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“What?”
“What?” he parrots innocently, and I’m questioning whether I heard that last part right. “Let’s start you out five days a week training with an upper/lower split.”
“Sure,” I say, having no clue what that means.
Darius loads a barbell with what looks like the tiniest of weights in this gym. I would be offended, but only if I were sure I could lift it; I’m not. “Chest and triceps today,” he announces, proceeding to make those areas of my body scream bloody murder. My arms quivering, I nearly drop the bar on my head trying to finish the last round of skull crushers; guess that’s why they’re called that.
Darius takes the bar from me and removes the weights before placing it back on the bench. Offering me his hand, he hoists me up to a sitting position. “Good job. I want you back tomorrow for legs. I also want you to double the amount of food you’re eating. No soda; no junk; at least two protein shakes a day.”
“I don’t think I can do that,” I say quietly.
“Then you’re going to stay right where you are. Weak; looking like your face was run through a meat grinder; zero self-confidence,” he comments; again, not in a judgmental way, but giving his professional assessment.
“Look, I can’t afford to eat that way,” I admit. Nonna’s on a pretty tight fixed income, and I try not to add to her burden by spending money we don't have.
“What do your folks do?” Darius wonders.
“They both died when I was younger,” I tell him.
“Condolences, or congratulations?” he wonders.
“Condolences,” I say, confused. “They were good people.”
“Then I’m sorry.” He shrugs out of his hoodie as he picks up a pair of dumbbells bigger than my head.
“What does your tattoo mean?” I ask, eyeing a wicked-looking devil tattoo on his right forearm.
“My calling card,” he answers, pumping out a set of bicep curls, and all the little hairs on the back of my neck are standing on end. My old man had a calling card—his street name was the Chemist, and he had the periodic table tattooed on his right forearm.
“You a dealer?”
He snorts a laugh. “Nah, drugs will kill you.”
Chapter
Ten
Kat
“Really? I can’t imagine you being bullied.” Glancing over Fabio, he’s not the biggest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on, but my guess is he’d hold his own in a fight.
“Good,” he says, his face giving nothing away.
“That’s not surprising about Darius, though. My cousin has a big heart beneath his scary-as-shit exterior,” I muse.
“Don’t let that rumor get out about him. He’d be pissed.” Fabio chuckles. “Your turn.” He glances over at me.
“My turn to do what?” I ask.
“To tell me something personal,” Fabio explains.
“But you already know everything about me,” I protest, suddenly wishing I hadn’t started this little game.
“I know the superficial; tell me something real,” he says.
Considering for a moment, I say, “One day, I want to be a pit boss and save up enough money to move closer to the ocean. My dream house is on the beach, but I’d settle for being close enough to listen to the waves from my deck.” There. Real without being too real.
“You wouldn't miss dealing?” he asks.
