Hot Pickle - J.J. Knight Page 0,4

in the air makes me feel buoyantly alive. This is my scene. I started out doing tans and brow waxes in a low-end nail salon where I was paid by the hour.

But I studied and trained and decided to be the best at one thing only. It was Franklin’s idea to start catering to the bodybuilder crowd. I could command higher prices there, and during competition season, I can make enough money to last all year. Suggesting it was one of his finer moments.

I’m my own boss, and I love what I do. When one of my clients wins, I feel like I had a part in that. Six of my bodybuilders have earned their pro cards. Of course, traveling to shows all over the world means they have to leave my client list, but maybe one day I will have a great rapport with someone who hits it so big they can afford to take me along.

I grew up in L.A. and have never left it, but I have dreams of other cities, glitzy dressing rooms, and the biggest show of them all—Mr. Olympia.

I enter the main registration area, and it’s a madhouse. The physiques are about to go on stage, including my brother. Classics are starting to filter in for registration and weigh-in. I’m not sure if this friend is in the same class as my brother or not. I guess I’ll find out.

Searching this crowded room is a lot like someone from Munchkin Land trying to see through giants. I mainly get an eyeful of well-oiled backs and beefy biceps.

I pause, not sure I’m ever going to be able to spot my brother without standing on a chair, when one of my clients known as The Behemoth spots me craning my neck.

“Sweet Camryn,” he says, taking my hand in his two enormous bear claws. His head is bald and shiny, and as perfectly tanned as his face and body.

I completed his look early this morning even though his competition isn’t for hours. He likes to strut around the grounds and talk to all the competitors, old and new. He’s in his fifties, which shows in the crinkles around his eyes, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at his body. He’s never hit the big time, and probably never will, as his symmetry is off. But he’s a friendly beast, and most everyone loves him.

“Big B,” I say. “Do you see my brother in all this chaos? I’m trying to find him.”

The Behemoth scans the room. “Yeah. He’s in the far corner.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll take you to him.”

The Behemoth clears the way as we cross. I spot tons of people I know, clients of mine, trainers who refer them to me, and people who are on my waiting list. Everyone wants to curry my favor. Since I’ve sent so many people into the pro level, I’m something of a good-luck charm. Everyone wants to tweak my hair and shake my hand, hoping the pixie dust will rub off on them.

As we approach, I spot Franklin standing next to a tall man who looks like a deer caught in headlights.

He’s awfully handsome, though, and his anxiety is apparent in his how he bites his extraordinarily kissable lip. He’s in dark gray sweatpants, a jacket clutched in his fist.

It always amazes me that these outrageously built men can get completely paralyzed by the idea of going out on stage. They could break a log over someone’s head with ease but ask them to step in front of an audience and they turn into timid frogs.

But this one. He’s something. His dark hair is cut short on the sides, flipping across his forehead in the front. I already want to run my hands through it.

My heart squeezes for only a second, then I remind myself that the last person I would ever want to be interested in is a friend of my brother.

He bounces on his feet, full of nervous energy, worried he’s screwed up.

And if Franklin is right, he has.

I guess I’ll have to save his damn day.

3

Max

When the registration crowd starts parting, I wonder if there’s some bodybuilding celebrity entering the room. People smile. Others wave. But everyone seems to know whoever’s coming.

Franklin says, “That’s her. Come on.”

She must be tiny, because even as people step away, I don’t see her. There is, however, some giant brute of a bodybuilder pushing the crowd aside.

I follow Franklin until a diminutive woman steps out of the masses.

And my heart turns over. She’s