Chapter 3
Will Marsh
It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Trent made it to the north side of town. His morning was spent unexpectedly on social media, swirling in the black hole of political commentary and debates, cute animal videos with the inevitable ‘this is abuse’ comments, and incessant inbox messages that opened with the high-quality prose, “Hey.”
After all of that (a downright hot mess if he had to categorize it), his first stop in the Summerset Center was Sir Mixalot. There he got himself a medium Berry Cherry smoothie, Jared’s irksome voice snickering in the back of his mind.
Fucking J-Rod and his cucumbers and bananas, Trent remembered, his free hand spontaneously rubbing his ass to relieve the phantom soreness. Idiot.
As he walked outside, stepping from the covered walkway into the sun, Trent glanced right in the direction of Swole. Like most Sunday afternoons, the parking lot had been empty when he arrived. but now there was a large, supercharged Tundra in the parking lot. Trent’s mood dampened when he saw the black truck – parked right in a front space no less – and he sucked a little harder on his straw. Cherry flavored brain freeze soon followed.
It was Will Marsh’s truck, the immense man no doubt just getting there to do his workout.
Why couldn’t you have lifted this morning? Trent mused, regretting giving Will a key to the facility (even though he had brought Trent the most referral business out of everyone there combined).
Stopping at his Charger, Trent eyeballed the workout bag in the passenger seat and considered taking Jared’s advice and just skipping any paperwork for the day. After all, it could wait for…
Too late.
Will emerged from Swole, moving as fast as his absurd muscular build could propel him. He was wearing a pair of gray sweat pants and a supplement tee that had to be 3XL (yet was still tight). If the wind caught in those massive lats, he could possibly soar (if he wasn’t so heavy, that is). Reaching his truck, Will jerked a pair of Chuck Taylors from the rear passenger floorboard, happening to look in Trent’s direction when the door closed.
“Fuck,” Trent grumbled, realizing his outfit – a bright yellow stringer, red shorts from earlier, and bright kicks – didn’t work so well to blend into the otherwise normal surroundings. “Now he knows for a fact you’re back from the trip.”
Sighing heavily as Will went back inside the building – casting one last, lingering look at the gym owner – Trent yanked the car door open and reluctantly climbed inside.
Trent reached the entrance a short time later (wishing it took a lot longer to get there). His gym bag was slung casually over his shoulder, shifting slightly as he reached out to open the door.
Why did you bring this if you’re only here for paperwork, man?
Will had left the front door open in anticipation of his arrival, Trent locking it after he got inside. The air was slightly on the warm side, which Will said helped him get better pumps, but it made Trent all the more edgy.
Ahead of him, Trent could see the iron jungle in all its glory. Even though he’d been gone a few days, nothing beat home turf for working out (hotel “fitness centers” often sporting a dilapidated treadmill and bike, few or no free weights, and definitely no selfie-worthy mirrors – good lighting priority number one a serious fitness fanatic like Trent.)
A loud bang came from the left in the leg room. Will was probably doing a few deadlifts with half the plates in the facility to warm up. The other half (plus some he’d bring from home from time to time) came into play after that.
Right, Trent thought assertively, blazing a path toward the offices. They were in the rear, right corner of the building. Straight to work. Yep! No time to play today. Passing the leg room in three, two…
“Hey Trenton!” Will boomed, triggering Trent to shudder then halt.
“Yes Bill?” Trent replied, the hate of his given name apparent.
Will ticked his head in the direction of the weights. “Come and give me a spot.”
Alrighty then, Trent thought, sliding his gear off his shoulder. Guess I don’t have a choice.
Setting the bag outside the room as a subtle hint that he would have to grab it and carry on with (more important) business of his own, he ambled inside. Maneuvering through the equipment, Trent knew that he wasn’t about to get into a compromising position with this guy (like he might have done with Jonny, and a few others before that). What was Will doing then, asking for a spot on deadlifts of all things? It wasn’t until he finally saw what Will was lifting that he knew why.
Trent started to count the number of plates that were loaded on the bar sitting on the floor, saying, “Shit, brother, how much weight?”
“Seven-sixty-five,” Will said.
Trent shook his head while exhaling. His hands went firmly to his hips. “I’m at four-ninety-five man.”
Will shrugged those boulders he could call shoulders. “Well, I haven’t done it yet man. Going for a new PR.”
Trent continued shaking his head. He wished his personal record could even begin to make a dent in that number.
“Okay, so you ready?” Will asked, slapping his hands together.
Trent nodded, following the man’s lead.
Will flung his arms back and forth a few times before centering himself over the bar. He reached down and seized it, alternating his grip – one overhand and one underhand – while his back was in a neutral position. His feet were a comfortable distance apart, shins about an inch away from the bar, and those Chucks, with their flat soles, were on to help provide stability.
“Why aren’t you barefoot?” Trent asked as he took up position close to Will. He knew that this particular grip was stronger but more susceptible to imbalances, so was looking to minimize the risk.
Will raised his head and gazed at him; his eyes bore right into Trent’s skull. “Trust me when I say you don’t want me without them on.”
“If you say so,” Trent responded, watching Will return his chin to a tucked position. Things were now in place to help Will in case he slipped or took a tumble backwards during the motion.
I for one hope that doesn’t happen, Trent wished, because three hundred pounds of beef coming at me isn’t going to do much damage to anything other than me.
The next few seconds were nothing short of mind-blowing. Trent observed Will in awe as he locked the bar then rose, bringing himself to a standing position after some extremely shaky moments near the start of the lift. The bar was bent so much it looked like it was going to snap in two. His body was a powerful forest of sinew and veins.
After a pause and with his face puce from strain, Will started to lower the weight. Once past his knees, he let go and the whole assembly crashed into the ground with a tremendous boom.
“Fuck yes man!” Trent said as the racket subsided. “You did it!”
Will took a few sweaty moments to catch his breath, smiling after his skin returned to a normal shade of human. “Thanks bro,” he said, wiping his forehead with the bottom of his tank top.
Trent couldn’t help but notice Will’s abs, which were far blockier and pronounced than his had ever been. It literally looked like a turtle shell had been attached to the man’s stomach.
Will noticed Trent’s eyes. He lowered his shirt.
“Well, as great as that was, brother, I have to get some paperwork done.” Trent began with the intent of inserting an excuse to get away before Will could talk…
“About Miami, man. How was the trip?” he asked. “Did you end up getting everything you needed for marketing the franchise?”
Trent nodded modestly. “That and more.”
Will looked like a man who had caught a prized fish in a net. “Good stuff, man.”
An awkward silence entered the conversation. Trent didn’t know if he should stay and see it through or just walk toward his bag – and then right out the front door again.
“So…” Will said, and Trent had his answer. “I figured I’d go ahead and cash in that IOU for arranging the Palmers. I’m sure you understand… not liking debts and all.”
“I know exactly where you’re coming from,” Trent replied, though he was unsure where this was going, “but maybe we can –”
“Without me, brother, there wouldn’t have been a trip to Miami, or an agency…”
That’s when Trent knew Will had him right by the balls. “What is it you want?” he asked.
“Just a workout,” Will answered. “Think you’re up for it?”
Trent didn’t reply right away. There had to be a catch.
“Hello? Trent? Earth to Trenton James Cassidy. Do you copy? Over.”
Trent snapped out of his mild stupor. “Shit you know how much I hate it when people say that, Bill! So, seriously, that’s all you want? Just a lift?”
Will smirked at the notion, and any relief Trent might have felt went away faster than a six pack on a diet of donuts. “Now come on Trent,” he said. “You of all people know it’s never that easy. Don’t get me wrong, I do want that workout – surprised we haven’t done one yet – but what I’m wanting to see is how well Casanova Cassidy lives up to his reputation.”
That’s just it, big guy. Not sure I want to be your bitch, Trent retaliated, trying to hide his mental apprehension in a contrived look of deep thought.
“What’s the matter? Have to take a dump?”
Trent pitched Will a stare that would have sent other guys running. As suspected, he was immune; exactly what Trent feared.
No pressure Trent.
“You ready man?” Will smacked Trent squarely in the back. “Go take some pre-workout and meet me at the squat rack. I’m sure you’re used to big loads on leg days by now.”