Elle loved to win. It made her giddy – from the initial jolt that came with the idea of conquest, right down to that breathless moment when victory rested in her grasp. Losing launched a response of similar intensity, just in the opposite direction. And it’d always been personal. Hell, winning was as about as personal as it got and getting the shit kicked out of you on a deal was too.
Looking forward to a workout with Kinte was something else that made Elle giddy, but right now, the last thing she wanted was another ass-whipping from a man.
At various points in her life there had always been one man or a handful who had taken particular interest in tormenting her. Her first memory of it was junior high when she was a rising star on the track field, years before she was designated captain of the State Championship high school team. In seventh grade, the boys had a thing for daring her to race them. It seemed the need to validate their budding manhood drove them to prove she was just a girl and (fast or not) wasn’t capable of beating them. The only problem was she did beat them, one by one, day after day. And each time one of the swaggering pre-teens ended up second at the finish line; he’d look stupefied, fuming, and unable to tune out the jeers from his boys about how a girl had smoked his ass. It always ended with him talking about how she had cheated, jumped the gun, and that she was a long-legged bitch.
The next significant occurrence was in the mid 90's when she was contemplating divorce. Olivier (known to have been especially free-wheeling with his dick before marrying Elle) had become overt and careless with his affairs during their final year. And though Elle's feelings had cooled, her husband's infidelities saddened her deeply, reigniting the anguish she’d known during his long absence when she was carrying their son.
A bigger problem though, Elle had no income, having left Eaton Global Tech the year of Peyton's birth at Olivier's strong insistence. So she accepted a job from Hugh Lee Wang, a short, arrogant prick of a man and self-made entrepreneurial force — an insufferable dictator by all accounts. It was a means to an end, but dealing with Hugh Lee on a daily basis had been the worst. She hated his guts. And Elle didn’t believe in hate. She’d taught Peyton from the time he was a little shorty never to hold hatred for anyone. Such a strong word, she’d told him. Hate the behavior, not the person. God don’t like ugly and nothing is uglier than hatred.
But Hugh Lee had been her singular exception. Their last meeting (throw-down being a more accurate description) was loud and explosive. The tiny dictator, angry as hell, was grilling her on the details of a deal. Standing his entire five feet two and wearing his usual black funeral director suit, he banged his little fist on the conference table, cursing in Korean. Elle would’ve waited out his tantrum, as she’d done on many occasions, but the little muthafucka stepped over the line.
“I tol’ you,” he shouted. “I tol’ you to change price. But you disregard my authority. You arrogant. And never obey.”
He yelled with such gusto that droplets of spittle landed on her face. That was the last fucking straw. She stood up.
“Calm your bitch-ass down,” she said, “or I’m happy to do it for you.”
Hugh Lee, stunned by her assertion (and perhaps a bit afraid) left the room shouting expletives that no one understood.
The outrageous story had elevated to company folklore being whispered in the hallways years after she’d cleared her desk and said the final ‘fuck you!’
Of course, the current source of man angst was all about Darien. She had never felt second fiddle, but now knew her position was fluctuating. Just the thought of it was at once humiliating and terrifying.
It was enough already and too much. She was finally down and out, and wanted to run away, curl up and cry. So in the parking lot of the sports club, hands and head resting on the steering wheel, she fought back tears, trying to subdue her shitty disposition and gather enough mettle to get her ass into the gym.
Kinte would be waiting as usual with his fetching smile and sunny temperament and she wasn’t sure she could stomach that brilliant blast of sunshine coming at her. An old Temptations song eased into her head.
I…I…think I’m gonna cry.
I…I… don’t want you to see me cry.
I want to go outside…in the rain.
It may sound crazy, said it may sound crazy, but I want to go outside… in the rain.
Lifting her head, Elle was forced to shield her eyes as the sun streamed through the open roof. Though her mood had turned dark, the September day remained dazzling.
“Alright,” she whispered, taking a hint from the Universe. Uncovering her eyes, she raised her head as high as she could and allowed the sun's rays free reign on her face and neck. The warmth was soothing and offered comfort. So she closed her eyes and soaked it in as her mood edged just this side of shitty. It was enough to get her out of the car and into the gym.
As always, Kinte greeted her while she was on the treadmill, raising his hand in the air and winking as he walked past. Elle forced a smile, but continued watching as he strolled toward his office. She spotted the tight black t-shirt, a red and tan Blast logo scripted in cursive on his left pectoral. Then stretching her neck, she grabbed a long glimpse of his remarkable ass.
“Damn,” she whispered, feeling like she hadn’t noticed his jaw-dropping physique before this moment, which was crazy because it was impossible to miss. What was she seeing now that she hadn’t for the past weeks? His appeal was obvious from the start and he was a cutie for sure, but Elle was partial to chocolate brothers and taller ones. Her mama had been fond of saying, the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Kinte was neither. He was more cream than coffee, and 6’ at best. But this day there was something else, something she couldn’t define and hadn’t been consciously aware of until just now. For a fleeting moment apprehension eased in, after all he was a baby, just turned 24, and she was a grown-ass woman. Speeding up the treadmill, she shook it off.
When Kinte came back, she’d dug deep for her resources, ready to put the failed meeting behind her and focus on the business at hand.
“Hey Miss Elle,” he said as he turned off the machine and helped her down. “You ready? Cause it's ‘bout to be on up in here.”
He grinned and she nodded.
Kinte held her hand while they walked past rows of cardio machines to the back of the gym. And though he’d held her hand before, Elle sensed for the first time the feeling of his fingers wrapped around hers. It was nice and just a bit unnerving.
When they reached the section where the free weights were stacked, she realized that she’d never been in this part of the gym before. It was where the big boys played, and folks didn’t venture in this direction unless they knew what the hell they were doing.
“Why we over here?” she asked turning toward Kinte.
“You’ll see,” he said, “don’t worry, I got you.”
He chose a pair of weights from the rack along the wall and, facing her, put them in her hands. Then he placed both his hands around her wrists to demonstrate the technique. When he lifted her arms in the air, he stepped in close. So close she felt the flow of air from his breath on her cheek. An impulse to move away rose up, but she stayed put while he slowly talked her through the process. For what seemed like forever, he lifted and lowered her arms, discussing the proper form while gazing directly into her eyes. Her lips parted and she exhaled quietly, lowering her lids to avoid his stare. When she looked up, their eyes met briefly again as he took a few steps back and suggested she begin counting. Relieved, she executed the repetitions with relative ease and they moved on to the next assignment.
They were making their way through various sets of exercises when he recognized a trainer from a sister club. The guy had a girl with him, and they were taking turns spotting each other along the wall by the racquetball courts.
Kinte called out. “Oh I see. Y’all come over to my club to scout the competition, huh? What up Tony, not enough suspects down on State Street?”
The brother, tall and dark with a short cut Caesar, laughed and walked toward Kinte. The men slapped hands and leaned in to bump shoulders in an almost hug.
“What up man? We thought we’d come round here and check your spot out.”
While he talked, his companion approached.
“This is Shayla, she just joined my staff. I’m showing her some new techniques using your gear. It's the best in the system. Her first day is Monday.”
Shayla was a tiny thing and honey-colored, obviously in superior shape. Kinte reached to shake her hand.
“I’m Kinte, welcome to Blast,” he said. “You got the right one here.” He raised his thumb in the brother's direction. “Tony's one of our top directors. And I know you gonna love working at the State Street club. It's a serious class ‘A’ joint.”
“Thanks,” she said. “It's a beautiful club. I can’t wait to get started.”
“Where’d you train before?” Kinte asked.
“At Crunch over on Jackson, it doesn’t even compare.”
“No shit!” Tony chimed in. “I ain’t tryin’ to hate, but that place is a basement.”
“You right,” Shayla said, placing her hand on her hip and taking a moment to inspect Kinte from bottom to top. “I’m just glad to be out of there…and glad to be here…right now.”
Tony caught the flirt, frowned, and must have decided to move on. “Well, we know you got a client dawg,” he said, nodding toward Elle.
Elle acknowledged him and gave Shayla a sideways glance.
“We gon’ get on out your way and let you get back to bid-ness.”
“Aw’ight man,” Kinte said, “Good to see you, dude.” They slapped hands again. “Nice to meet you, Shayla…best of luck.”
The pair of trainers returned to their workout as Kinte grabbed Elle's hand and started pulling her toward the other side of the gym.
“C’mon, Miss Elle,” he said, “we ain’t through.”
Elle had to almost run to keep up with him, but it didn’t keep her from examining the showy tattoo of a medieval cross on his upper right arm, usually hidden by the sleeves of his t-shirts but more visible today.
They stopped just short of the wall of mirrors where various configurations of benches were lined up and he pointed to an angled seat with a long high back.
“Sit.”
She quickly moved to the bench and sat down.
“Now pay attention,” he said. “Form is really important on this one. Do it wrong and you can seriously strain your shoulders.”
“Then make sure I don’t do it wrong,” Elle said with a bit of attitude.
Kinte half-smiled and picked up a long weight bar. After describing the exercise, he leaned over, handing her the bar. Elle began doing as instructed and Kinte watched intently, correcting her form as she went along. When she got to the twelfth rep, he said, under his breath. “You’ve sure got a pretty mouth.”
What did he just say? She closed her eyes and tried hard to concentrate on form, but her mind was starting to race. Surely, he didn’t say that? This man did not just say what I thought he said.
She struggled to hold on and finish the set, but the bar must have started to wobble because before she knew it, Kinte had grabbed it and stepped back.
“Are you OK?” he asked. “You almost dropped it, what happened?”
“What happened?” Elle said. “What do you mean, what happened? What the hell did you say to me?”
Kinte, taken aback, said, “I was kind of talking to myself. But I just noticed…uh…your lips. You have beautiful lips. I was thinking it and it just came out. Did I offend you?”
Elle, still sitting on the bench had no idea what to say. Tilting her head, she studied his face.
Kinte waited a few seconds, then shrugged and spoke. “You’re probably thinking…who does this young punk think he is?”
She shook her head. “Your words, not mine.”
“Then I didn’t offend you?”
“No…but you surprised the hell out of me.”
“A good surprise?” Kinte asked, as he moved nearer.
“I’m not sure.” Elle bit her bottom lip.
He grinned wide then grabbed her hand as they moved on to the next task. The remainder of the hour passed normally and Kinte announced as he did after every work out. “Stretch!”
Elle, exhausted, sweating and grateful, replied, “Ooh, thank God.”
As they began the walk toward the stretching table,Elle noticed a new piece of equipment; at least it was one she’d never seen before, so she asked about it.
“It's a horse,” Kinte said and went on to describe its use and benefits. “Ever rode one before?” he asked, his clear eyes somewhere between green and grey.
Elle shook her head.
“Wanna ride?” The corners of his mouth curled.
Looking directly at him, she wanted to laugh out loud but held it in and nodded, just once.
“Got it,” he said.
As usual, the stretching process was soothing, and Elle breathed deep while Kinte manipulated her body to lengthen the warmed muscles she’d worked during the session. Normally, they talked and laughed their way through it, but this time, there was silence. She kept her eyes closed, but knew he was watching her — felt those stunning eyes watching her. And all she could do was breathe.