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Besides, Xavier may be back, but he’s not talking to me, not telling me where he’s been, or what happened to the cash he took from me. I could corner him. I could punch the living shit out of him until he talks.
But that’s not how I roll. I don’t beat people up. And he’s my brother. I love the little shit. I’m just scared of losing him.
The problem isn’t fixed, and I’m damn sure I know the problem. Same one my mom has, or close.
Yeah, that scares the shit out of me, I ain’t gonna lie.
As I haul my ass out into the cold at the crack of dawn to get to work so that I can finish earlier and get to my second job, all I can think about is how to talk to him, get him to open up, tell me the truth.
I have a funny twinge in my lower back as I unload some heavy boxes from a truck, but I ignore it and keep at it until I’m done. Don’t want anyone taking notice of me. That’s the number one rule in temporary positions: keep your head down, be invisible, and do your damn job.
I pop a couple of painkillers during lunch break and go back to it. I load and unload, and I swear today the boxes are heavier than ever. What the fuck, right?
Doesn’t matter. No point in grumbling. I get through the day somehow and take my battered car back into town, rushing to my second job.
Fritters, it’s called, a hole in the wall place serving a mixture of Arab kebabs and Chinese noodles, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and dripping fat, onions and human sweat.
At least this is an easy job. Standing behind the register, taking orders, giving back change.
This is nothing. I can do it in my sleep.
It’s gonna be okay.
***
My back keeps bothering me, and I don’t like that. For a guy with my job, my body is the most fucking precious tool. I pop some more painkillers, but they don’t hit the spot.
What I need is to stretch those muscles. I haven’t hit the gym in a while, and Thursday afternoon, when I find myself unexpectedly not needed at Fritters and with some time on my hands, I decide to look for one close to home. I always have a bag with exercise clothes in the back seat just in case—even if just to change into if I get wet during work.
The lit sign on a corner says Prime Fitness, and I slide into a parking space before it clicks that the name seems familiar. What the…?
Oh, right. That’s the gym Candy mentioned—the one Brylee frequents.
The one Ryan, the not-such-an-asshole-after-all guy, also frequents, apparently. It’d be a chance to check out the man who owns Brylee without lifting a finger. Mr. CEO or whatever, who has girls running after him and can have his pick whenever the fancy hits him.
I wanna see this guy. I’m damn curious.
Though, as I get out of my car and make my way to the entrance, as I enter and pay for a day pass, I have to shake my head at myself.
Am I really doing this? What’s wrong with me?
The gym used to be called a different name last time I checked. New name, new façade. The works. New prices, too, I’ll bet.
I’m directed to the locker rooms and offered a tour of the place. I decline. I know my way around gyms.
No familiar faces as I change into my exercise tights and shoes, or as I wander out, among the machines, stopping at an elliptical machine, trying to decide what would be best for my back.
The Ryan guy most probably isn’t even here, him or Brylee, so what’s the point of beating myself over it?
Besides, how would you recognize him, genius? Christ.
I ask one of the trainers ambling about for an exercise program. He points me to the treadmill, then mentions the lat bar and talks to me about resistance training—good for the back, he says.
Sounds like it’s what I need.
“A massage would be best,” he adds. “Doesn’t have to be professional. Ask a friend to do it, using warming gel.”
I stare at him. Maybe he’s right. I should look for a PT place. Not like I have a lover waiting at home to rub my back. And asking Xavier to do it is such a crazy idea I almost laugh.
