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Page 6 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

“Sure,” I say. “When I was fifteen, I hooked up with a guy who was eighteen.”

“Doesn’t count,” Rachel says. “She means once you were actually legal.”

Priya nods.

“I’m pickier now,” I tell them.

“So, what’s the closest to your age?”

I hazard a guess. “Thirty? It’s not like I check IDs.”

“Older guys are so creepy, though,” Rachel says with a wrinkled nose.

“Creepy how?” Because I can’t think of a single one that’s been anything less than hot.

“They’re almost always married.”

“Not when they’re gay, they’re not,” I say.

“Marcus is married. ”

“Isaac wasn’t.”

“You’re deliberately avoiding my point.”

I am. The fact that I occasionally fuck married men isn’t something I like to advertise.

And it’s not always something I’m told upfront either—not that I ask many questions once I’m turned on.

It’s one of those things guys always say when they’re leaving after sex.

“Sorry, I have a wife-slash-husband. I shouldn’t have done this. You were just— so beautiful …”

Why, then, do I always feel so horrifically ugly? I wonder.

“And Isaac was terrifying,” Rachel goes on. “You always had this look on your face like please save me, I’m being kidnapped.”

“I did not,” I say, laughing. “He was just intense.”

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” Priya interjects.

“Yeah, me neither,” I admit. He looked at me like I confused him.

I didn’t appreciate it either. To be fair, he treated me fine, and I think he was more annoyed with himself for being interested in me, but it was fleeting at any rate, which was too bad.

On paper, he was the perfect man. Husband material.

“I appreciate how protective you are. Both of you. But along the same lines, I don’t think a twenty-year old MMA fighter is a wise investment of either of your time.”

“Maybe he’s mature for his age.”

Rachel says, “I haven’t had sex with a twenty-year old in a hot second. I think the last time I had internal bruising.”

“Oh my god,” I say, throwing my napkin on the table and leaning away.

She looks at Priya. “He was like a jackhammer.”

“Are you talking about that paramedic?” Pri asks.

“Yeah.”

“I remember that.”

“You didn’t sleep with him, too, did you?” Rachel asks her.

“Oh my god, no! I just remember you walking funny for a few days. That was in Playa right? ”

“Yes!”

“Who’d I hook up with that week?” Priya asks.

I say in admiration, “You two are fucking legends.”

They both give me a look like “We know.”

Ryan at least pretends to share my excitement about my very first private client. I mean, Ryan’s not exactly excitable, and neither am I, but he pays attention when I go over my plan for Saber’s hamstring.

My biggest concern while I wait for six o’clock to roll around is what I look like.

To be fair, that’s usually my primary concern.

My looks are my livelihood. This has been true since I was five and raking in cash for my parents.

Marcus calls it rare, but I understand why people stare.

It’s not because I’m oh so beautiful. It’s because people can’t tell what the fuck I am. And yeah, I’m pretty .

I look a lot like a girl. I get it. I have a strongish jawline and an Adam’s apple, but I also have full pouty lips, large eyes, and feminine features.

I’m slim, with long muscles that don’t bulk up, and the suggestion of a waist and hips.

My voice isn’t super deep. I have longish hair, and I take excellent care of my skin.

I identify as male, but I’m not afraid to embrace my feminine side.

I’m as comfortable in panties as I am in briefs.

I often wear make-up when I go out. Sometimes I sway when I walk, sometimes I don’t.

I confuse extremely gay men like Isaac. Even Ryan, who identifies as bi, had trouble not staring when we first met, and he never hesitates to offer his services when I ask him to put sunscreen on my back.

It drives his boyfriend Malcolm nuts, but I’m pretty sure I’m just foreplay for the two of them.

Nope. No self-esteem issues whatsoever .

Not this guy.

“I think your client’s here,” Ryan says, glancing past me to the front desk.

I hesitate to look, nerves kicking up. Who do I think I am acting like I can help an actual athlete?

“Why do you look like that?” Ryan asks, brow furrowed.

“I shouldn’t have agreed to this, should I?”

“To teaching some guy yoga? Why not?”

“Is he scary looking?”

Ryan checks again, eyes assessing. “I mean…he’s a big guy.”

“His dad is, too.” I was expecting that. “What else?”

“Buzzed hair. Tattoos. Scared yet?”

“Is he limping?”

“He’s standing.” Then he laughs. “You’re not gonna look? I promise you’re not gonna want to date him.”

For whatever reason, that helps. If I did want to date Marcus’s son, that would be—I don’t even know. Wrong. Gross? Fucked up?

“I’m just teaching him yoga,” I say, repeating the simple words, reminding myself of the concept. I’m not a physical therapist. I’m a part-time yoga teacher. He’s a mostly grown man who needs to learn to respect his limits, and this is something I know enough about.

I turn around just as the receptionist points at me. The giant man turns my way.

There’s no question he’s Marcus’s son. They’re not carbon copies, but same face shape, same eyes, same coloring.

Admittedly, when I picture a generic twenty-year old man, I’m not very generous.

I picture gangly with some lingering baby fat, acne, bad eyebrows, and mouth-breathing.

Apparently, in my head, twenty might as well be fifteen.

But this man’s father used to be a model, so I shouldn’t be surprised he’s the opposite of my preconceived notions .

“Wish me luck,” I say to Ryan.

“You’ll be fine.”

I walk without swaying across the gym, keeping a blank expression on my face like when I model menswear. I want to touch my hair, but don’t. I also want to put my hands in my pockets, but I don’t do that either.

He’s studying me with that familiar confused look on his face like he’s wondering which genitals I have.

The closer I get, the more he fidgets. He scratches his ear, looks at the door, shifts his weight, and tugs at the hem of his tank. I hold out my hand. “Calyx.”

“Saber.” He gives me a firm but not crushing shake.

“About that,” I say. “I could have sworn you have an actual name.”

“What’s your actual name?”

Okay, Saber it is.

“Nice to meet you,” I say instead of pressing it.

“I brought my note. I’m cleared for light workouts. Whatever that means.” He takes a crumpled up paper from his gym shorts and hands it over.

I give the form a cursory glance. “Perfect. We’ll be in the small studio.”

He nods politely. “Lead the way.”

As I walk, he starts talking. “So, what kind of modeling do you do?”

“Depends on the client. Mostly runway. Editorial.”

“Dad called you special and rare.”

“That was nice of him.” Did he mention he likes to fuck me too?

“Anyway, I see what he means.”

“I have a personality, too, believe it or not.” I don’t know why I say that, or why it sort of snaps from my mouth at this complete stranger, but I keep walking, opening the glass door to the smallest classroom.

I had a chance to set it up earlier with two mats, straps, and blocks.

Soft spa music is playing. The reflection of the two of us entering in the wall of mirrors is a study in opposites.

He’s at least six inches taller than I am—maybe more. His dark olive-skinned tan is in stark contrast with my beachy glow. His body is rock hard, defined muscle everywhere, and I look like a blur next to him. My hair is blonde and wavy. His is dark and barely there. We’re like beauty and the beast.

“I assume you want to skip the breathing and meditation part and get straight to the stretching,” I say.

“Why would you assume that?”

I shrug, sitting down on my mat and crossing my legs in sukasana. “Can you sit like this?” I ask, ignoring the question.

He drops his gym bag unceremoniously and sighs. “I can try.”

Favoring his right leg as he kneels on the mat, he attempts to get both legs under him.

Eventually, he manages. It’s a hamstring contraction, so I figured he’d be able to do it.

It’s the extensions I need to be careful with.

“If you want to know everything, this is easy sitting position—sukasana. It’s the first place we breathe. ”

“What do I do with my hands?” he asks, just before I’m about to tell him exactly what to do with his hands. Crazy of me to assume he’d want to rush this, I know.

Instead of speaking, I demonstrate, spreading one hand over my abs and the other just above it, beneath my ribs. I wait for him to do the same. He sits a little straighter. “Picture a string from your tailbone to the crown of your head, pulling you taut.

His spine straightens more, and I’m satisfied. “As you breathe in, you should feel the hand on your abdomen rise.”

“What about my other hand? Is that for when I breathe out?”

“It’s the second hand to rise with the breath. ”

“Oh, okay, got it.” He breathes deeply. “How many times do I do it for?”

“Until you relax,” I say. “Slow down, it’s not a race.”

He narrows his gaze.

I scowl. “Close your eyes,” I tell him.

His mouth twists, but he shuts his eyes, and I take the opportunity to roll mine. There’s a big part of me that wants to make him spend the hour doing only this. Listening to spa music, sitting up straight and feeling his abdomen rise and fall. I’m not ruling it out.

“You can make noise, too,” I say, testing him. I inhale and let out a sigh with my exhale. He opens one eye, and he’s frowning. “Try it.”

He does, but his “sigh” is more like a groan. Deep and low. Slightly shaky. It’s—interesting.

“Like that?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Sue me if I want to hear it again.

“So, this is yoga, huh?”

“The breath is the foundation. If you can learn to control your breath, you’ll have better command of your body. That’s yoga.”

“Hm.” He groan-sighs again.

Already, I see several things I’d like to correct.

I’m a hands-on instructor, nudging a lower back here, straightening a neck there.

What I’d like to do with him is put my hands on his shoulders and force them away from his ears.

Press my fingertips gently on the hinges of his jaw and encourage him to let the muscles go slack. Tap his forehead and tell it to relax.

I consider all this—him, and finally ask, “How good do you wanna get at this?”

“I wanna be the best,” he murmurs like it’s his personal mantra.

“Can you drop your shoulders? ”

He does, but barely.

“Relax your jaw…your forehead.”

He grimaces, face tensing instead. “Am I doing anything right?”

“These aren’t criticisms.” I reach out and put my hands on his stubborn shoulders. The muscles are bunched and tight beneath my hands. He peeks at me with the one eye again.

His tendons are stiff, and I let my touch feather across them. “Here. Drop from here. You might feel like you’re forcing it at first. That’s okay.”

He does what I tell him and says. “I feel tight everywhere. I’ve been sitting around doing nothing for a month.”

Decision made. Looks like we’ll be sitting and breathing for an hour. I’ve got my work cut out for me.

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