FIT: #1 in the Fit Trilogy (8 page)

Grant loaded up a square cardboard bowl with vegetables from the salad bar then, after he paid, joined Armando at a table by the front exit. They had a little under an hour to get back to the gym. In the meantime, Max was there holding the fort down while Keira taught a cardio barre class.

Armando sat back and scratched his day’s worth of stubble. “I can’t imagine breaking in someone new at this point.”

“Honestly, I didn’t even think of that. Having to train her or whatever.”

Armando shook his head. He had every right to. Grant was lucky Violet hadn’t ripped his nuts off during their first conversation. His tunnel vision was so damn tight and closed off, he skipped several must-do steps when trying to bring someone into the scene.

“Let’s not tell Master Philip about this,” he suggested. Violet was perfectly safe with Grant and damn near running their relationship as it was, but their mentor would definitely have a thing or two to say about Grant’s approach.

“My lips are sealed,” Armando replied. “You stupid fuck.”

Just then, Grant’s phone vibrated and beeped in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at a picture of Violet standing in some store dressing room, wearing a tight black lace dress. Her cellphone caught the reflection of her hip, cocked out to the side, creating the sexiest silhouette. Her other hand was holding up her mass of thick hair on top of her head. Her full lips were pursed in an expression that was part invitation, part warning. The woman had curves for days. Grant would do anything to help her reach her fitness goals, but that body? His eyeballs almost rolled back in his head.

Then another text popped up.

Finished my weekly assignment. Bought the boots, but they’re in the car. Can I have the D now?

“See. How do I say no to this face?” Grant turned his phone around so Armando could see the picture and the text.

“God damn. She’s thick.”

“I know.”

“Yeah, okay. I’d let her talk back to me. What’s this about giving her the D? You haven’t fucked her yet?”

“Mando, I said this before. You and I have two completely different styles of dealing with our pets. I like to take my time. You, on the other hand, are impatient and don’t see the value in making a woman wait.”

“No complaints, yet, my brother. Not a single complaint.” Armando handed the phone back, and continued ragging on Grant. “She ain’t your pet. You’re hers. If she were
mine
, I would have fucked her already. Shit, I might fuck her if you don’t hurry the hell up and get the job done.”

Grant squared Armando with a deadly stare that was only edged with humor. “Try it.” They’d shared women before, plenty of times, but Grant wouldn’t even entertain the thought of sharing Violet.

“You know I’m fucking with you. I know better than to come between you and a woman who makes you sing. That’s when I know you’re whipped enough to take a swing at me.”

Whipped? For some reason, Grant couldn’t see a problem with that, but whipped within reason. He might be singing and staking his claim on a woman he’d only just met, but Armando didn’t get to see Violet the way Grant did. He didn’t get to see the fire in her eyes when she came to him willingly and followed his every order. He didn’t hear the way her voice strained when she asked for what she wanted. Yeah he was whipped, to the point where he texted Violet right back. Still, he had to keep up the front, like he really thought he was in control of the situation.

You’ll get the D when I say so.

Violet replied
. That’s too bad. I was going to wear this dress for you.

Grant winced and dropped his phone. He was in over his head.

✶

Violet pushed her chair back and stood. Her whole body ached as she stretched. She’d been in that horrible designer chair for almost six hours and from the look of her inbox and the constant ringing of her cell phone she knew she wasn’t going anywhere soon. She’d been with Faye, their casting director Jonathan, and their executive producer Dana at Dana’s Malibu home all day. It was another few days before their office space would be set up on the studio lot. When crisis arose—that kind of crisis that wasn’t actually serious in terms of life or death, but had to be dealt with immediately unless they wanted to answer to the network—they had to meet here.

Three out of the four contestants had up and dropped out of the first episode. Violet and her team had spent all day pleading with them, trying to get them to reconsider. It was all so stupid. One chef from Boston found out he’d be competing against a former coworker and refused to share a kitchen with him, even though appearing on the show would guarantee exposure for his restaurant and possibly earn him a cash prize. The other guy dropped out when he heard about Chef A’s exit from God-knows who. He wouldn’t be on a show if his arch-cooking enemy felt he was too good for it. The third guy? Flying him out to Los Angeles from San Antonio would be a violation of his parole.

Violet’s life seemed so pleasant just the day before. She’d followed Grant’s suggestion and taken herself shopping. Well, first she hit the internet and did some hardcore research about where she could find fun party dresses and not bland floral polyester tents in her size. She found two stores that caught her eye, then she took herself shopping, without Faye. No, that wasn’t it. It had nothing to do with Faye. It just felt so nice to do something for herself; leave her house when she wanted, without worrying about Patrick’s schedule. She teased Grant about getting under that perfect dress she found, but she couldn’t wait to wear it out, even if she wouldn’t get the chance until the next wrap party.

Violet excused herself to go to the kitchen under the guise of needing a glass of water. When she was alone in the massive space, where she knew Dana didn’t prepare a single meal herself, she called Grant. It was getting late, but she had a feeling he would pick up. He did.

“Hello, Miss Ryan. What can I do for you this evening?” Violet almost whimpered at the sound of his voice. She wanted to be with him.

“You can come save me,” she replied.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just some ridiculous work shit. I’m out in Malibu.”

“Having a cook-off?”

“Ha, yeah. I don’t think I’ll be home until really late. Can we push our workout?”

“Sure. How about we do this? You think you’ll have to work tomorrow night?”

“Hopefully not.”

“Come by the gym around nine. We’ll go for a walk and then afterwards—”

“You’ll give me the D?”

Grant’s rich laugh came through the phone. “Please stop saying that.”

“I’m sorry. How about this? Please, oh please, Mr. Master Gibson. Oh please, will you fuck me? I want you to fuck me so bad.”

“Dana said she had some gourmet pear juice we should try,” Faye said, as she appeared in the kitchen, scaring the crap out of Violet, who spun around and almost choked on her tongue.

“I have to get back to work,” she said into the phone.

“Okay. See you tomorrow?” Grant asked, clearly shocked by the sudden change in her voice.

“Yeah. Night.” Violet managed not to be completely rude and let Grant get out his own “Goodnight” before she hung up the phone.

Faye’s head popped above the fridge door. “Who was that?”

“Oh, my trainer, Grant. I was just rescheduling our session for tomorrow.”

“Cool. He must be good. You look great.”

Violet’s stomach cringed at the loaded compliment. She’d lost a whole five pounds since they’d started working out together, five pounds that were composed of flushed water weight and maybe some fat in between her toes. When she looked in the mirror the only difference she saw was in her face, and that change had nothing to do with her weight. Her typical scowl, the creases of worry that were a constant part of her appearance because something was always on her mind, was replaced by this dreamy smile. Even early in the morning, she couldn’t stop smiling, thinking about Grant. But that smile was gone now and Faye knew nothing about it. Did she usually look like shit? Was she missing some other superficial change in her appearance, or was that just something you’re supposed to say when you know someone is getting off their ass and eating a little better?

“Thanks,” she said anyway.

“Does he charge a lot? I like Pinks, but I’m getting kind of bored over there.”

“Uh, yeah he’s a little pricey.” Violet told Faye the amount she paid for the month. And maybe she tacked on another two hundred dollars.

“The fuck! Can you afford that?”

“It’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.”

“You think he’d give us a discount if he trained us together? Patrick said I can’t dip into the Paris fund anymore. We’ll be vacationing at his parents’ house in Lancaster if I keep at it.”

Christ, what did she have to do to get Faye off Grant’s scent? “Uh…”

“Finally!” They heard Jonathan screech from the other room. His outburst of triumph saved her from another lie.

“Let’s go see what that’s all about.” Violet grabbed a couple glasses and a large bottle of water, then led Faye, with her pitcher of pear juice, out of the kitchen.

Day 13

Grant was waiting for her on the dark street, backlit by the lights coming through the gym windows. Max was by his side, waiting patiently for them to get his walk started. Violet dragged herself from her car, exaggerating her exhaustion. She reached Grant and leaned against his chest, looking up into his dark-blue eyes.

“Can we skip the walk and go right for the sauna?” she whined.

His free hand rose to the end of her ponytail and he gave her hair a gentle tug, pulling her head back just far enough so he could lay a soft kiss on her lips. “We walk and then I’m taking you someplace special. But if you want the sauna that bad—”

“No. We can go someplace special.”

“I figured you’d say that,” he said, before kissing her one more time.

They started walking, but in a different direction this time. Instead of heading south toward Melrose Avenue they headed north, up La Cienega. The walk was longer this time, that much was obvious when Violet found herself walking with Grant down Santa Monica Boulevard. The streets were busy, as the streets of West Hollywood were every night. Bars, restaurants, and convenience stores open for business for the inhabitants of Los Angeles who were getting their weekends started a little early. Or enjoying their last night off before they worked the weekend.

They passed by several construction sites, new “luxury” apartments taking over lots, as the population boom and limited space for sprawl caused the city to build up instead of out. Being smack between a mountain range and an ocean would do that.

For a couple blocks here and there they were quiet, just soaking the night in, but most of the time they talked. Violet told Grant more about their casting clusterfuck. Grant asked her how she ended up in reality TV; the million dollar question, since she had moved to Los Angeles to work in entertainment news. She confessed to her childhood obsession with Entertainment Tonight and then went on to explain what she was told about the job security in producing that type of news.

There would always be red carpets and gossip, even when the industry was going through a creative lull, one of her professors at Emerson had told her when she’d disclosed her plans to move West. She told Grant how the only work she could find when she arrived was as a production assistant on an MTV dating show. That’s where she met Faye. They’d stuck together, climbing their way up from coffee fetchers to producers in a few short years. Here she was now, producing cooking competition shows and trying to shed the additional weight she’d added to her already chubby frame.

When they circled back down La Brea to Melrose, Violet realized just how long they’d been gone. Her legs were feeling the mileage and she’d developed a nice sheen of sweat in the seventy-degree night air, but she didn’t mind. She’d walk around with Grant and his big dog, talking all night long if they wanted to.

On the corner of Kings Road and Willoughby they stopped so Max could evaluate the trunk of a tree. Violet looked up at Grant. He looked back at her and she felt a sudden urge to hold his hand.

“I don’t feel like I’m working out when I’m with you,” she said. “Every fitness professional I’ve ever met is just
Go, go, go. Sweat, sweat, sweat. Cry, cry, cry
. Even when Margaret said you were a softy, I was expecting you to make me cry at least once. How’d you—how are you not a dick?”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I don’t know, I guess I just like to treat my clients like people and not dollar signs. I think I got it from my parents.”

“They’re big hearted fitness experts?”

“No. They run a nursing home in Florida. They’re kind of known for actually caring about the people who live there on an individual level. They raised me to respect the process of being kind and patient, you could say.”

“So this is how you treat all old people?” Violet said, squinting at him.

“Oh yeah. I had an eighty-year-old in the sauna just last week. I rocked her world.”

“I’m sure she’s grateful. But yeah, you’re pretty cool. I thought I would hate
exercising
with you. I know we have to step it up soon, but I like that you’re going slow with me. I honestly didn’t know trainers like you existed.”

“We do. You want to know how far we’ve walked tonight? Five point three miles.”

She hadn’t run a marathon, but Violet was impressed with herself and even happier with the realization that the distance was one she could easily tackle again. She wasn’t a Pump Fit champ, but she enjoyed the hell out of these tiny achievements.

“Last time I walked that much, Faye tricked me into doing some 10K fun run. It was not fun.”

“You’re not warming me up to this Faye person,” Grant replied, as his brow knitted together in a frown. “We’re about a half mile from the gym. We can head back or we can stop here.”

Violet looked in the direction Grant quirked his head, across a short lawn to a four story residential building. It looked relatively new with its boxy construction, brown and green exterior and steel accents. “What’s here?”