Beauty and the Bruiser Ch. 01

[Previously, I began a story entitled "The Lunatic Hour." While I enjoyed the opening, it lacked a certain "spark" necessary to continue it. I turned to boards here on Literotica and fortune smiled upon me for I stumbled into the best writing partnership a man could ask for. ;)

I will be posting the entirety of our tale, "Beauty and the Bruiser" here for all to enjoy. This work is the combined effort of both myself and StilletoKitten, whose beauty and wit turns the English language into her plaything.

Enjoy, but be forewarned: the first chapter is a slow burning simmer.]

2am...

The hours are creeping by and the night is slowly dying out, the day ready and willing to overcome its twin brother's throne. Half of the gym is steeped in shadows, weights and machines lingering in the dark, just out of sight - as if they were the bones to the hulking beast that is this place. An occasional passing car on the road outside...when they would take the curve, headlights would slip away from the road, racing across the empty parking lot and leaping through the plate glass windows of the gym, briefly racing across the room, casting shadows and making the metal of the machines glisten like teeth in the darkness.

Dramatic much, Deacon?

He puts the weight down - let it thump to the floor with a resounding thud. Should have brought the iPod, should have brought something - anything - to fill the senses and let it be forgotten forget why he was here. Too much thinking, lately...too much of everything. He should be at home. Should be sleeping, and yet...here he was.

But sleep lingers tantalizingly outside of his grasp. He could lie there in bed, eyes closed and feigning sleep...putting on a show for no one.

We can lie to our friends, we can lie to every around us - put on a brave face and pretend that it is all over and it was nothing...but here in the dark, talking to ourselves...we know the truth. Let us ignore the pain, the feeling of a heart removed - forget the absence in our chest and the cold around the soul. Let's just pick up another weight and lift until our palms turn red and the blisters develop at the base of the fingers - the five finger proof that you are lifting more than you should.

Standing now, silencing the running commentary track in his mind...looking into the mirror and enjoying the sight - not in a narcissistic manner, but rather enjoying seeing the reflection half in shadow, half in light. It fits the mood.

Five years lost in the haze of training and fighting - six years ago he was behind the desk of a video store, the only exercise he ever knew was the pressing of the buttons on a remote control.

Then something happened...a breaking, a twist of the soul...it got him up at five am, strapping on running shoes and pounding pavement until the sun came up. Sweets and fast food suddenly turned the stomach and salads became the only thing he desired to eat. Now here he was, training for boxing. The guy who never met a playground fight he would rather run from...the guy who made his bullies laugh in order to escape with his lunch money...the guy more at home in the library stacks then in the testosterone soaked atmosphere of the ring...ending up here.

At home living in his own sweat and finding sweet music in the sweet science.

Now here he was, looking at himself in the mirror...hardly recognizable.

I have to admit, I enjoy it.

The separation. Like a kid at the controls of a video game - and the man in the mirror is the game character created for himself. It is strange how one's form transforms only when you are no longer paying attention to it. To have gone from "husky" to "athletic" -- he only noticed it when others commented upon it. Stranger still, how people react to your presence differently once your stomach turns from a "gut" to a "six pack" and your arms turn into "guns." At first it was complimentary...now it seemed rather absurd.

Okay, get a grip. Sleep deprivation and heartbreak should never be a man's choice of cocktail. At the bottom of that glass is a straitjacket.

Starting the feel the chill as the cold reaches his skin - the glistening sweat beads are no longer ignored as my body temperature rapidly cools off from the lack of exertion. Suddenly those little beads of sweat become tiny entrances for the cold of the room to slip into the skin, turning blood into ice water.

The gym is empty - what the hell? He peels off the cheap "Party Till She's Naked" t-shirt and lets it slap the floor with a wet "thwack." Going shirtless in the gym is a no-no (see the sign on the wall?) but at 2am, the "Who Gives a Fuck?" rule goes into effect.

A tell-tale electronic chirp...in his foggy, sleep deprived brain he recognizes the sound but does not immediately process it....the sound it is out of place here. It is the sound heard over and over again during the six o' clock rush hour...

It is the sound of a membership card getting read by the front desk scanner...

Rachel walked briskly, bundled up in her coat, a scarf wrapped around her head. Her strawberry locks billowed behind her, and the combination of stiff breeze and light rain was hovering right on the edge of discomfort. It was the cold. That was uncomfortable. It was right on the brink of spring, but not that far removed from winter it seemed. Her body was merely chilled, but her faded jeans did next to nothing to keep out weathers wintry hold. When it started hailing, she gave up. Teeth chattering, she pushed open the door to the gym just down the street from her house, the only thing in her possession a tattered copy of The Divine Comedy.

She had gotten inside info that her Lit professor always had a pop quiz on the first Monday after the first week, on Inferno. It was not urgent, she could have just waited until tomorrow, or a couple days even.

But then, she couldn't sleep. It seemed that was happening more and more these days. There was nothing better to do. She was not counting on the wind picking up, and the subsequent drop in temperature forced the young sports medicine student to seek shelter. Lucky for her, she was a member at this particular gym. Perhaps even more lucky the door was unlocked. She swept the card through the scanner, hearing its familiar beep go off in the distance as she passed it.

It was almost eerie the way the abandoned room echoed with its own silence, in stark contrast with the bustle she was used to in the place. Passing a room filled with treadmills, she entered a large area filled with the boxing and martial arts equipment, knowing it had a padded bench, and turned on the lights. They shined on a shirtless boxer. He had a lithe, yet powerful way of moving that matched his well-defined physique perfectly. Rachel thought that she had seen him at the gym in the past, but he was very quiet, and liked to keep to himself. He just seemed like one of those guys that was just fine by himself. In a lot of ways, Rachel could understand this, but she also thought that, maybe, having a meaningful connection with someone would be the answer.

She hoped it was anyway. It probably wouldn't be him, the last thing she needed was another jock in her love life. He certainly was nice to look at though.

"It's Deacon right?" She took off her scarf, combing her cardinal hair to relative straightness with her fingers.

For a moment, he felt strangely 'caught,' as if being here and doing this at such an hour was obscene. His partial nudity, the late night lifting and his cluttered thoughts all seemed indicative of a guilty nature - once again, lack of sleep was wrecking havoc with his mind.

He had looked to the door -- at first seeing only the a silhouette, an outline of a very small form walking from the desk and into the gym. It's a she...he could tell that already from the way she carries herself and her petite frame.

His first thought is that seemed pixyish...the look of a fairy tale creature who had just escaped from the pages of a child's fantasy book. Her lithe form and face perfectly symmetrical, so flawless it seemed formed out of porcelain. She had the appearance of a living work of art...in grubby sweats.

It was almost surreal to watch her walk across the empty room...

When she looked at him and actually spoke his name, he did something of a double take. He usually blended into the background of this place, not aiming to socialize or be known by those who worked out here...mostly because they tended to look down upon him and his fellow boxers as being low-lifes and scum for making their living with blood on their knuckles.

"Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" He felt a bit taken aback, until he saw her copy of The Divine Comedy and instantly smiled. "But...I do recall someone resembling you who comes in here nearly every week with a different masterpiece under her arm. Most folks who come in here rarely venture past anything more bold than People magazine." He laughed, revealing a surprisingly warm smile.

"Yes...Deacon. I'm sorry, I don't recall your name?" In truth Rachel had read an article on him in the school paper, and saw his photograph. Only then did she recognize him in the gym. She could admit to having sneaked a few long glances his way. Many of the other gym-goers looked down on the boxers, but every once in awhile, when she watched him, she could sense a great storm beneath his fierce visage. It was a very intriguing feature. She would of course never speak of this to him.

"But...I do recall someone resembling you who comes in here nearly every week with a different masterpiece under her arm. Most folks who come in here rarely venture past anything more bold than People magazine." He laughed casually. Rachel, trying to hide her mild surprise, returned with a smile of her own.

"Yeah, sometimes I think I should be a lit major. My name's Rachel." Unzipping her coat, she strode over to the bench. She set her coat aside and, sitting, crossed her legs, the book cradled in her lap. She looked up at him, green eyes twinkling playfully, "You know you hotshot athletes are all the same. The body needs rest too. Have you been here since six o'clock?" She shot him a friendly smile. "But I suppose then I would need an excuse to come to the gym in the wee hours in the morning, with nothing but a book."

"Yeah, sometimes I think I should be a lit major. My name's Rachel."

He nodded, still feeling somewhat out of place. He was accustomed to being unseen, or being seen and ignored...here was this lovely girl not only knowing him (and regarding him as being on the same level as her, it would seem) but also keeping the conversation going between the two. So many, it seemed were either frightened by his appearance or his presentations in class on continental philosophy...it seemed the only places he excelled where in areas that people feared.

As she sat down on the bench, he caught his eyes roaming over her form - not the most gentlemanly of looks, but something about her drew his eyes as if they were metal near a magnet.

"You know you hotshot athletes are all the same. The body needs rest too. Have you been here since six o'clock?"

It took a moment for him to let his brain take over control and listen to what she said, responding with a slight start, "Hotshot athlete?" He laughed. "Hardly. Just a guy who seems to enjoy giving and receiving abuse in equal measure."

Feelingly slightly self-conscious for his half naked appearance (and suddenly becoming all too aware of the fact that his shorts were made of material all too thin and breathable, making all physical...changes...all too obvious, should they occur), he idly stretched his arms, wrist under elbow, stretching idly. Biceps and triceps in turn moved and shifted with the movements, lower down his lower abs would stretch tight from the motion as he twisted his torso in time with his movements.

"I was here at six for cardio, but I came back at midnight...couldn't sleep. Figured I might work myself ragged enough so that sleep came not by choice, but by necessity."

He nodded to her. "So what brings you here at this ungodly hour?"

"Hotshot athlete?" His laugh echoed warmly around the nearly empty room. "Hardly. Just a guy who seems to enjoy giving and receiving abuse in equal measure." Sitting back, she tried not to watch him too closely as he began to stretch. "I was here at six for cardio, but I came back at midnight...couldn't sleep. Figured I might work myself ragged enough so that sleep came not by choice, but by necessity. So what brings you here at this ungodly hour?"

She stood, leaving her book behind and grabbing one of the towels from the supply cabinet, walking up and handing it to him. "I couldn't sleep either. I meant to go to the park, since they have the lights on so late. But it started hailing." She crossed her arms, wondering what opposing forces raged in that storm in his head as she watched him. "Its not due for another week. I could use company more than I could use beautiful poetry. Besides, I'm reading the depressing part."

Hoping he would join her, she gave him a carefree smile, sitting back down on the bench a few feet away.

Strange, such a lovely vixen - and she was truly delightful in her manner with him. He was not one who smiled often, but now he did so - revealing a rare and warm expression on a face that was otherwise unreadable and sometimes cold.

He felt the opening being offered, and had to struggle a bit to try and keep up his end of the socializing - this was one dance he was not used to.

"Um...well, there is a really good cafe just a block up the road...it's a late night place. It's not as depressing as Dante, but sometimes it's fairly close." He laughed a bit, reaching down and grabbing his pile of wet t-shirt, picking it up as if it were roadkill needed to be taken off the highway. "I was going to grab a shower and maybe head up there for some pie. Their cherry pie is an insomniac's best friend. Takes the bitterness out of the cold night and puts your soul to sleep with a little taste of a happy childhood."

Such an odd sentiment...he even wondered to himself as he idly ran a few fingers across his chest, absentmindedly tracing the curves of the Chinese symbols tattooed upon his chest and stretching down his left side, along his torso. As he did so, he caught himself staring once again - seeing the division between her shirt and bare skin, finding his imagination wanting to fill in the rest and wonder what it would be like to see her...

He caught himself in the moment, feeling the blood rush southward and realizing he was beginning to feel some stiffness below. Luckily, the shirt hung free from his hand and he carefully let it hang in place in front of his waist, trying to conceal his line of thought.

"Um...well, there is a really good cafe just a block up the road...it's a late night place. It's not as depressing as Dante, but sometimes it's fairly close." Letting forth an easy going laugh, he picked up a shirt from the floor. "I was going to grab a shower and maybe head up there for some pie. Their cherry pie is an insomniac's best friend. Takes the bitterness out of the cold night and puts your soul to sleep with a little taste of a happy childhood."

She blushed, catching him looking at her, realizing that she wasn't wearing the most modest of attire. Still, every girl loves a complement. "I would love to. My soul could use some rest, I think." She really loved the way he had described that pie. Somehow, he had convinced her it was just what they both needed. "Do you think you could give me a ride? The hail isn't deadly, but its pretty annoying."

Her father had spent every last penny sending her to this school, and even then, she had to work and live in a dangerous part of the city. He constantly worried about her safety, but she was usually very careful. Growing up in the less-glamorous desert of California's Inland Empire, it had taken a lot of hard work to get her scholarship. But now that she was here, it seemed that was the easy part. She felt alone, overworked, and a little homesick. Maybe she could have a pleasant evening with him. Maybe she could just forget it all for a little while.

He smiled at her smile, an chain reaction that sent him in danger of revealing far too much about his current state of though below the waistline. Instead, he carefully kept the t-shirt in front and nodded.

"Sounds good. Two insomniacs, getting together - I'm sure it will end with us both happy in bed. Give me a minute to shower up and we can go?"

He walked past her...heading for the back rooms...only three steps away did he realize his strangely worded phrase. Hmmm, well...already said. Somewhat innocent, but still - it did not feel innocent in his intent.

Oh, stop thinking already...too much thinking had already threatened to give him something else requiring attention, but that was something which could be done in the shower. As he crossed the darkened gym, he grabbed his gym bag from the floor, realizing all he had inside was a pair of jeans and a rather trashy t-shirt, grabbed at the last moment for its status as being the only clean shirt left in his apartment.

In a moment, he turned the corner into the locker room area - weird how the gym simply had a corner turn into the area, no doors or anything else to notate the beginning and end of the locker room areas. Tossing his bag on the nearest wooden bench near the lockers - he looked up in time to see his reflection...and the rather large and noticeable budge in his shorts which resembled a tepee set up in his crotch.

"Lovely," He spoke to his fully attentive member, "Your timing is - as always - impeccable. I would take care of things now in the shower, but that would add enough time to make her suspicious that I'm in there whacking off while thinking of her, thus making her arm herself with pepper spray for the rest of the night. Or, you could die back down in the cold water and remember that I'm going commando in jeans and tight denim and you are not friends. The choice is yours, sir."

She suppressed a smirk at his words, failing to restrain herself from taking them quite literally. I don't think it will go quite that well, prince charming... Still, the prospect of having someone be with her tonight was tempting. The last thing she wanted was for a prospective boyfriend to only stave off one cold, lonely night. No, she thought tentatively, the pie would have to do, if those characteristic fits of impulsivity never took hold of her. They tended not to let go.

Sighing, she lay prone on the bench, her knees curled to her chest. She grabbed the remote on the end table and flipped on the tiny television in the corner, to the only channel the thing had apperently, CNN. All the horrible things happening in the world bombarded her at once as she awaited the cute boxer's return. The sheer terror of the news was almost comforting, as if the worlds turmoil and her own were at an equilibrium. She dared not call it apathy. Nor resignation. Both of them were nasty words. Letting loose a more hefty sigh, she tried to tame her unruly hair a little further. My idealism is under assault.

Rachel was generally prone to romantic fantasies, and thus was a little vulnerable to men like Deacon. He was handsome, athletic, and at least appeared to be intelligent. She tried not to hold him to unrealistic standards, reducing her suspicions about him to mere hopes that he was the poetic silent type. He had charmed her thoroughly in their brief conversation. Wondering who he was, wondering why she had not spoken to him sooner, and the distant doom and gloom of the news produced a thought-cocktail that had her tired body drifting off into that place between sleep and waking...