Chapter 8

Terrence

“Terry, you got this, man,” his trainer, Raheem, said while peering down at him from behind the workout bench, his face cloaked by a nest of dreadlocks that looked like tangled vines from this angle. “One more. One more! You can do it.”

Terrence closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, tightened his hold around the steel bar, and pushed upward, lifting the three-hundred-ten-pound bench press bar. His arms shook as he did it. He reminded himself to breathe, to not dare hold his breath or he might pass out.

“You’re doin’ it, man!” Raheem exclaimed. “You’re doin’ it!”

Terrence held the weight for a few seconds longer before lowering the bar and shifting it back. The weight landed with a loud clang, and Terrence breathed in and out, almost gasping. He opened his eyes, slowly sat up from the weight bench, and wiped at his sweaty brow with the back of his trembling hand. He reached down for his water bottle and squeezed a stream into his mouth. When he looked up, Raheem was grinning ear-to-ear.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, nigga!” Raheem slapped him on the back. “You couldn’t even do that before the accident! You kickin’ ass and takin’ names!”

Terrence slowly nodded then smiled, too exhausted to join Raheem in his elation.

The truth was that getting his body back to the state it was now had been hard fought and hard won. He could remember the days when doing three reps of a three-hundred-pound bench press had been routine, when he could do an eight-minute-per-mile run for five miles on the treadmill and barely break a sweat. He would hang around with the other guys in the gym, comparing workout routines and talking shit, but he couldn’t do that anymore.

“All right,” Raheem said. “Good work! I’mma see your ass Saturday, right?”

Terrence nodded again and shakily rose to his feet. “Saturday,” he repeated breathlessly before they bumped fists and Raheem slapped his back again.

Terrence slowly made his way out of the weight room and across the gym toward the locker room to seek the hot embrace of the sauna and then take a long, hot shower. As he entered the locker room and neared his locker, he set his water bottle down on one of the wooden benches and yanked his sweat-soaked T-shirt over his head. He raised his water bottle to his lips and squirted another stream into his mouth, letting some of the water dribble down his goateed chin, throat, and chest—too exhausted to care about the mess he was making.

“Good Lord!” someone shouted, making Terrence lower the water bottle from his mouth. “Do that again!”

He turned to find a short, dark-skinned man in a tank top and gym shorts staring at him in awe.

Terrence frowned. “Huh?”

“I said do it again, honey,” the man repeated, tugging the towel from around his neck. His dark eyes were wide, like he was totally enraptured. “The thing with the shirt and the water . . . It was absolutely beautiful!”

Terrence cocked an eyebrow.

He had been approached by men before, though this was the first time it had happened in a locker room. In the old days, when he was still modeling, it had happened quite a lot. For some reason, people assumed that just because you were willing to wear lipstick and eyeliner on the runway or for photo shoots, you also wouldn’t mind sucking a dick every now and then. He’d had to disappoint a few admirers and let them know that though he appreciated the adoration, he didn’t swerve that way. It looked like he would have to do it again today.

“Sorry,” he said, “not interested.”

“Not interested?” The man laughed. “But you don’t even know what I’m offering!”

“I know what you’re offering, and trust me, I’m not interested.”

The man took another step toward him. “How about I offer you the cover of a magazine like Men’s Health or a soda ad on TV that will have every woman in America wondering who was that fine-ass brotha in the leather jacket?” The man inclined his head. “Ever thought of modeling professionally?”

Terrence laughed. Here he was, thinking he was getting hit on, but instead he had been spotted by a recruiter for a modeling agency.

“What’s so funny?” the man asked, his smile disappearing. “You don’t believe me?”

“No, I believe you! It’s just . . . I used to be a model, but I’m five years older, fifteen pounds heavier, and not up to that shit again.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “I thought you looked familiar! Were you . . . were you in a few Gucci . . . no! Valentino ads, right?”

Terrence nodded. “You’ve got a good memory.”

“Oh, honey, it’s not the only thing I’ve got!” He reached into the gym bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a business card and held it out to Terrence. “My name is Andre Lewis and I’m with the Sigmund Agency based out of New York. I’m just here in Chesterton visiting family, not even worried about business, and I ran across your beautiful face. It has to be kismet! What’s your name?”

“Terrence . . . Terrence Murdoch.”

“Oh, and such a manly name! I love it!” Andre exclaimed. “Well, Terrence Murdoch, why don’t you give me a call later this week? I can see if I can set you up with a photographer who can take some more recent headshots of you. We can build up your portfolio and get you working again.”

Terrence shook his head. “I told you, I’m not up to that shit. And I’m too damn old!”

“Too old? What are you, twenty-eight?

“Twenty-nine.”

“Humph!” Andre breathed through his nose, waving him off. “Ever heard of Lars Burmeister? Jamie Strachan? Armando Cabral? They were modeling past thirty! And, sweetheart, you can’t put an expiration date on those cheekbones, those lips, and those eyes!”

At the mention of his eyes, Terrence winced. The prosthetic shell he had gotten was good, but he wondered if some photographer would notice the difference between the real eye and the fake one and play on Terrence’s lingering insecurities. It had taken intensive therapy to drag him out of his depression and regain most of his confidence. There was no way he would put himself through that again.

“Sorry, Andre, but, like I said, I’m not interested.”

Andre sighed gruffly. “Just take the card and think about it! There’s no harm in that, right?”

Terrence hesitated for a few seconds before finally reaching out and taking the business card from him.

“Think about it and let me know,” Andre repeated before winking and walking off, leaving Terrence alone in the locker room.

* * *

Several hours later, Terrence was once again gazing down at Andre’s business card as he sat at a restaurant table waiting for C. J. to arrive. He hadn’t had the chance to talk to her about his encounter at the gym, but he wanted to get her opinion on what he should do. He didn’t know if he really wanted to go back to modeling, but C. J. might have had a point when she said yesterday that it was time for him to start working again. Unfortunately, he couldn’t see himself at an office job. The prospect of having to wear a tie every day and sit behind a desk practically made him break out in hives. Modeling had been his first job and his only job since a talent scout had spotted him on his college campus when he was nineteen years old. While it hadn’t been perfect, it did have its good side—the parties, the hobnobbing with celebrities, and the beautiful women. Of course, that fast lifestyle and the women didn’t hold quite the appeal that they had six years ago, but it would still give him something to do all day, especially now that C. J. was away so much. But if he was really going to do this, he’d probably have to move back to New York. If he thought he and C. J. rarely got to see each other now, he could only imagine how often they would be together if he moved up there.

Terrence took a deep breath and tapped Andre’s business card on the linen tablecloth, still deep in thought. He really needed to talk to C. J. about this.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He looked down to see the text on the screen.

“So sorry, baby ” C. J. wrote. “I’m JUST heading out from a last-minute event I got pulled into. Not gonna make dinner. I’ll meet you at your place later tonight!”

He closed his eyes and grumbled. So much for their romantic, celebratory dinner, and so much for talking to her!

He glanced at the business card again. Maybe he should just give Andre a call after all; it looked like him moving to New York wouldn’t make much of a difference, considering how much time C. J. seemed to have for their relationship.

Terrence angrily shoved himself up from the restaurant table before stalking toward the restaurant’s front door. He swung the door open and headed to his Porsche to make the long drive home.

It was around midnight, and he had just stepped out of the bathroom, about to climb into bed, when his doorbell rang. Before even answering the door, he knew it was C. J.—finally.

He groused as he put on his eye patch and headed out of his bedroom to answer the door. Frankly, he wasn’t in the mood to see C. J. right now. She had canceled on him yet again. Whatever excitement he’d had at the prospect of seeing her had evaporated hours ago while he sat alone on his sofa, flipping channels on his television as he waited for her to arrive. He was pissed and tired and just wanted to go to sleep.

Terrence swung open the door, still scowling. She stood in the hallway with an awkward smile, cradling an overflowing bouquet of yellow roses. She held them out to him.

“A peace offering?” she said.

He glared down at the flowers.

Being in a serious relationship had definitely put him off his game. In the past, he had been the one offering flowers and apologies to some chick he had pissed off. Now it was the other way around. He tugged the flowers out of her hand and turned to head back to his bedroom to finally get some shut-eye.

“Please don’t be mad, baby,” she pleaded from behind him, unbuttoning her coat.

He tossed the roses onto his glass coffee table and kept walking.

“I had no idea that event was scheduled for today. My brother threw it at me at the last minute and I couldn’t—”

“You couldn’t say no. Right,” he muttered, stepping back into his bedroom. “Same ol’, same ol’.”

“Come on, Terry. I said I was sorry, honey. Don’t be this way!”

“Don’t be what way?” he snapped, yanking his T-shirt over his head and tossing it aside. “Don’t be pissed that you canceled on me a second time? That you came here thinking you could show up almost five hours late and all you have to do is give me flowers and an apology and I’m supposed to be all . . .”

His words drifted off when he turned just in time to watch her strip off her skirt and let it fall to the floor and pool around her ankles. She strolled toward him, wearing only a red lace bra and thong, gnawing her bottom lip.

“No, I don’t think that’s all I can do,” she whispered as she braced her hands on his shoulders and eased him back onto his bed.

He gazed up at her, turned on despite himself.

“I can do a lot more,” she said as she dropped to her knees on the hardwood floor, pushed his legs wide so she could kneel between his thighs, and then pulled back the waistband of his sweatpants.

“So you think sexual favors are gonna work? That sex is . . . is supposed to make it all . . . all better? You think . . . Oh, shit!”

The last part was barely audible. She had already wrapped her hand around his dick and started to slowly stroke him, making him gulp for air and grip the edge of the bed.

“Of course not,” she said, meeting his gaze, licking her lips. “But it’s a start, right?”

She then lowered her head and took him whole into her mouth. As she suckled him he fisted one hand in her hair and the other held on tight to the bed to steady himself.

“Shit,” he groaned again.

After that, Terrence forgot what he was so mad about. In fact, he didn’t do much thinking at all.