation.
I have no rebuttal. I’ll have to take his word for it.
“It makes me uncomfortable,” he adds. “I realize sometimes it’s probably involuntary, but in our case it doesn’t feel like it, and I’d like for it to stop.”
I may never get another erection as long as I live after this conversation, so I doubt he has anything to be concerned about. I do, however, respect the fact that he chose not to address this with me in the gym. “I’ll see what I can do,” I say quietly.
“Not looking up my shorts would be a good start.”
I stop walking. I don’t need this. It’s embarrassing enough to feel like a horny eighteen-year-old, but the last thing I want to hear is someone scolding me for a stain on my sheets—so to speak.
He notices I’m not with him soon enough and circles back to stand in front of me. He puts a hand on my shoulder as I’m about to turn and walk away. “Hey. I’m not trying to be shitty. I just don’t get it. ”
He’s not trying to be shitty? I shrug out of his gentle grip because his touch is more than I can handle. “Don’t get what?”
“Like—your angle.”
“I don’t have an angle,” I tell him, certain of that, at least. “I didn’t ask you to be the doorman or the only trainer available. I didn’t intend to have any contact with you after that night, so I don’t know why this is happening, but it is, and I can’t move out. I don’t expect you to quit, but there’s no need for me to go to the gym. I’ll stay out of your way.”
“I’m not asking you to do that.”
“No? That’s what it sounds like.”
“Graham…” He clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips, canting his body so he’s not directly facing me. “Listen…it’s just…the more I see you, the more I remember…”
I fold my arms over my chest, waiting for him to finish or drop the subject.
He glances back at me, his brown eyes the color of caramel in the cool morning light. “When you get turned on, I get turned on.”
“Oh.” That’s not what I was expecting. If my cheeks weren’t so cold, I’d probably be blushing.
“Right, so—that’s all I’m trying to say. I can control myself—you don’t need to worry about it, but I don’t know… Maybe wear a cup or something.”
I almost laugh. “You want me to wear a jockstrap?”
He turns away again. “Jesus.”