The Night's Champion Collection: A supernatural werewolf thriller trilogy Page 3

  “A session?”

  “A session.”

  “At the gym?”

  “At the gym.”

  “You can’t be serious. I work in IT.” Val looked down at his belly. “This body is built for comfort, not speed.”

  “You’re going to die fat and alone. I’m saying this for purely selfish reasons — I don’t want to be one of your pall bearers.” Their waitress — a pretty young thing with a perpetually harassed expression — arrived with their meals. Val’s order was a pasta number named An Oblivion of Cream. John had some sort of hunter-gatherer diet meal of grilled turkey breast on a tasteless buckwheat slice. Val didn’t care what it was called — knowledge like that might lead a man to accidentally ordering it.

  “See, that’s what I’m talking about.” John pointed at Val’s meal with a knife. “There’s about a billion calories in that. And they all hate you.”

  Smearing some cream sauce around on his shirt with a napkin — stupid restaurant napkins have the absorption qualities of plastic bed sheeting — Val looked at his belly again. “You’re just jealous. There’s a whole lot of playground here.”

  “No really, man. It’s no joke. Come on down, we’ll put you through something light. Maybe get you on a regular program. It’s on me — and I even promise we’ll have a beer after. You probably shouldn’t, but you’ll have earned it.”

  Val looked as his belly again. Hell with it. “Okay. Sure.”

  “What?”

  “I said let’s do it.”

  John swallowed his mouthful, then took a foamy sip of beer. “I just want to check. You just agreed to come down to the gym with me.”

  Val thought back to when Rebekah had admired his body, their youth and passion for each other the most important thing in the world. He knew he’d been sliding ever since, knew she’d have been disappointed. He grabbed almost savagely at his beer, taking a strong pull. “Yeah man. Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow. Yeah right. Tomorrow you’ll have forgotten about this. Let’s do it this evening. My last client’s at five. Come on in after, grab me at reception, then we’ll grab a beer and a bite.”

  “Tonight?” said Val. “Really?”

  But something inside him relished the freedom of the unexpected and wanted to —

  Run free.

  —escape the shackles of shitty bosses and fat and aging bodies. Too many expectations and demands, and not enough time to just… be. It was an unusual thought, a touch of surprise following just a footstep behind. A younger, still-married self might have had those more often, had someone to just be with—

  “You all right?” said John, the women at the other table temporarily forgotten.

  “Oh, sure man.” The lie came easily. John spent too much time worrying about him. “I was just mentally checking my schedule.”

  “Your schedule? What in God’s Earth is on there except going to a bar?”

  “Exactly why I was checking it. You never know. But I think we’re good. Tonight sounds great.”

  John turned on his megawatt smile. “Outstanding. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to get a number.”

  • • •

  He felt stupid, of course.

  The last time he’d tried to exercise was longer ago than he cared to remember. Val still had workout clothes, fitted for a younger — and thinner, Christ, so much thinner — self. His shorts were uncomfortably tight, his shirt stretched over his belly. The Nike Swoosh over the left breast was wider than it should have been, distorted by the stretched cloth.

  He was already sweating into the armpits of the shirt.

  One thing was for sure, he wasn’t getting a number; there wasn’t a single glance, let alone a second, from any of the women here. Not that he wanted to try his luck — how sleazy would it be to try and pick someone up at the gym? He couldn’t imagine a woman being happy with that kind of approach — they were all here, sweaty and uncomfortable, just trying to get the job done. Then some overweight asshat comes along and breaks into your zone?

  It had fail written all over it.

  John slapped him on the shoulder. “Great to see you, man.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “This slice of fun here is our workout for the day. We’re going to get manly.”

  “I really don’t feel manly.” Val looked down at his shirt.

  John snorted. “You’re a machine, brother. Don’t forget it. You’re at the gym, about to be manly. Keep that in your head.”

  “Manly. Got it.” Val experimentally flexed his shoulders. “I can try.”

  “There is no try. Only do, and do not.”

  “Did you just try for Yoda?”

  “I didn’t try. Weren’t you listening? There is no try.”

  “Whatever. Manly. Hooah.”

  “Right on. We’re not doing any shitty cardio. We’re going to start with manly exercise number one. Your new temple: the bench.”

  John led the way to the bench. In Val’s eyes, it looked more like a medieval rack. Sure, it had a bench — a padded slab not quite long enough or wide enough to get comfortable on, the foam cover torn in one corner. It wasn’t tired, just well used, clean steel struts rising from the upper area of the bench to support a bar lying horizontally on supports.

  “That looks horrific.”

  “Get in there buddy.” John was pulling out weight plates, the slabs of metal painted black, their edges chipped in places. He dropped a couple of larger plates onto the ground, selecting some smaller ones and fitting them on the ends of the bar. “We’re going for something my grandmother can do to start with.” He patted the top of the bar. “We’ll have you curling this shortly.”

  “Curling?” Val hadn’t moved to lie on the bench. “What’s curling?”

  “Seriously. Get in there. It won’t kill you. We haven’t had a bench death in at least three weeks.”

  Val moved forward, slipping in under the bar. The smell of metal was strong lying here surrounded by the steel of the mechanism. The bar, knurled for grip at shoulder width, was a clean line of stainless steel across his vision.

  John stepped into his field of view. “Okay, grab it here, and here. I’ll be right here at the top, so if you drop it on your face I’ll try and stop it knocking your teeth out. We’ll just do a few warm up reps.”

  “Thanks man. I appreciate that.” Val felt a tiny thrill. He was here, actually doing this.

  Running free.

  He gripped the bar, pushing it up and off the rests — it didn’t feel that heavy. He brought it down to his chest and pushed it back towards the ceiling with ease. Val looked up at John. “Look man, I appreciate this going easy on the new kid thing. But that’s made of plastic or something. An infant could lift that.”

  “It’s like that is it?”

  “Hey. You said manly. All I’m saying is that’s not manly right now. It’s a far way from manly.”

  “We’ll step it up.” John shuffled around at the top of the bar, taking the smaller plates off the bar and attaching bigger ones. “Give it a shot.”

  Val gripped the bar again, brought it down, pushed it back up.

  “How was that?” said John.

  Val thought for a minute. “Did you make it lighter or heavier? I can’t tell.”

  “That’s it. We’re bringing the pain, right here.” John slapped on some more plates, the clunks and clangs of meeting metal. “Okay Mr. Banner, let’s see how you go with that.”

  Val pushed the bar — it was definitely heavier this time. He could feel the knurls against the soft skin of his palms. He brought it down to his chest then thrust back to the ceiling with a small exhale.

  “Not so chatty now are you?”

  In his peripheral vision, Val could see a couple people glancing their way. He felt unaccountably self-conscious, the whale beached on the bench. “Well, I mean, it’s heavier. I can tell that. But it’s not heavy.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m serious.” Val paused. “How much is on there
?”

  “Two twenty.”

  “Is that a lot?”

  John stared at him, the megawatt smile not coming so easily this time. “It’s a lot. For a first lift, it’s insane. I reckon we should maybe pull up here. I don’t want to do you an injury on your first day.”

  The stares of the other gym goers lay heavy on Val. “No way, man. Let’s go heavier. I could be out drinking right now — this needs to be worth my time.”

  “You’re the boss.” More plates slotted on the bar. A man walked up, one of John’s fellow trainers dressed in staff colors, the green and black making them stand out amongst a sea of haphazardly dressed fitness buffs.

  “Who’s the new guy?” The voice was deep.

  John was talking over his shoulder as he checked the bar. “Hey, Emilio. This is a friend of mine. Finally talked him into coming down.”

  “First time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s a friend of yours? Not an enemy?”

  “Friend. I think.”

  “This I got to see.” Emilio sat down on his haunches beside the bench.

  John stood above Val’s head. “I’ll be right up here. If you feel like you’re going to drop it, just shout and I’ll help you up.”

  “Thanks man.” The bar definitely felt heavier this time, and a creak came from the bench underneath him. He brought it down, pushed it clear to the top with a quick exhale, racking it again. The metal clanged to rest, the frame of the bench juddering slightly with the weight of it. “How am I doing?”

  “He doesn’t look like a lifter. I don’t get it.” Emilio hadn’t moved. “No offense my man, but you’ve got no muscle tone. Well, not a lot anyway. I picked you for a desk jockey, soon as I saw you come in here.”

  Val turned his head to look at him. “Computers.”

  “Exactly. Computers. So tell me, computer man. How did you just bench three hundred free and clear?”

  John was silent. A couple other trainers had drifted over to stand at the foot of the bench, their arms crossed, appraising. “I don’t know what you mean. John got me down here today. I figured it couldn’t hurt.”

  Emilio said nothing for a heartbeat or two, then he broke into a laugh, a throaty comfortable thing. Lots of teeth, clean white against his dark skin. “My man. It most definitely could hurt. But not you. You keep lifting like that, we’re out of a job.” He laughed again, no malice in it. “You do your thing.” He gave a little nod to John, who started placing more plates on the bar.

  Val could feel it now — the weight of the bar resting against the bench. It moved slightly and he could feel the small shudders and shifts through his back as John put more weight on the ends of the bar. One of the watchers from the foot of the bench — there were six now, some gym customers amongst the trainers — tossed in, “You can’t be serious.”

  No megawatt smile came from John. Val said, “Holy shit. You’re actually worried.”

  John leaned down, close to his ear. “You’re doing great. But this thing, this is heavy. I’ve put on close to four forty for this press. At my best, when I was competing? I couldn’t do that. Anything feels weird, you sing out. We got you.”

  Swallowing, Val gripped the bar again, lifting it clear of the rests. His hands trembled slightly at the weight of it. John’s hands hovered above him, ready to catch it. The bench creaked underneath him again as he brought the bar down to his chest. He breathed out as he pressed it to the ceiling, slower this time — Damn, it feels like I’m pressing the roof up. He racked the bar, a bead of sweat now on his forehead. “That’s … that’s pretty heavy.”

  Emilio laughed again from beside him. “No shit, my friend.”

  A voice from the small crowd at the foot of the bench spoke up. “I got five bucks says he can’t do five fifty.”

  “I’ll take that bet. But only for fifty.” It was John. Standing tall — he had his back, like he always did. John patted the bar companionably, letting his left his hand to rest on it. “Five’s not worth getting out of bed for.”

  “Five-oh?”

  “Five-oh.”

  “You’re on.”

  “What the fuck, man.” Val spoke up from down on the bench. “No pressure, right? I’m feeling a little exposed here.”

  John squatted down. “Don’t worry. You just do your thing. You got this.”

  “I’ll double down on that.” Emilio — still at the side of the bench — stood now. “I’ve got a hundred on the new fish benching clear to five fifty.”

  Some muted conversation broke out from the foot of the bench. “I got twenty,” was followed by, “Okay, yeah, I’ll back that too.” And so on, pooling up the cash. Val swallowed again — they were betting on his failure.

  More plates went on the bar. “Everyone happy that looks like five fifty?” John spoke to no one in particular, his eyes on the bar, checking it again himself.

  “Sure. I can feel that hundred already.” Some excited clapping of shoulders came from the foot of the bench.

  He unracked the bar, forearms trembling with the effort. The muscles in his arms burned and his chest was on fire. Val could feel the sweat pouring off his face. The bench underneath him creaked and groaned, the metal squealing in protest as he pressed against the bar. Val dragged in big gulps of air as the bar rose slowly to the top. It was almost there when he started to falter. The shaking in his arms was really bad and the bar starting to swing a little.

  Then John was there by his ear. “You can do it buddy. You got this. Just a little further. It’s like an inch. What’s an inch?” He talked Val through it. “See, that’s it. Push it up. Nice. Rack it!”

  The clank of the bar against the rests was loud inside the gym.

  Val’s belly heaved, his breathing ragged. John slaps his chest. “Yeah! That was… That was some serious shit.”

  Even in his exhausted state, Val noticed the silence. The crowd at the foot of the bench were looking at each other. Someone said, “That’s bullshit man. Five fifty? That’s not five fifty. Bullshit.”

  John brought out his megawatt smile. “I think someone owes me a hundred bucks.”

  “I’d owe you a hundred if that wasn’t bullshit.”

  John looks surprised. “Val, get up.” He helped Val off the bench, the vinyl wet with sweat. “If you think it’s not five fifty, you hop in there and press it. As you can see,” and he tugged at his skin tight uniform, “There’s nothing up my sleeves.”

  There was some chuckling, the tension bleeding out of the room. “Nah, it’s okay man. Here’s the hundred.”

  John nodded to Val. “Grab a drink, get your breathing back. This last press is going to be killer.” He started putting more plates on the bar. Now he was upright, Val could see the bend in the middle of the bar, bowed by the plates on either side. Someone in the crowd was videoing it with a phone.

  Val looked at John. “What’s all this about? Some clown over there is shooting video.” He gestured down to the shirt stretched over his belly. “I’m not exactly a figure for cinema right now.”

  “It’s cool. I’ll tell you in a little while.” John tightened the clamps at the end of the bar. “You’re good to go. Hop in.”

  Val lay on the bench again and wiped his hands on his shorts. He needed to put some real effort into it this time as he cleared the rests and hoisted the bar above his chest. It was already a bit unsteady, swaying a little to and fro before Val got it centered right. There were a few excited intakes of breath from the crowd — Christ, there’s like fifteen guys there now — as they waited for him to drop it.

  Down to his chest. Exhale.

  Once as a kid Val had lost a ball behind the family refrigerator. It had escaped his grip, fleeing in asymmetric hops and bounces out of his clutching hands to hide behind the fridge. He’d been six years old, give or take. He’d tried to move the refrigerator to get the ball out, but the wall of iron and plastic of the old Frigidaire hadn’t budged. This bar felt like that — no matter how hard he pressed
, his arms trembling, it didn’t move. Not an inch.

  A snicker came from the foot of the bench, and white hot rage flared up. It burned bright inside him. The video would be on YouTube, just another gym wannabe failing in front of the world.

  They jeer at us.

  A yell of exertion came from him. His hands gripping the bar as if they’d tear it in half. Val powered the bar back to the ceiling in one smooth motion, racking it clean with a shudder and clang from the bench beneath him. He breathed in great ragged gasps, the sweat pouring off him.

  He sat up on the bench, leaned over sideways, and threw up on the ground. The room spun around him as his heart thudded in his chest. Christ, I’m going to die, I’m going to have a heart attack, Christ —

  It started to seep in. People slapped him on the back and wanted to shake his hand. Water was pushed into one of his hands and someone — John — was handing him a towel.

  The person with the phone was asking him something.

  “What?” He was still breathing hard and couldn’t hear right.

  “I said what’s your name?”

  John answered for him. “This is my good buddy Val. Valentine Everard.” He winked at the phone’s tiny camera. “If you’re watching from home, he could use a beer — come buy him one tonight. Elephant Blues. We’ll be there from six.” He helped Val to his feet.

  “What do you reckon? Time for a beer?” said John.

  Nothing had ever sounded so good, but… “Maybe a shower first.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Carlisle knocked on the door again. “You sure this is the place?”

  Elliot nodded. “Yeah. It’s on his sheet. We can always stick with the plan and wait for him at the AA.” The sound of cicadas was heavy on the air.

  Carlisle looked around. Come to think of it, Everard didn’t have a bad place. It was a little small, but cheerfully painted and nestled in amongst the trees. The driveway that led up to the house was the stark white of bleached concrete, and the sound of insects and birds was clear. You wouldn’t have thought a place this alive was right on the doorstep of the city, just a short drive from the main business district. “Nah. I like being more proactive. Besides, I can hear someone in there.”