Chapter 4
brooks
I’m sitting in my office sampling new products—currently eating a gluten-free, high-protein bar, and reading the related marketing paperwork from the supplier—when there’s a tap on the door.
“It’s open,” I call.
The door opens onto the mezzanine balcony of the gym and my friend Sarah, in her sweaty gym wear, is leaning on the door frame. Even with a red face and her dark hair tied into a knot on the top of her head, she looks good. Don’t read into that. I am 100 percent friends with Sarah and no more. That’s why I can tell her, “You look in good shape,” even when she’s wearing tight-fitting Lycra.
“I ought to. I spend ten hours of my life in this place each week. I avoid carbs like they’ll give me the plague, and I can’t remember the last time I gorged on a tub of my favorite thing…BJs.” That’s her code name for her best guys, Ben and Jerry. She plants a hand on her hip in an oh-so-Sarah way. “I’ve actually just been to the Zumba class. I’ve gotten into the idea of dancing to stay slim since that new fitness girl came on the scene. You know, the British one. She does some dance-yourself-skinny kind of thing. Anyway, I’ve seen one or two of her YouTube videos and thought I’d give Zumba a try.”
I lean back in my desk chair and swivel. “Did you rate it?”
“It was cool. A nice change from being in the gym. That woman you have instructing is kind of crazy, though. Said she’s been divorced something like ten thousand times and, hell, for a middle-aged woman, she rocks the twerk.”
“Nice critique. I’ll be sure to rate her high in the box that says ‘twerking’ in her performance review.”
She laughs, something I love to hear from her. Despite her tough bravado, behind closed doors, Sarah can be really down. I mean, who can blame her when she was widowed in her thirties, but I get a kick out of seeing her happy.
When I realize I’ve paused to reflect on her smile, I break our silence. “Hey, I’m almost done here for the night. Don’t suppose you’d indulge in some Monday night wings?” I would usually use the guise of Monday night football to cover my obsession with wings but it’s out of season.
“Wings?” She gestures to herself, pointing from her head to her toes. “And ruin this? Actually, I might have to go back to the office. Drew is pulling an all-nighter. Another time.”
She drops a kiss to my cheek, comments on how bad she must smell, and leaves. It’s funny to remember that Sarah and I actually met because Sarah is Drew’s legal secretary. Drew introduced us more years ago than I care to remember. Now, Sarah’s a pretty close second to Drew in my best friend rankings. Although she did just lose points for refusing wings.
With Drew at work, I call a few of my other friends. Kit refuses on grounds that his wife, Madge, won’t let him out. Madge is pretty awesome, for the record, but Kit is like a big kid and since they have two young children now—the real kind, not the thirty-odd-year-old, hairy kind—sometimes she has to enforce a few rules with him.
I call Edmond. Also known as Super-chef and the owner of the swanky restaurant Becky works in. You might remember him from that reality TV show Sweet Tooth, where he was a judge. It’s a long shot because I know, if he is free, he’s probably spending his rare night off with his wife and kids. Sure enough, he answers the call and tells me that because the restaurant is closed on Mondays, he’s having a quiet one with his family.
I try Marty, the other half of Statham Harrington law firm, alongside Drew. He’s taking some clients to a boozy dinner—code for schmoozing.
On the “good friends” front, I’m all out. I can’t really be assed to make small talk with the guys from the gym. Even when we’re out for drinks, I always get the sense they see me as their boss and don’t fully relax.
The proverbial lightbulb suddenly shines bright in my mind. Jake.
I mentioned I went to school with Drew. Grew up with him, really. Our families both lived on Staten Island when we were kids. His mom all but adopted me when my folks decided to get a divorce and were gunning for each other’s blood every night. Well, Jake is Drew’s kid brother. He’s a twenty-five-year-old man now, but to me he’ll always be Drew’s kid brother—who we tortured for fun but always loved. He’s doing well for himself these days, working for a hedge fund in London. He flew over here so we could all celebrate Drew making named partner at Statham Harrington. As far as I know, he’s still in the city. I hit his number in my phone.
“Brooks, my man. How you doing?”
“Jakey. You still in New York, buddy?”
“Not for long but I am right now. I’m currently watching some bullshit game show with my folks, going out of my mind.”
“Is your mom in earshot?”
“She sure is. That’s why she just tossed a sofa cushion off my head. Hang on.” I hear him in the background: “I’m going into the other room, relax. You wouldn’t have answered that question right anyway. Ouch! Stop throwing cushions!”
I’m shaking my head but can’t help smirking when I hear a door close and he comes back on the line. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“No worries, man. You want to escape for beer and wings? We can’t do Monday Night Live but we can catch some football reruns. I doubt you’ve seen them in London. You can stay at my place.”
“I’m on the next fucking ferry to the city.”
* * * *
“All right, guys, I got one Texas smoked burger with sweet potato fries, and one extra-large stack of firecracker wings.”
Jake has his head tipped back to drain the dregs from his bottle of Samuel Adams, so I tell the waitress, “The burger is his. Wings for me. Thanks.”
She puts the plates on top of the sticky bar we’re perched at. There’s something about a sticky wood bar in a sports joint that just works. And Mitch’s Sports Bar happens to have the best wings in the city.
“You want another two beers, Brooks?” That’s Mitch. Second-generation Mitch, who now runs the bar since his old man died a few years back.
I’ve wasted no time in getting my first wing to my mouth, so I nod with a mouthful of hot sauce.
Jake is already chomping through his first bite of burger like he hasn’t been fed for a decade. “Fuck me, they don’t make burgers like this in England. In London it’s all about presentation and good British beef. Screw that! I want good, hearty, mess-on-a-plate pulled pork. I don’t give a crap where the meat came from, I just want the thing to be smoked properly with a solid barbecue sauce. This is a burger. I ought to take a picture of this and tweet it to the Queen.”
I wash down my first wing with a swig of beer and subtly swallow the belch that threatens to pop up. “I don’t think the Queen is on Twitter, man.”
He takes another bite that has me in awe of the man. Showing me the half-chewed contents of his mouth, he says, “Yeah, maybe I should just eat it. Should you really be eating this stuff, Mr. My Body Is a Temple?”
“Are you kidding? I work out so that I can eat this stuff. You can’t starve yourself and build muscle. Wings are good protein.”
Jake gives me a disbelieving look from behind his beer bottle. “I’m sure that’s not what goes in those nutrition plans you’ve got every New Yorker raving about.”
I ignore his comment and work through another wing. I know my fitness brand has taken off. Damn, I have a wait list of hundreds for PT sessions and nutrition advice, but I feel weird when the guys blow smoke up my ass. They just know me as Brooks. Not Brooks “Trainer to the Stars,” as one magazine put it recently. I like being just Brooks.
I drop my bare chicken bone on my plate and jump from my stool when the Jets score a touchdown. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! Pay up, Jakey-boy! I told you there was a touchdown left in this quarter.”
“It’s a fucking rerun. You’ve already seen it.”
“I told you when we made the bet I hadn’t seen it. Pay up.”
“Ah, fuck. Here, have your five bucks. I can’t spend it in London anyway.”
I tuck his money into my back pocket and sit. “Ahh, are you sore, Jakey? Good luck to your hedge fund clients. With the bets you place…”
He thumps me in the arm but does it with a smile on his face. When the quarter ends, the television switches to commercials and I take a chance to really focus on working down my mammoth plate of meat.
“See, Brooks, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” I follow the direction of Jake’s pointed beer bottle to the large screen behind the bar. “This woman is selling fitness and not eating barbecue wings.”
I watch as a skinny blonde on the TV dances in front of a class. The words “Salsa Yourself Slim” flash up on the screen. The shot moves to an image of the same woman wearing purple yoga pants and a neon sports bra on the cover of a book. The voice-over says, “Look and feel great with Izzy Coulthard’s new book, Be Green. Be Clean. Learn her top tips to salsa yourself slim, and try delicious, detoxifying recipes.”
I suck the firecracker sauce from my fingers. “No way. Clean eating, all that raw carrot shit, will get you skinny. No doubt about it. But if you want to really be healthy from exercise and a good diet, you’ve got to eat. You can’t eat like a rabbit and put in a good workout. You need protein to repair your muscles and give you the strength to put in a solid session for your heart and lungs. I concede, maybe I don’t encourage sugar- and salt-laced barbecue sauce in my nutrition plans, but I do push eating meat.”
Jake holds up two hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I’m on your side, Brooks. But I’ve got to tell you, if it’s a choice, I’d prefer to wake up to her body than yours.”
“Jesus. Can we get back to talking football instead of you thinking about being naked in fucking bed with me?”
He doesn’t talk football. He starts talking baseball. With one ear focused on him, my eyes find the blond dancer on the large screen again. Yeah, I’d take her body over mine too.
Three beers, a win for the Jets, and a bout of meat sweats later, I let us into my apartment. I flick on the standing lamp in the living room and draw the curtains closed across the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I gesture to the sports bag slung across Jake’s shoulder. “You can take Cady’s room.”
“How is the little mite these days?”
I fill two glasses of water from the refrigerator filter and hand one to him. “Imagine yourself at eighteen, then give it female parts and a pretty face.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly. Listen, I’m going to hit the sack. I’ve got a full day at the gym tomorrow. There isn’t a TV in Cady’s room but make yourself comfortable out here as long as you like.”
* * * *
I know I’m dreaming. I know that I’m not actually working out on the shoulder press in my gym, that I’m actually lying in my bed, sleeping. But it feels real enough for me to keep going. As I’m finishing up my final set of reps, the heavy fire doors to the main floor of the gym blow open, as if they weigh nothing. I raise a hand to shield my eyes as a bright light beams through the doorway, like rays refracted through a shard of glass. Through the intense light walks a blond woman. Her hair is tied back. She wears tight purple yoga pants and a blue sports bra, displaying every fine inch of her body. I recognize her from TV.
I get off the machine. The gym is full but the blonde is focused solely on me. She glides toward me, her feet barely touching the ground. Damn, she’s pretty.
I’m about to speak, to introduce myself, maybe tell her I’ve seen the commercials for her new book on TV, when she reaches me and places her finger across my lips.
What the fuck is happening?
I don’t care. I know I could wake up at any moment and I’ll be damned if I’m going to waste this moment. She’s so fucking hot for me.
I open my mouth quickly and take her finger between my teeth. Her eyes go wide and in her irises, I see flames. A hot, orange blaze.
She leaps up and I catch her long, toned legs around my waist. I crash my mouth against hers and we ravish each other, tongues lapping, each swallowing the other’s groans in the middle of the packed gym.
I carry her to the wall behind the hip-abductor machine and press her back to it, taking her weight with my body as she bites my bottom lip. I pull back from her to draw the zipper down the front of her bra and expose her pert tits.
“Brooks,” she moans.
Only, it isn’t her voice. I recognize that voice. I look up at her face. It’s no longer the woman from the commercial looking back at me. It’s… “Alice. God, I’ve wanted this for so long.” I close my eyes as I press my lips to hers, gently this time.
“Me too, Brooks.”
I pull back quickly as the voice shifts to a masculine one. I drop the lover who was a woman and who is now Jake on the floor.
Holy fucking fuck!
“I told you I preferred your body,” Dream Jake says.
Wake up! Right the hell now!
* * * *
I sit up in bed, my face screwed tight with disgust. “What the fuck?” My whispered words are lost in the empty bedroom. The alarm on my bedside table tells me it is 3:57. “Christ.”
I flop back against my pillows and rub my face. There’s no way in this freakin’ millennium I am going back to sleep and risking being in a lip-lock with Jake.
I reach under my bed and pull out my Mac. Maybe I’ll look over the franchise stuff Drew sent to me.
After twelve minutes of reading his high-level review points, I realize I don’t have the energy for this shit.
Instead, I write an e-mail to the guys, asking them if they want to get an ice hockey game going soon.