Gym Dandy

SUMMARY

GYM DANDY: A gay tale of seduction and denial, humor and sweat.

After a first kiss gone horribly wrong, out and outgoing personal trainer Victor Brighton settles for friendship with his handsome new client Douglas Newkirk. But is Doug in denial? Each time the boys get close, something or someone interferes: ex-wives, ex-boyfriends, bitchy bosses, the cable guy.

Victor and Doug’s charming love story is funny and angsty, touching on subjects both serious and humorous. It’s a little erotic and a lot entertaining, featuring clever plot twists, engaging characters, and a happy ending. There’s even a dog!

GYM DANDY is a delightful read that will make you laugh and smile and believe in romance again. ~Greg Herren, author The Scotty Bradley Series

GYM DANDY: A male/male contemporary romance (previously published by MLR Press)

Full-length novel, approx. 250 pages. Available in digital and print formats.

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009, 2014 by Gina M. Grant

Previously published by MLR Press. Original editing by Judith David. Inspired by the 90s TV show Due South.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

In other words, I’d love you to post bits and quotes anywhere you like. (Just not the whole book.) For information, email me at storm.grant@gmail.com

Gym Dandy/Gina Storm Grant—Second Edition

ISBN 978-0-9936339-3-5

Cover Design by Willsin Rowe, willsinrowe@ymail.com

Cover Art by Natalia Martinez

DEDICATION

This book, my first full-length novel, would not have been possible without the teachings and guidance of so many people, including those in Due South fandom where it saw its first incarnation as the zine-only novella, Working Out, specifically Valentin, Kit Mason and Kalena.

More recently, all my writing endeavors are made possible, if not painless, thanks to my awesome brainstorming group, Quinceapple.

Special thank-you to Bonnie Staring for an exceptional round of copy editing.

Chapter 1. Weight Up!

WELL, SINCE MY BODY LEFT ME. Victor carried a barbell, a weight collar and a tune across the gym, The King singing backup from the tinny ceiling speakers. Too bad Elvis always got the words wrong!

Hey, Victor!

I found a new barbell. Victor ignored his boss, carrying on with his clean-up duties and his singing.

Victor?

Returning the smaller items to their proper places, he turned his attention to the big weights heaped carelessly near the squat cage.

It’s down at the bend of—

Victor! Your four o’clock is here.

Victor acknowledged neither Phil nor his four o’clock as he hefted the last of the hundred-pound plates from the squat cage to the weight tree. He struggled a little as he manhandled the awkward weight toward its home. Why was it the really big muscleheads—the only ones who ever used the really big plates—were also the ones who never felt compelled to put ‘em back? Certainly all the little weights, the fives and tens and fifteens, were neatly aligned in glossy chrome rows on the rack paralleling the wall o’ mirrors. Maybe that was the trick. Management should just install a mirror over the weight trees and see if the muscleheads and the juicers would condescend to put their own friggin’ weights away!

Victor drew a deep breath, inhaling gym funk along with a drip of sweat that slithered down his face. It tasted like mousse and gel and hairspray.

And sweat.

He labored clumsily with another plate. Not that it was heavy to him. Hell, he could bench-press his own body weight, no problem. But the angle was just so awkward. He felt gawky and graceless as he folded his more-or-less six-foot frame into a half-squat, half-crouch, balancing the weight before him. The hole in the big plate seemed ridiculously small for the metal pole that formed the lowest branch of the weight tree. And its pyramid shape did indeed resemble a pine tree, a Christmas tree even, with weight-collar angels on top.

Victor rested the plate briefly on the ground, pleased with his analogy. He heaved it up again, arms trembling, muscles drained from his own workout before his shift began. Painfully aware of being watched like TV, he labored, self-conscious about his lack of cool. A few more elastic seconds stretched before the pole finally found the hole and the bulky metal doughnut slid home.

Rising, slightly winded and slightly embarrassed, he muttered, You’d think I’d be better at that, what with all the practice I’ve had. Checking the mirrored wall on his left, he cruised a hand across his hair. Craftily gelled, it grew aggressively skyward like spiky blond turf. Satisfied, he faced his audience and winked, just to make sure no one missed his terribly clever and subtle pole-in-the-hole entendre.

Holy shit! His gut clenched as he experienced a major wow moment at how amazingly good-looking the new client was.

New-guy was about Victor’s height, hair dark and plane-smooth, the bizzaro reflection of Victor’s own punky-funky, chemically enhanced blondness. Victor sometimes felt his own appeal had more to do with attitude and style than with nature being particularly kind. Four O’clock, on the other hand, had classic features and coif. He’d never go out of fashion. But then, he’d also never get picked out of a line to get into a really cool after-hours club. Victor could and did on a fairly regular basis.

Reminding himself that truly handsome guys were always trouble, Victor wiped one sweaty hand on his black muscle shirt, smirking expectantly as he waited for acknowledgment of his pithy pole-in-the-hole comment.

Four O’clock just gazed at him. Great. Another live one. More evidence for Victor’s half-baked hypothesis that really good-looking guys were minimalistic in the personality department.

Victor, this is Kirk Douglas. Phil Martini, general manager and mostly sales guy of Orr’s Gym, passed the new guy’s paperwork to Victor like an Olympic torch—one that had served its purpose and was now sputtering out.

The familiarly named Kirk Douglas coughed nervously, politely covering his mouth with his left hand and extended his right. That would be Douglas Newkirk, actually. Please call me Doug. Looking slightly uncomfortable, he glanced sideways at Phil, as if correcting the manager du jour of downtown Toronto’s Orr’s Gym franchise constituted a major social gaffe.

Victor juggled the clipboard to free one hand, successfully regaining his client’s attention. Victor Brighton. He gripped the guy’s hand for a few warm moments, releasing it before it got awkward.

It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.

Victor was impressed. Very few people here ever called him sir. He smiled at the new member. Phil gave a gotta-go cough, which Victor acknowledged with an I’ll-take-it-from-here nod without taking his eyes off Newkirk.

Phil started off but turned back for a second. Hey, Victor. Ms. Amorotique wants to see you after your shift tomorrow. Time for your six-week review. He sing-songed the latter as he made tracks for the elevator, no doubt headed back to the front desk to make another sale. He’d got this Douglas guy’s credit card, so he was done with him. Victor wouldn’t be surprised if Phil’s middle name was Commission.

The ball was now firmly in Victor’s court. He studied the clipboard, scratching behind one ear with his worn-down pencil.

He took his job seriously, even though management was pretty ambivalent about whether a member stayed on or not. They seemed to feel that showing the ropes to new members was largely a farce. Victor had been told during his one hour of training that the gym actually made more profit on people who paid their dues and then disappeared.

That’s not what the fitness industry wanted people to think, though. We’re dedicated to your success! they all claimed. One all-women gym downtown even promised wake-up calls for morning workouts and incentive calls if you didn’t show for a couple of weeks. Hah! Sit by the phone and wait, girlfriend. They ain’t never gonna call. They also promised the lowest rates in town—for the crappiest equipment and tiniest facility. If the sign-me-up-quick, bargain-greedy, no-pain-just-gain, wishful-thinking, deliberately misled consumer only knew…

Where was I again? New guy. Right. Right. Victor studied the clipboard like he was back in school and it would count for fifty percent of his final mark.

Each new member was asked a series of personally tailored questions and given a custom program—not! The same questions for everybody, the same custom program: guy, girl, young, old, fat, thin. Made no difference. The printout said this guy wanted to lose weight and get in shape. Christ, who didn’t? Okay, Victor could work with that.

He shifted his focus from clipboard to client. Okay, um… Oh, shit. He’d forgotten the guy’s name already. McDougall was it? No, something Douglas. He took a sly peek at the paperwork. Doug. Let’s have a look at you.

Victor stalked around Doug in a protracted arc, peering at front, side, back, then front again. Doug’s sweat suit was baggy and unflattering, with some kind of faded crest on the sweatshirt. Post office, maybe? Victor stared at the new guy’s front so long that Doug began fidgeting, cheap running shoes squeaking with newness. He finally clasped his hands in front, the small gym towel obscuring his crotch completely. Bright red towel, eh? Nelly must be behind on the gym’s laundry again.

Victor ran his professional gaze back up the somewhere-around-six-feet of Doug’s body, spending way too much time on the fine-looking face. The guy had a faint discoloration on his sculpted jawline, a fading purple-green shiner that clashed badly with the dark blue eyes and a small cut on one eyebrow that would probably scar. Good. A scar would be a nice contrast with the matinee-idol looks—go a long way toward making him more approachable. The guy probably thought he was hot shit, anyway. Victor yanked himself back from his mental exercise in prejudgment and continued his tour of Doug’s face.

Were those stitches in the cut? Probably not a good idea to ask. Instead, he headed into his work spiel. The paperwork said Douggie here had paid extra for ten sessions with a highly qualified personal trainer. He’d be mighty surprised if he knew the job qualifications were largely the ability to speak English and a willingness to work for shit wages, the former being less important than the latter. No actual training in health and/or fitness required.

Victor did, however, happen to know a thing or two about health and fitness, having boxed and danced competitively in his younger days. It was why he’d been selected for this job.

So, Doug. You want to be flattered or hear it straight up? Victor’s favorite line. And while no one had yet said, Flatter me, he could tell by the response when that was indeed the way to go with a new client. He always made sure, though, that they got the information they needed to reach their goals. He just couched it differently depending on their answer. The gym might make more money on those who came and went quickly, but Victor made sure his clients got their money’s worth from him.

Doug fingered the cut in his eyebrow, clearly pondering his response. Well, it hardly seems productive to ask you to be less than truthful with me. Besides which, I do own a mirror, albeit a small one. And a scale.

Good answer, although who the hell said albeit? Okay. But remember, you asked for it. He paused waiting for additional acknowledgement, additional commitment.

When Doug nodded, Victor continued, According to the chart here, you’re in pretty lousy shape. Your heart rate was way up when you ran the treadmill. You barely made a full mile. I’m surprised they didn’t ask for a doctor’s note before signing you up. No, he really wasn’t. They’d take anyone. They had insurance. And signed waivers. Plus— he ran his gaze up and down Doug again —you look to be carrying about thirty extra pounds there. He sketched a quick arc in the air, indicating Doug’s chest-stomach-waist.

Doug placed a hand on his belly, raising his gaze to meet Victor’s again. Victor couldn’t tell what the guy was thinking, so he hurried on.

You don’t look bad ‘cause you’re tall. The fat is distributed over your whole body. Some guys just carry it in their gut, but you got it spread around pretty even. You’re going to feel a whole hell of a lot better when we get rid of it, though.

The raised eyebrow clearly said bullshit, even if Doug worded it differently. I’ve lost rather a lot of weight over the past ten months. I’m now well within the weight range for my age and body type, according to a variety of medical journals and websites.

That’s great! Victor said, slapping Doug’s bicep. Doug winced and rubbed the spot. Good for you. Victor figured Doug was going to take some convincing. Now here’s the first thing we’re going to do. Consider it… motivational. Doug in tow, Victor proceeded to the north wall, plucking a thirty-pound weight from the lineup of dumbbells. Here. Hang onto this. We’re going to need it later. Doug accepted the weight, almost dropping it when Victor let go. Doug had obviously assumed he could manage it with the same ease as Victor. Looking somewhat disconcerted, Doug used his free hand to center the weight in his grasp, fingers curling over the little grooves.

Pointing at the scoring on the bar, Victor explained, That there’s called a knurl. Lets you get a better grip, especially if your hands are sweaty or chalked up. Gives you some pretty nifty calluses, too. Victor displayed one horny palm proudly. Did you get a tour of the place yet? At Doug’s headshake, Victor launched into his tour-guide patter. Okay. This is the top floor. Here we work legs, arms, chest. See that guy over there?

THE TOUR AND PARTICULARS took about twenty-five minutes, including the aerobics area located behind the reception desk and the muggy locker room housed on the floor below street level. Doug must have seen that when he first arrived and changed from street clothes to his saggy sweats.

Heading back toward the staircase, Victor stopped and looked around, taking a deep sniff. Mmmm. Love that really old building smell, eh? Victor sucked air, noticing Doug’s flared nostrils and horse-about-to-bolt look. I think it’s a national monument or something.

It’s not actually been approved by the Historical Society of Greater Toronto yet, but I believe an application has been made. Doug shifted the thirty-pound dumbbell to his other hand, resting it on the staircase railing.

And you would know this because…?

Why, because I did the research before I decided to join this particular fitness establishment. His look said, Wouldn’t anyone?

So to decide which gym to join, you check out the building? That’s very, um, thorough. Yeah, thorough. I like that. You’re a thorough kind of guy. Me, now, if I had to research every single decision like that, I’d die from boredom before I got in a single rep.

Actually, I think you’d find this particular building has a fascinating history. It was erected in the early part of the last century, originally as a government office. If you stand outside on the sidewalk and look up, as I did before entering, you’ll see the building has maintained some outstanding architectural details, such as the pillared stone railing rimming the balcony on the uppermost floor. And farther up… Did I say something funny?

You said rim—never mind. Go on with the history lesson. Victor cut the heh heh noises. It made him sound like a dirty old man, anyway. But who worked rimming into a conversation? This was getting interesting.

The history lesson continued for some minutes. And finally, you’ll notice that above the main entrance on Isabella Street, gargoyles, eroded by time, painted by pigeons, still stand guard on the concrete façade.

Hey. That’s better than the Discovery Channel. Where’d you find out all this stuff? He fiddled with the hole where his earring usually was—no stud today.

Doug spoke of a number of websites where you could investigate business, architecture, health and fitness.

The internet, you say. Victor scratched his stubbled chin, the stairway’s fluorescent light painting a scruffy halo against his jawline. I’ll have to check that out one of these days.

As they returned to the top floor, Victor surveyed his workplace anew, trying to see it through Doug’s eyes. He’d already figured Doug for the observant type. He’d make a hell of a witness. Doug hadn’t mentioned it, but Victor was fairly certain he had noted the second-rate interior renovations done to the place. Money had been poured into the fancy reception area—it made promises of style that the rest of the gym just couldn’t keep. The prefab walls throughout wore builder’s beige, scarring easily each time a weight thunked against one. Twelve-foot ceilings bared their pipes and ductwork and were covered in a hideous spray-on foam that was supposed to provide sound dampening. Unfortunately, it just looked like thick gray fungus growing over the entire ceiling. Victor shuddered and looked at the floor instead, where he noticed, not for the first time, the way the carpeting curled and lifted where the polyester squares were