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Page 8 of Gym Bros (Bay Area Bros #2)

It’s way easier to relax in corpse pose.

Savasana. I like all these pose names so far.

I also like that none of them hurt. Calyx talks me through a whole relaxation exercise until I feel like I’m liquid on the mat.

The only reason I don’t fall asleep is because I know he’s watching.

My body might be relaxed, but my brain remains in hyperdrive, constantly aware of his eyes on me, his voice.

I can even feel his body heat as he sits to my right.

I get what my dad meant about his “look” being valuable to him as a model or whatever.

I’ve been to more than my fair share of runway shows, and Calyx is definitely an opener or closer.

If I were my dad, and Calyx up and quit on me to go teach stretching and breathing exercises to idiots like me in closed rooms, I’d be messed up about it, too.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Almost relaxed,” I say.

“Well…time’s up. I have a class to teach.”

“Oh. It’s been an hour?”

“Yep.”

“Damn.”

We spent the first half hour focused on breathing again, and the second half of the time we went through a few sitting positions and back twists, also heavily focused on breathing.

“If you can breathe like that for fifteen minutes a day, you’ll get better at it.”

“Is that what you do?” I ask, crunching up to sit.

“Every morning.”

“Yeah? What do you think about when you’re doing it? Do you like—organize your to do list?”

“The point is not to think about anything,” he says. “Just be present.”

I grin to myself. “You sound like my kung fu teacher.”

He raises his brow, for the first time looking remotely interested in something that’s come out of my mouth. “You take kung fu?”

“I used to. I started when I was five. I quit in high school when I joined the wrestling team, and my schedule got all messed up, but I’ve been trying to get back into it. It’s a great all around fighting style.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” he says, sounding bored again.

Calyx is wearing a tight navy blue t-shirt today along with loose sweats. His feet are bare, and they’re as perfect as the rest of him. I’m convinced he doesn’t grow hair anywhere but his head and his brows. His exposed skin is baby smooth, and I swear he looks airbrushed.

“You’re probably not much into fighting, huh?” I ask.

“ That assumption is fair,” he says.

That reminds me. “Sorry about last time. I didn’t mean to judge a book by its cover or whatever. I just thought it was nice what my dad said.”

He dips his head and scoots away. “It was. No apology necessary. So, what does the rest of the week look like for you?”

I have to think about it for a second. Not because my schedule is stacked, but because these yoga classes aren’t exactly what I thought they’d be, and I’m not sure I like it—or whether it’s helping.

The back twists felt good, but if this is the pace we’re going to move at, I might rather try my luck with YouTube.

“So, here’s the thing…breathing’s great and everything, but…”

He blinks those hazel doe eyes at me. “We can do more. I just didn’t want to rush anything.”

“We can go faster than this,” I tell him.

He nods. “Right. When are you available?”

“All the time. For now.”

“Same time tomorrow, then?” he asks.

“Yeah. Sure.” Picking up my phone, I transfer a hundred bucks to him using Zelle, the same as I did yesterday. When I look up from the screen, I find Calyx looking at my arm. I’ll be the first to admit, I have some really stupid tattoos.

The one he’s looking at is the face of a saber-toothed tiger on my right deltoid.

It’s actually one of the better ones, but my random collection says more about the day I got a particular tattoo than myself as a person.

I have everything from a Ghandi quote to an LA Flames logo.

There’s the date I lost my virginity on my hip, and an octagon on my pec.

I don’t know, maybe they do say something about me.

A bunch of random shit that hasn’t come together to make a full picture yet.

Calyx meets my eyes while I’m looking at him.

“Saber,” he says.

“Yeah?”

“No, I just mean—” he blinks and shakes his head. “Never mind. I’ll figure out your name eventually, you know?”

“It’s Sam,” I tell him. “Samuel.”

His head drops back with a relieved sigh. His throat is long and smooth without a trace of stubble. “Yes. Thank you. Samuel.”

“No one calls me that.” I regret telling him already. I can’t have him latching onto it.

“Surely some people do. Your father, for example.”

“Well, yeah, but?—”

“Not that I’m saying you don’t look like a Saber—I’m sure you’re very intimidating in a cage fight or whatever?—”

“It’s not about?—”

“But Samuel suits you fine,” he goes on as if I hadn’t spoken.

“Why do I have to call you your fake name?”

“It’s not fake,” he says. “It’s who I am. Who I’ve been since I was fourteen. I won’t answer to anything else.”

“What about what your parents call you?”

“They call me Calyx. Like everyone else.” His smile is faint, like he’s beaten me in this round.

I narrow my eyes. “Did you go through some sort of phase or something? Like where you were questioning your identity?”

“Something like that,” he says and stands.

“Fine. Don’t tell me.” God forbid we have a conversation .

“It was a rude question,” he says.

“Was it?”

I’m not as graceful about it, but I stand, too, relying heavily on my left leg when I bend to pick up my bag.

I’m sure I wouldn’t hurt myself if I bent normally, but favoring my leg has become a habit I need to break as soon as possible.

For balance’s sake. “I mean, I assume as a model, you’re aware of what you look like. ”

What he looks like now is stricken. “Like a girl?”

“Not quite,” I say. “No. You’re…”

He stares impatiently at me as I get stuck for a word. His accusation is catching up with me, though. I’m not rude. Curious, sure, but rude ?

“Interesting,” I finally shove from my throat.

“Hm. All right.”

Wanting to move on, I ask, “What kind of class are you teaching?”

“Pilates.”

“Like with the machines?”

“Reformers,” he corrects me. “But yes.”

“Can I watch?” I’ve got nothing better to do. “I’m hoping to try that too, once I know my leg can handle it.”

He studies me another long moment, like I’ve got some hidden motivation. “I’m not sure how the ladies would feel with you in there watching them work out.”

“Oh. I wasn’t saying I?—”

He cuts me off. “No, I understand what you were saying, but why don’t you look it up on YouTube instead?”

Chastened, and feeling like a total pervert, I nod. I need to get out of here. “All right, well, good night. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” he says, sounding as non-plussed as I feel.

I move past him, as tense as I was when I got here. So much for breathing. I feel like a fucking idiot. Uncouth, lacking class. An oaf with a dumb name. And rude .

As I’m leaving the gym, I’m only fifty-fifty about whether I will come back. It’s not like I’m furious with him or like I want to fight him or anything. I just feel— small . Ridiculous. Put in my place.

If I thought I wouldn’t hurt myself, I’d jog back to my apartment rather than take my car. Going for a drive doesn’t have the same effect as sweating out all my thoughts and feelings—waiting for numbness to set in. If I had a motorcycle—maybe.

But my parents wouldn’t get me one of those, no matter how much I begged. I like my Porsche, but I don’t love it the same way I’d love a Ducati 916.

Once I’m home, I head straight for my couch.

I should hit the treadmill since I didn’t get any kind of workout tonight, but the Flames game just started, and to be honest, I’m feeling a little sorry for myself.

I’m halfway tempted to text Evan, but after he deep-throated me into a jaw-dropping orgasm, I don’t want him to think I expect that every time.

It would be nice tonight, though. And that’s exactly why I don’t text him.

I order takeout before opening Instagram. My account is pretty pathetic. I was working on growing it before my injury, but these last few weeks, I’ve been neglecting it, and I feel my lack of new followers like a hook to the ribs that I should have seen coming.

Trying not to dwell on it, I bite the bullet I’ve been avoiding and search Calyx. He’s literally the first thing that pops up when I type out the first four letters of his fake name. Once I open his account, I see why. He’s got almost three hundred thousand followers. Damn . How the hell?

But I quickly realize how the hell. A combination of reels and carousels of photos tell the story of his success on this platform. He posts every day, or almost .

I’d question if he used a smoothing or beauty filter if I hadn’t met him in person.

All his reels are him modeling something—filmed by someone else.

From a purely aesthetic standpoint, he’s physically perfect.

Unusual for a man, but flawless all the same.

In one reel he’s in a speedo, in the next, a chiffon blouse, the next a suit.

He’ll pose like a woman, he’ll walk like a man.

He’ll rub his chest and drop his waistband, and then he’ll show a series of runway walks, some masculine, some feminine.

I’m utterly confused and totally arrested by it. I haven’t even reached the end of his feed by the time my food arrives, and I’m no less interested in continuing to watch it than I was when I started scrolling.

I barely notice the score of the baseball game, but the Flames are winning, and that’s all that matters. As I’m opening my taco box, I glance at the TV screen to find the camera on the owner’s box.

All men in there. All gay men. The camera lingers on the owner of the team for half a second and then pans to the truly famous parson in the box—the pop star Gideon York. Kansas City gets Taylor Swift at their games, but LA gets the male equivalent.

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