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Closing my eyes, suddenly, I don’t feel anything. Fuck, am I dead?
I open my eyes to find a huge guy looming over me. He’s probably my age, give or take a few years, with curly dark black hair, a short beard, and muscles stacked upon muscles. He extends his hand, and I flench. “Man, I’m just trying to help you up,” he says in English, but with an accent I can’t place; not Italian.
“Why would you help me?” I ask suspiciously. Trying to sit up on my own, I wince. If my ribs aren’t broken, they’re likely bruised all to hell.
“What’s your name?” the guy asks.
“Fabio Mazza,” I tell him, this time accepting his outstretched hand.
He easily hoists me to my feet, and I look around frantically for my escape route in case this new guy is just fucking with me before he has a turn using me as a punching bag. “Fabio, if I wanted to kick your ass, I would have already done so,” he says in an amused tone.
“Who are you?”
“Darius Angelos. Your new personal trainer.”
I shake my head. “Thanks, but I don’t have money for a trainer.”
“I’ll train you for a few months on the house.”
“Why?” I ask wearily.
“Man, when the Fates smile down on you, don’t flip them off.” I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he says, “You want my help, or you want to keep getting your ass kicked?”
“I want your help,” I mumble.
“Smart man. Go home and take an ice bath to stop any internal swelling. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.”
The bell rings the next day, and I grab my bag and hustle out the door, eager to meet up with Darius. I stop dead in my tracks when I round the corner of a building: my tormentors are waiting on me. They take a look over my shoulder and run like hell.
I turn around to find Darius leaning against the building with an amused expression on his face. Strolling over to me, he extends a bottle, and I take it. “Protein shake. You’ve got to add some bulk, and to do that, you need to up your caloric intake.”
“Okay.” I take a sip; it tastes like chalk, but if it makes me half the badass this guy is, I’ll gladly drink it.
“A few months of heavy lifting and a clean diet, and you’ll begin to notice changes. Not just with your body, but with your skin too,” he tells me; not in a judgmental tone, but as someone who knows his stuff.
“How long have you been into fitness?” I wonder.
“A few years now; I got tired of getting my ass kicked by my old man,” he tells me.
“I can’t imagine anyone kicking your ass,” I admit, downing the protein shake.
He chuckles. “Good. Then my hard work paid off.”
We walk several blocks until we reach a building with blacked-out windows. Darius retrieves a key from his pocket and unlocks the door, and I follow him inside the empty weight room. He flips on the light and locks the door behind us. “You own this place?” I ask.
“Nah. Manage it for my boss,” he tells me.
“You go to school?” I wonder.
“School of hard knocks,” he says with a laugh.
“How old are you?”
“Damn, Fabio. You a cop?” Darius jokes.
“Fuck no,” I spit, my old man’s disdain for the police drilled into my psyche.
“I’m sixteen. Originally from Greece. I’m a Leo. I enjoy long walks on the beach and cutting out the spleens of little bitches while they watch.”
