"No."

"You can do it. It's just two more plates."

"No. It's 10 more pounds, and this machine's too hard already. Put it back."

"Just give it a shot. Just try one rep. For me."

For him? Pushing wet hair out of my eyes, I gave him an evil look. He had on the Club West uniform pants with a weightlifter's shirt and the very latest neon shoes, which was not how people I did things for dressed. Neither did I care for his dragon tattoo. But at least he didn't wear a baseball cap, the way so many gym rats did, and even though he knew it, he was kind of cute.

Besides, Danny was a smart trainer, as trainers went, and he'd done me a lot of good over the years--even in just the past couple of weeks. What with Monica's absence, I'd been hitting the club with a vengeance lately, trying to sublimate and repress and forget. Danny had taken my mood for motivation and had pushed me hard, but no harder than I'd pushed him back. Maybe he knew what he was doing. At those prices, of course, he damned well ought to.

"Let's go, Dev. One rep. Want me to start you?"

"I'm not the slacker here," I said, in injured dignity, and gave the machine a vicious push.

The weight stack wouldn't budge until he helped with the first few inches of lift. Hating him, breathing hard, I put everything into it and slowly, painfully raised the weight.

"Halfway there, Dev. Keep going. Push it!"

Two stations down, a very young man in a Dallas Cowboys jersey started to pump his machine hard and fast, making the weight stack clang. Startled, I almost dropped my own load.

"No, you don't," Danny warned, grabbing the end of one hand grip. "Don't break form. Push!"

He might have helped with the weight, which would have been cheating, but I really didn't want to know. At any rate, I pushed that last bit harder and finally made full extension.

"Outstanding. All right now, down slow."

Slow was out of the question; the weight took itself down and raised me a foot off the bench with it. But I'd done the impossible rep. Damn right outstanding.

"Great work," Danny praised. It was what he always said, after every machine, to every client. "Take a rest. You OK?"

"Yeah. No thanks to you."

The Cowboys fan, still pumping, let fly with a string of curses. Danny shook his head. "Don't pay any attention. He got dumped last night. He's just blowing off."

"Bad form," I remarked.

"Really bad. You never pump. You lift. You lower. Slow."

"I wasn't talking about that kind of form. But that, too." Done toweling off, I took a pull on my water bottle. "OK, you sadist. What now?"

"Nothing. You're done. Hit the track for six and then go home. Think you can handle that?"

"Don't patronize me, slacker. You think you'll be 25 forever, don't you?"

"Actually," he said, "I'm 24."

"Doesn't matter. I have albums older than you. You don't even know where you were during Woodstock, and I'm letting you train me?"

He smiled, unfazed. "Heather McIntyre warned me about you before I took you as a client, you know. She said you talk like this all the time. She said you only do it to people you like, though."

"She told you wrong. How do you know Heather, anyway? I thought she went to Bally's."

"She does. I used to go out with her. No, wait--maybe that was Beth Collins. Or Jeannie something, with the huge..."

"Save us both time. What woman at J/J/G haven't you gone out with? Other than me, of course."

"Well, there's Cassie Wolfe. But I'm still working on her."

I laughed, collected towel and water bottle, and got up off the machine. "She'd make roadkill of you, son."

"I'll risk it. That babe is a babe."

" 'Babe,' hell. She's three months older than me."

"Must've been three damn good months." Then he remembered that I paid him. "Hey, listen, I don't mean it like that, Dev. It's not like you don't have babe potential. You know? I bet if you'd fix yourself up a little more like..."

"Get out of there while you still can," I advised.

"I didn't mean...I mean, you're pretty good-looking and all. I'm not saying you're not. But Cassie...well...she's got that...those...ummm..." Guilty, he looked down at his neon shoes. "Oh, hell, I'm a jerk, right? Sorry. Are you mad?"

The very idea that it might worry him almost made me laugh. "No, I'm not mad. But don't do that again. I hate being bored."

"Can't have that," he said, relieved. "You sure you're not mad?"

"Christ, Danny, I said I wasn't. What is it with you tonight? Is there a full moon or something?"

He brightened visibly. "You know, there is a full moon. And tomorrow night's Halloween. How about that?"

How about that indeed. I'd managed to put it out of my mind for an hour, and there it was back. In 24 hours or so, I'd be socially dead and maybe out of a job in the bargain. But he didn't have to know that. So I forced on a nasty little smile.

"Actually, Danny, all day tomorrow is Halloween. I think you ought to make the most of it. You ought to dress up like a personal trainer and scare all the little children. See you next week."

He laughed and pushed me onto the track by way of goodbye. Well, OK--I owed him the six laps.

Traffic was heavy for a weeknight. Obeying the signs, I kept to the inside lane, where the walkers were supposed to stay. But the outside lane was so crowded that runners were crossing the white line to pass on the right--dangerous for everyone, not that they cared. Runner scum.

What with having to watch both shoulders, I was a little distracted for the first couple of laps. Then I got caught behind a group of slow walkers, three abreast, with runners boxing me in on both sides. There was nowhere to go, so I slowed down, too, and followed the creepers around the bend.

They were three women, clearly just out of 7:30 bench class, all of them dolled up in leotards, dangly earrings, and serious makeup. My already-low opinion of aerobics classes dropped another notch. How could it be a workout if you could do it in full makeup? Didn't these girls sweat?

All right, they looked good, from what I could see in the mirrors around the track. But that was still no excuse for their getting on my nerves.

Checking the passing lane again, I saw an unbroken line of runners all the way back around. A couple of very well-groomed men muscled by me on the inside and went on past the femme fatales without a glance.

A thought crossed my mind, and then fled. There were no gays at Club West.

I passed the finish line to start lap four and resigned myself to finishing the laps at a glacial pace. Couldn't these girlies move any faster than that? They weren't even walking, really; they were sauntering. Sashaying, even. Not only that, but their form was terrible. If they'd just straighten out their strides, they'd have less sway in the hips, which was slowing them by at least...

Oh. They were swaying on purpose, sauntering on purpose, checking the men out, getting checked back. Would I ever catch on to how straight people worked?

Stop that, I warned myself. You're not necessarily gay. Besides, you haven't even seen Monica for two weeks.

I tried to think about something else. But it was no use. The three women just ahead were starting to get really distracting.

The blonde in the middle had caught my eye before, and now I dared to let it linger just a bit. She wore the leotard well, based on what I could see from the back and in the mirrors. Nice legs, too. I'd never really noticed legs before. Of course, I almost never looked at women below the collar, out of fear, guilt, and neurosis, but I had studied the occasional movie star at leisure. I wondered what this woman looked like from the other side.

She was saying something to the shorter woman on her right. What, I couldn't make out, what with the loud music and the thump of sneakered feet all around, but I could almost make out her profile. With a well-manicured hand, she brushed back her long hair, and I caught her scent coming off it. Familiar. I couldn't place it by name, but it was really nice perfume, probably expensive.

Well, I wore good stuff too. But not to work out in, for Christ's sake. What would be the point?

Smiling slightly--women were as much a puzzlement to me sometimes as men had always been--I checked the passing opportunities again as we rounded the next curve. No dice. No matter. I was enjoying the scenery a little bit now, and if that made me a pervert, so what?

Suddenly, up ahead, a runner collided with some geek who was trying to cut across the track to the Universal machines, and a chain reaction began to ripple back. Caught in it, I crashed to the track in a tangle with the blonde and some guy who'd been following us. In the chaos, I saw a hairy hand reach around me to grope the blonde. For a second, I thought about defending her honor.

But in the very next second, she turned around and slapped me. "Pervert!" she shouted.

Stunned, I started to point out that I hadn't touched her--at least, not that way--but it was too late. She was trying to reach around me to grope the boy who'd just groped her.

I made a point of stepping on both of them when I got up off the track. Unfortunately, neither of them noticed.

"Kerry."

"Wolfe. What terrible phone manners, Devvy."

"Me? You woke me up!"

"Never mind. I have to ask you something."

Reaching over to the night table, I checked the alarm clock--and scowled. "It had better be important."

"It is. What's in your closet?"

Not amused, I scowled harder. "Is that a trick question?"

"I just got up," she said, "and I found something in my closet that's not supposed to be there. What's in yours?"

"Cass, it's not even morning. I don't care yet."

"I'll come over and look if you don't."

I sighed. "Don't do that. Hold on a minute."

The woman had lost it, most likely. She'd probably found a monster dust bunny or an old boyfriend in her closet and freaked. As for my closet, what did it matter? But I would have a look if it would appease her and make her hang up, so I could go back to sleep.

It was hanging on the center hook on the back wall, where I couldn't miss it. Cautiously, I took it down and held it up to the light. Yup, it was what it looked like. I took it back with me to the phone.

"The Halloween fairy seems to have been here," I reported. "Shall I assume..."

"She left me an angel costume. What about you?"

"An angel costume? For you? Well, I would never accuse her of typecasting. In fact, up till now, I never thought she had any sense of humor at..."

"Later, dammit. What did she leave you?"

"Well, it's bright red, and it has horns and a pitchfork."

"I hope it fits," Cassie snapped.

"Most likely it would. If I were going to wear it. Which I'm not."

"Why? Because it would be redundant?"

She was at full battle stations already, and I hadn't even had coffee yet. "Don't get cute. I just woke up. Can't we talk about this later?"

"There isn't going to be any 'later' until the party. I've got outside appointments all day. It's now or never."

"What is?"

"What we're going to do about the witch. I just talked to her."

That woke me right up. "What?!"

"You have to take her to the party tonight, Devvy."

"I can't take her. Are you crazy? And what do you mean, you just talked..."

"Remember I said I'd have to think about helping you out of this mess? I've thought, and I'm going to help. You're going to owe me huge. But first, you have to take her to the party."

"I can't. It would look like a date."

"Exactly."

Maybe something was wrong with the phone. I held the receiver away and shook it a couple of times. Faintly, I heard Cassie still talking. "Still here. Say that again?"

"You heard me the first time. You have to play along just this once. Trust me. Besides, nothing very bad's going to happen."

"Spoken like Custer. 'What Indians?' "

"You want to get rid of her, don't you?"

Long, long silence on my end.

"Devvy? Don't think. Just answer. Do you want to get rid of her?"

"Yes," I said, uncertainly.

"Thank God. I was afraid for a minute there that you'd lost what was left of your mind. See you tonight."

"Wait a minute. I don't even know if she'll be around. I haven't seen her for..."

"She'll be there. In fact, she'll meet you there. See you tonight."

"But..."

"And wear the costume," Cassie said, making it an order. Then she hung up.

I hung up, too, and tossed the costume on the bed. No sense even trying to get back to sleep now. Might as well wash up, make coffee, and get ready for work.

Two steps into the bathroom, I stopped. The medicine-cabinet mirror was broken.

"Monica!" I shouted.

No answer, not that I'd expected one. Damn. I'd really loved that car.

Swearing from the heart, I got in and started the MG, to let it run; as I remembered, it needed a couple of minutes in the morning. While the car warmed up, I checked my tape collection--intact, except for the Go-Gos tape that perished the night of the wreck--and pushed American Fool into the deck. Then I adjusted the mirrors.

For a second, I thought I saw a pair of glittering red eyes in the side mirror. But it was only a glimpse, and it could have been my imagination, after all. Between Monica and Cassie, my nerves were totally shot.

I cranked up the tape and got out of there as fast as the MG would go.

Cassie, after all, was out of the office. Jack was off drinking and watching people string crepe paper. Even Kurt was no problem. He was at his desk, happily sorting through 8x10 glossies of girl models; I'd promised that he could run the auditions for his Hairport spot, in exchange for staying out of my face all day.

But day was one thing. All bets were going to be off when the sun went down.

(c) 1999, ROCFanKat

Continued - Part 19