Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,36

examined him.

His voice is scratchy as he says, “Text me when you arrive and are finished with Dahlia. I’ll have lunch for us.”

“I will.”

We stand there another moment, emotion playing across his face. And I can’t bear it. He probably thinks I don’t care about him anymore after Thursday.

I have to find a middle ground.

What would you do?

Let him go?

Or make him stay?

There’s a lot at stake.

But the sparkle in those dark eyes of his makes the decision for me.

“Can I kiss you for luck?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer but draws me against him fiercely. When his lips meet mine, it’s no gentle peck. It’s a torrent of passion and need. I want to drown in it, lose myself, let the world fall away.

His lips are insistent. His arms crush me against him, and I can feel every muscle hard against mine.

I want to fall into the bliss of it, hold on forever. Taste him. Do all the things I’ve thought about.

But there’s a knock at the door.

“Another early client,” I whisper.

He nods and reluctantly lets me go.

“Lunch, then,” he says.

“Lunch.”

I touch my lips as he heads behind the screen to put on his clothes. By the time I open the door for Lora, I have composed myself.

When Max comes out, he waves at both of us and wishes Lora luck. Then he’s out into the dim light of sunrise.

“Whoa, he’s something,” Lora says.

I can only nod.

Because he really is something.

17

Max

The invitational is a completely different experience from the beginner contest. There are no tents in the parking lot, hawking their wares to the masses of competitors.

The numbers are controlled, and none of the rooms are crowded.

It’s strange being alone, and I start to wonder if I shouldn’t hire a trainer to be with me on these days. Everyone stands around in pairs, completing their weigh-in, chatting up the registration people.

I sit against the wall in the massive room, idly pumping a small barbell with one hand while eating rice cakes.

If I thought the last competition had fit, bulked-up bodies, it’s nothing compared to this.

As competitors ditch their sweats for oil and pump, I’m blown away by how professional they all look. And big. Really big.

I’m not alone for long. Amy arrives in a shiny red tracksuit, joking around with a karate chop to tell me to kill it on stage. We run through my routine, make a plan for a potential posedown, plus go over other optional comparison rounds the judges might request on stage.

She sits with me a while, and we watch the lightweights and middleweights prep for the stage. “Life would be a lot easier if you’d drop ten pounds and go light heavyweight,” she says. “There are some real monsters when you move up.”

“I’ve never been strategic. I am what I am.”

She laughs. “Like Popeye. Fair enough. You never did strike me as a career pro.” She passes me a protein bar. “You’re going on soon. Eat one of these.”

When she takes off to see one of her other clients, I think about what she said. Not a career pro. If she sees that, the judges probably will, too.

The announcer shouts for the heavyweights to get on deck. I cram two more rice cakes down, take a single swig of water, and run through a set of push-ups.

It’s go-time.

When we line up, I count twelve of us, and to be honest, I’m nowhere near the top of the field.

Not everyone is huge. Maybe half of us are roughly the same size.

But at the top end of the spectrum, the men are unbelievable. Veins popping. Muscles on top of muscles. This is an entirely different level.

I’m not disappointed that I’m going to lose today. Bodybuilding isn’t my bag, really. I like doing it. But I do have my deli and a whole life outside of it.

Maybe I shouldn’t have asked Camryn to come to the evening show tonight. I’m going to get skunked.

As the routines begin, there are no rookie mistakes like I saw two weeks ago. Everyone hits the poses and holds them well. Charming smiles.

I spot some subtle nuances in the way they move, trying to set themselves apart. Amy has shown me ways to hide flaws. A waist that’s thicker than you’d like. Underdeveloped calves. She tells me I’m lucky to be so balanced. Some competitors get grossly overdeveloped in one area over another, and that costs them points.

When it’s my turn to step out, I work fluidly through the routine. Even though this