Chapter 1: Eyes on the New Meat
The air in the gym tasted like antiseptic and regret. Derek Hayes pushed through the glass doors, the pulse of synthetic pop music thumping against his eardrums. Sunlight, sharp and intrusive, cut through the windows and collided with the neon tube lighting, creating a harsh, electric haze over everything. He adjusted the straps of his gym bag on his shoulder, feeling the familiar blend of determination and dread. This was supposed to be his escape, his new routine. A place to focus.
He’d barely made it three steps onto the cardio deck when he felt the eyes.
From the row of treadmills, three separate heads turned in unison, tracking his progress like hawks sighting a lone mouse in a field.
On Machine Three, a young blonde in a neon green sports bra and impossibly short leggings fumbled with her phone, nearly stumbling as her head swiveled. Her pink lipstick was blinding. On Machine Seven, a statuesque Black woman with powerful, sculpted shoulders slowed her fierce run to a deliberate, prowling walk, her eyes never leaving him. A knowing smirk played on her lips. And on the seated stepper, an older woman in leopard-print and neon pink simply stopped, mid-stride, letting the pedals whir back to stillness. She dragged a towel across her forehead, her eyes crinkling with a delight that sent a shiver down Derek’s spine.
He looked away, fast, and made a beeline for an open treadmill in the back corner. The machine beeped to life under his fingers, a digital metronome counting a rhythm he couldn’t quite find. He punched in a pace, started a slow jog, and focused on the smudged window overlooking the traffic-choked street below. Honking horns and distant sirens blurred into the music. Just get through the warm-up. Just thirty minutes.
It lasted about ninety seconds.
“Oh my god, hey!”
The voice was high, sugary, and directly to his left. He glanced over. The blonde from Machine Three was now perched on the treadmill beside his, not running, just standing on the sides of the belt, one hip cocked. She was snapping a selfie, her tongue tucked in the corner of her mouth.
“You’re new, right?” she said, not looking at him, scrutinizing her screen. “I’m Candy-May. With a hyphen.” Finally, she turned, offering a smile so bright it rivaled the lighting. “You look, like, super tense. Do you need a spot? Or, like, a stretching buddy? I’m really flexible.”
Derek’s foot almost slipped. “I’m… okay. Just warming up. Thanks.”
“Cool, cool.” She bounced on the balls of her feet, making everything bounce with her. “You’ve got a great… runner’s vibe. Youthful. I dig it.” She gave him a thumbs-up, winked, and then hopped off the treadmill, skipping toward the free weights.
Derek let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He increased the speed, hoping motion would convey unavailability. The numbers on the display blurred. Sweat began to bead at his temples.
He made it to the fifteen-minute mark before he needed water. He hit stop, the sudden silence ringing in his ears, and shuffled toward the fountain in the alcove.
He’d just bent down when a wave of warm, sweet perfume enveloped him. A hip, firm and unmistakable, pressed against his own, gently nudging him aside.
“Don’t hog the hydration station, baby.”
Desiree. She leaned past him to take the fountain, her movement slow and exaggerated. The cut of her tank top left very little to the imagination. Derek straightened up, his mouth suddenly dry despite the water.
She took a long drink, then straightened, wiping a droplet from her chin with a finger she then examined. “Mmm. You’re the new project, aren’t you? Candy-May’s all aflutter.” Her dark eyes swept over him, appraising, cataloging. “I can see the appeal. There’s a certain… blank canvas quality. Makes a woman want to draw on you.”
“I’m not a project,” Derek managed, his voice sounding raspy.
“Aren’t you?” She leaned in closer, her voice a low, conspiratorial hum. “You’re in here with a goal. So are we. Just different kinds of cardio.” She gave his bicep a gentle, patting squeeze. “You’re lean. You could use some… fleshing out. I do personal training. Very hands-on.”
Before he could form a coherent sentence—any sentence—she was gone, leaving behind her scent and a profound sense of dislocation. Derek finished his water, his face hot. He decided to retreat to the relative safety of the weight floor, to something with clear rules and fixed movements.
He found an open bench and lay back, gripping the barbell. The cold steel was a relief. He focused on the ceiling tiles, the familiar strain in his chest. Up. Down. Control.
A shadow fell over him.
“Now that’s a sight that takes me back.”
Mabel’s face appeared upside-down in his field of vision, her silver hair piled in a chaotic bun, her cheeks flushed. She was chewing gum loudly. “Mind if I supervise, kiddo? Form’s important. Wouldn’t want you to pull something… precious.”
Derek lowered the bar back to the rack with a clang and sat up. “My form’s fine.”
“Is it?” She ambled around to the front of the bench, her neon leopard-print leggings a visual assault. She crossed her arms, which were surprisingly toned. “You’re all tight in the shoulders. Too much nervous energy. In my day, we knew how to channel that. Let it flow.” She did a little shimmy that made Derek blink. “I had a beau, 1972, built just like you. Lean like a greyhound. My, the stamina. We’d go to the drive-in and he’d—”
“Mabel! Leave the poor boy alone, he’s turning purple!” Candy-May’s voice carried across the floor. She was waving a five-pound dumbbell like a tambourine.
Desiree appeared from behind a rack of kettlebells, smiling like a cat that had not only found the cream but knocked over the whole jug. “She’s just sharing history, sweetie. It’s educational.”
Mabel winked at Derek. “See? Education. You’re getting a full-bodied learning experience today.” She reached out and poked his sternum. “You’ve got good bones. A fine foundation. With the right guidance, you could be magnificent.”
Derek looked from Mabel’s grinning, lined face to Candy-May’s vacant, cheerful smile, to Desiree’s smoldering, knowing gaze. The neon lights buzzed overhead. The music dropped into a bass-heavy trough. He was surrounded.
He slid off the bench, grabbing his towel. “I think… I’m done for today.”
“So early?” Candy-May pouted.
“The first day is always the hardest,” Desiree purred. “On the body. And the nerves.”
Mabel just chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “He’ll be back. They always come back. The quiet ones are the most curious.”
Derek didn’t argue. He just shouldered his bag and weaved through the equipment, feeling their collective gaze on his back all the way to the exit. The cool evening air outside was a shock, a reprieve. He leaned against the brick wall of the building, listening to his heart thump against his ribs.
It wasn’t the workout that had winded him. It was the sheer, overwhelming force of their attention. He’d come for anonymity, for repetition, for control.
Instead, he’d found a neon-lit trap sprung by a trio of self-appointed sirens who seemed to operate on a wavelength of pure, chaotic appetite. He should find another gym. A sensible one, with older men in sweatshirts and no leopard print.
But as he pushed off the wall and started the walk home, the city’s noise fading into background static, a treacherous little thought uncoiled in his mind. It was the same thought that had made him linger a second too long at the water fountain, that had made him meet Desiree’s eyes.
What would they try next?
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the curiosity. It clung, stubborn as the smell of cheap perfume on his clothes. The treadmill’s steady click still echoed in his ears, but now it sounded less like a countdown to disaster, and more like a starting pistol.
The treadmill’s steady click still echoed in his ears, but now it sounded less like a countdown to disaster, and more like a starting pistol.
He walked the three blocks to his apartment, the night air doing little to clear the static they’d left in his head. The city sounds were a dull roar, a bassline to his distraction. He turned the corner onto his quieter street, lined with dumpsters and the faded awnings of struggling businesses.
A click-clack of sharp footsteps, too fast, too purposeful, echoed his from behind.
He glanced over his shoulder. A silhouette, backlit by a streetlight, moved with a hypnotic, swinging grace. Curves. Power. He knew that walk. His pace instinctively quickened. So did hers.
“Running already, baby? And here I thought you were done with cardio for the day.”
Desiree’s voice was a warm vapor in the cool air, right behind him. He stopped, turning. She was still in her workout gear, a sheer black hoodie thrown over it, unzipped. She wasn’t even breathing hard.
“Do you live around here?” Derek asked, his voice tighter than he intended.
“Maybe. Or maybe I’m just committed to my cooldown.” She took a step closer. The streetlight caught the sweat still gleaming on her collarbone. “You left in a hurry. We didn’t get to finish our conversation.”
“There’s nothing to finish.”
“See, that’s where you’re wrong.” Her eyes flicked past him, down the narrow alley that ran between a Thai restaurant and a shuttered dry cleaner. It was a corridor of brick, shadow, and the sour smell of garbage. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. Her hand shot out, not gentle like at the water fountain, but firm, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. Her grip was astonishingly strong. She pulled, and his lean frame offered little resistance. He stumbled two steps with her before digging his heels in.
“What are you doing?”
“Giving you that private lesson.” She yanked again, decisively, and he was off the sidewalk, the clean lines of the street vanishing. The alley walls closed in, damp and textured with graffiti tags. A single bulb above a back door spilled a sickly yellow puddle of light. She positioned him in it, not relinquishing her hold.
“Let go of me.”
“Or what?” She smiled, all white teeth and predatory amusement. “You’ll yell? In this neighborhood? They’ll just turn their music up.” She stepped in, erasing the last of the cool air between them. The scent of her perfume, layered over hard work, was cloying and intimate. “You’re not scared. You’re intrigued. I saw it. That little flash behind your eyes when Mabel started talking about her greyhound. You’re wondering what it’s like.”
“I’m wondering if you’re insane.”
“Probably.” She released his wrist, but only to place both hands flat on the brick wall on either side of his head, caging him. “But you’re still here. You could push past me. You won’t.” She leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that vibrated in the hollow of his ear. “Because you’ve never met anyone like us. We don’t play by your rules. We don’t do subtle. We see something we want, and we… engage.”
Derek’s heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. His back was against cold brick. His exit was blocked by warm, unwavering muscle. The rational part of his brain screamed to shove her away. The rest of him was paralyzed, fascinated by the sheer audacity.
“I’m not a thing to be wanted,” he said, the words lacking force.
“Aren’t you? Everything’s a thing, baby. You wanted a better body, you went to the gym. I want a little excitement, a little… fresh creativity.” One hand left the wall. A single, hot fingertip traced the line of his jaw. He flinched, but didn’t move. “You’re canvas and clay. We’re artists. Very, very hands-on artists.”
He finally found the voltage to turn his head, to break the mesmerized hold of her gaze. He stared at a graffiti tag spelling out a word that had faded into gibberish. “This is harassment.”
The laugh she let out was rich, genuine, and echoed off the alley walls. “Harassment? Sugar, this is philanthropy. I’m offering you a graduate degree in life from a university you didn’t even know existed. Candy-May gives you the awkward, charming preamble. Mabel provides the historical, thrilling context. I,” she said, her finger tilting his chin back to face her, “am the practical application. The lab work.”
Her face was inches from his. Her breath was sweet. Her eyes held a challenge so absolute it felt like a physical dare. His own breath hitched. The stale alley air was gone, replaced by a charged, oxygenless vacuum where the only things that existed were her impossible offer and his screaming, conflicted silence.
He opened his mouth, having no idea what would come out. A curse. A yell. A question.
The sudden blare of a car horn from the street was like a bucket of ice water. Desiree’s eyes flickered toward the sound, just for a half-second. It was enough.
Derek ducked, sliding under her arm, his shoulder brushing against hers. He was out of the cage, back in the mouth of the alley, his chest heaving. She turned, slowly, her smirk not fading but sharpening. She hadn’t lost. She’d proven her point.
“Run on home, canvas,” she said, her voice lazy with victory. “Think about the brushstrokes.”
He didn’t run. He walked backwards, keeping her in sight until he hit the sidewalk. Then he turned and walked, fast, toward the sanctuary of his apartment door. His skin burned where she’d touched him. The echo in his head wasn’t a treadmill anymore. It was the click-clack of her heels on pavement, following him, and her low, knowing laugh hanging in the dark behind him, a promise he both feared and, against every instinct, desperately wanted to understand.