Page 62 of Killer Confections
“I don’t even like avocados,” I groan, taking my sad basket to the check-out counter. I pay for my gum, bag of apples, and a few packs of meat before calling it a day and heading back to my apartment to switch things up.
I just started my gym membership last week and have yet to use the damn thing. The sun is setting, meaning the afternoon crowds should be clearing out soon. I have no issues working out in front of others, but sometimes it’s good to pop your headphones in and just be alone with your workout. This feels like one of those times.
I unpack my groceries, taking my time and letting the minutes tick away as I prepare a dinner to be reheated once I get back. It’s something simple and easy, giving me the time to change into my workout clothes before cutting the burner and plating everything to the side.
Once my apartment is locked down, I head to the first floor and almost bump right into Mrs. Olivia.
“Goodness!” She startles, holding a hand over her chest.
“Sorry,” I wince, shouldering my gear higher. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
She waves a hand, “Nonsense. You must get it from that boyfriend of yours.”
I tense, my eyes widening on the old woman. “Boyfriend?”
She smiles, giving me a wink. “He’s a cutie. How’s that security system he set up for you working out?”
Of fucking course.
How else would he have remembered the password?
Through a tight smile, my molars grinding, I seethe, “Just fine.”
“That’s great news! I’ve been contemplating setting up something similar for my other residents, but haven’t had the time here lately.” she shakes her head before giving me a hopeful look. “Next time your boyfriend… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch his name last time.”
“Atlas,” I say on impulse, the sound of his name natural on my lips. I can’t ignore how right it feels…
“Oh,” the woman responds, quirking a brow. “That’s an odd name, but yours isn’t considered common either. Two unique names finding each other,” she shakes her head, “Theworld works in mysterious ways. Well, tell Atlas his help would be appreciated. I have no idea where to start.”
That it does…
“Will do,” I wave goodbye before heading in the direction of the gym two blocks away. It’s a small one, housing rows of treadmills and a few other equipment meant for building strength.
The boy behind the check-in counter, because he can’t be older than sixteen, rests his chin in his palm as he scrolls through his phone. I hold up my key card and he doesn’t even glance in my direction.
“Have a good workout,” he mutters, still scrolling.
I roll my lips in to hide my laugh before passing him and taking in the damage. There’s one other person here, a jacked man with the world’s smallest tank top on, lifting the heaviest dumbbells the gym offers, off in the far right corner of the facility. As he slams a weight down, finishing his current set, he lets out a loud groan and I quickly turn away so I don’t laugh.
He sounds like he’s having sex instead of maintaining the ridiculous muscle mass that must have taken him years to build.
I stick closer to the glass wall that gives an outward view of the street. The sun has set, darkness blanketing the sidewalks as street lamps provide minimal light.
I slide my headphones on, hitting the workout playlist that always gets my blood pumping. As the familiar heavy metal riff blares to life, I feel myself transported back in time. Atlas and I sat in the back of the school’s library, my head resting on his shoulder, one of my wired headphones in my ear and the other in his as he showed me the music he grew up on.
We couldn’t be more different. Where my parents pushed classical music and jazz to stimulate brain activity, Atlas’s parents had no such reserve. The loud sounds paired with the aggressive vocals of metal were his comfort. He was so proud I was listening to something that brought himjoy, and I was enjoying it. I had never heard such passion, dismay, and rebellion from music. The greats had their own drive, but metal was so vigorous. Where classical and jazz was about soul, harmony, and whispering the message, metal was boisterous and intimidating. It was screaming to fuck the system—literally—and everything I dreamed of saying out loud to my straight laced parents.
I loved it.
And have since then.
I usually save my playlist for workouts because there’s nothing like lifting weights to the thick, monumental sounds and hearing the heavy screams gives me such a rush that I power through my sets.
I do a quick warm up and stretch, my sweatshirt rolling up slightly as I bend over. Once my legs are nice and limber, I start my cardio on one of the treadmills. I set a good pace, enjoying the burn in my lungs as the music thumps through my headphones.
As the song ends, my eyes widen at the masculine groan, long and rumbling, that comes from across the room. The Gym Bro slams the metal barbell loaded with weight down, the sound ricocheting off the walls as he whoops in exhilaration.
Jesus Christ.
