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Previously, I began a story entitled "The Lunatic Hour." While I enjoyed the opening, it lacked a certain "spark" necessary to continue it. I turned to boards here on Literotica and fortune smiled upon me for I stumbled into the best writing partnership a man could ask for. ;)
I will be posting the entirety of our tale, "Beauty and the Bruiser" here for all to enjoy. This work is the combined effort of both myself and StilletoKitten, whose beauty and wit turns the English language into her plaything.
Enjoy, but be forewarned: the first chapter is a slow burning simmer.
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2am...
The hours are creeping by and the night is slowly dying out, the day ready and willing to overcome its twin brother's throne. Half of the gym is steeped in shadows, weights and machines lingering in the dark, just out of sight - as if they were the bones to the hulking beast that is this place. An occasional passing car on the road outside...when they would take the curve, headlights would slip away from the road, racing across the empty parking lot and leaping through the plate glass windows of the gym, briefly racing across the room, casting shadows and making the metal of the machines glisten like teeth in the darkness.
Dramatic much, Deacon?
He puts the weight down - let it thump to the floor with a resounding thud. Should have brought the iPod, should have brought something - anything - to fill the senses and let it be forgotten forget why he was here. Too much thinking, lately...too much of everything. He should be at home. Should be sleeping, and yet...here he was.
But sleep lingers tantalizingly outside of his grasp. He could lie there in bed, eyes closed and feigning sleep...putting on a show for no one.
We can lie to our friends, we can lie to every around us - put on a brave face and pretend that it is all over and it was nothing...but here in the dark, talking to ourselves...we know the truth. Let us ignore the pain, the feeling of a heart removed - forget the absence in our chest and the cold around the soul. Let's just pick up another weight and lift until our palms turn red and the blisters develop at the base of the fingers - the five finger proof that you are lifting more than you should.
Standing now, silencing the running commentary track in his mind...looking into the mirror and enjoying the sight - not in a narcissistic manner, but rather enjoying seeing the reflection half in shadow, half in light. It fits the mood.
Five years lost in the haze of training and fighting - six years ago he was behind the desk of a video store, the only exercise he ever knew was the pressing of the buttons on a remote control.
Then something happened...a breaking, a twist of the soul...it got him up at five am, strapping on running shoes and pounding pavement until the sun came up. Sweets and fast food suddenly turned the stomach and salads became the only thing he desired to eat. Now here he was, training for boxing. The guy who never met a playground fight he would rather run from...the guy who made his bullies laugh in order to escape with his lunch money...the guy more at home in the library stacks then in the testosterone soaked atmosphere of the ring...ending up here.
At home living in his own sweat and finding sweet music in the sweet science.
Now here he was, looking at himself in the mirror...hardly recognizable.
I have to admit, I enjoy it.
The separation. Like a kid at the controls of a video game - and the man in the mirror is the game character created for himself. It is strange how one's form transforms only when you are no longer paying attention to it. To have gone from "husky" to "athletic" -- he only noticed it when others commented upon it. Stranger still, how people react to your presence differently once your stomach turns from a "gut" to a "six pack" and your arms turn into "guns." At first it was complimentary...now it seemed rather absurd.
Okay, get a grip. Sleep deprivation and heartbreak should never be a man's choice of cocktail. At the bottom of that glass is a straitjacket.
Starting the feel the chill as the cold reaches his skin - the glistening sweat beads are no longer ignored as my body temperature rapidly cools off from the lack of exertion. Suddenly those little beads of sweat become tiny entrances for the cold of the room to slip into the skin, turning blood into ice water.
The gym is empty - what the hell? He peels off the cheap "Party Till She's Naked" t-shirt and lets it slap the floor with a wet "thwack." Going shirtless in the gym is a no-no (see the sign on the wall?) but at 2am, the "Who Gives a Fuck?" rule goes into effect.
A tell-tale electronic chirp...in his foggy, sleep deprived brain he recognizes the sound but does not immediately process it....the sound it is out of place here. It is the sound heard over and over again during the six o' clock rush hour...
It is the sound of a membership card getting read by the front desk scanner...
Rachel walked briskly, bundled up in her coat, a scarf wrapped around her head. Her strawberry locks billowed behind her, and the combination of stiff breeze and light rain was hovering right on the edge of discomfort. It was the cold.
That
was uncomfortable. It was right on the brink of spring, but not that far removed from winter it seemed. Her body was merely chilled, but her faded jeans did next to nothing to keep out weathers wintry hold. When it started hailing, she gave up. Teeth chattering, she pushed open the door to the gym just down the street from her house, the only thing in her possession a tattered copy of The Divine Comedy.
She had gotten inside info that her Lit professor always had a pop quiz on the first Monday after the first week, on Inferno. It was not urgent, she could have just waited until tomorrow, or a couple days even.
But then, she couldn't sleep. It seemed that was happening more and more these days. There was nothing better to do. She was not counting on the wind picking up, and the subsequent drop in temperature forced the young sports medicine student to seek shelter. Lucky for her, she was a member at this particular gym. Perhaps even more lucky the door was unlocked. She swept the card through the scanner, hearing its familiar beep go off in the distance as she passed it.
It was almost eerie the way the abandoned room echoed with its own silence, in stark contrast with the bustle she was used to in the place. Passing a room filled with treadmills, she entered a large area filled with the boxing and martial arts equipment, knowing it had a padded bench, and turned on the lights. They shined on a shirtless boxer. He had a lithe, yet powerful way of moving that matched his well-defined physique perfectly. Rachel thought that she had seen him at the gym in the past, but he was very quiet, and liked to keep to himself. He just seemed like one of those guys that was just fine by himself. In a lot of ways, Rachel could understand this, but she also thought that, maybe, having a meaningful connection with someone would be the answer.
She hoped it was anyway. It probably wouldn't be him, the last thing she needed was another jock in her love life. He certainly was nice to look at though.
"It's Deacon right?" She took off her scarf, combing her cardinal hair to relative straightness with her fingers.
For a moment, he felt strangely 'caught,' as if being here and doing this at such an hour was obscene. His partial nudity, the late night lifting and his cluttered thoughts all seemed indicative of a guilty nature - once again, lack of sleep was wrecking havoc with his mind.
He had looked to the door -- at first seeing only the a silhouette, an outline of a very small form walking from the desk and into the gym. It's a she...he could tell that already from the way she carries herself and her petite frame.
His first thought is that seemed pixyish...the look of a fairy tale creature who had just escaped from the pages of a child's fantasy book. Her lithe form and face perfectly symmetrical, so flawless it seemed formed out of porcelain. She had the appearance of a living work of art...in grubby sweats.
It was almost surreal to watch her walk across the empty room...
When she looked at him and actually spoke his name, he did something of a double take. He usually blended into the background of this place, not aiming to socialize or be known by those who worked out here...mostly because they tended to look down upon him and his fellow boxers as being low-lifes and scum for making their living with blood on their knuckles.
"Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" He felt a bit taken aback, until he saw her copy of The Divine Comedy and instantly smiled. "But...I do recall someone resembling you who comes in here nearly every week with a different masterpiece under her arm. Most folks who come in here rarely venture past anything more bold than People magazine." He laughed, revealing a surprisingly warm smile.
"Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" In truth Rachel had read an article on him in the school paper, and saw his photograph. Only then did she recognize him in the gym. She could admit to having sneaked a few long glances his way. Many of the other gym-goers looked down on the boxers, but every once in awhile, when she watched him, she could sense a great storm beneath his fierce visage. It was a very intriguing feature. She would of course
