Body Conscious (Body Heat Book 1)

  Body Conscious

  Body Heat Book One

  J. P. Scott

  A J.P. Scott Original Publication

  Copyright 2020 J.P. Scott

  All rights reserved. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  All characters depicted in this work of fiction are 18 years or older.

  Several years ago, another J.P. introduced me to NaNoWriMo. I attempted to write a novel several times after that and never quite got it done. Still, it gave me the confidence to keep trying. That eventually led to writing a different genre and self-publishing. Thank you for the inspiration in both my writing and professional career.

  One

  “Four more. You can do it.”

  Ollie groaned. Every muscle in his arms screamed in protest. No way could he push these weights four more times. Making it this far had been a miracle. Patrick was expecting the impossible.

  Why was he doing this to himself? Ollie reminded himself of the trip to Puerto Vallarta he wanted to go on in the spring. Twenty pounds lighter was the goal; not looking hideous in a skimpy bathing suit was the hope.

  And health. That was also important, he told himself. Long, happy life.

  “Come on, Ollie. Earn those mimosas.”

  Patrick, his trainer three times a week, looked down at him, hands ready to catch the bar if Ollie dropped it. His fingers flicked upward in an effort to will Ollie to push harder. Ollie regretted telling Patrick anything about his joy for brunch and bottomless mimosas. Every workout included some activity that Patrick said was to reverse at least one brunch worth of calories.

  Ollie pushed up, held the bar, and then let it and the weights come back down to his chest. He pushed up again, trying to control the movement.

  Two more. Then freedom. Well, except for the cardio.

  “You’re doing great, Ollie. Weeks ago, you could barely do half the weight.”

  Three months with Patrick had done wonders. He had lost fat weight and put on some muscle. Looking in the mirror was no more than a quick glance—he was starting to like what he saw. It was not the perfection he was striving for, but so much better than he ever looked or felt. He also loved the new clothes he could fit into—especially the smaller numbered waist on his jeans.

  “… and four.” Patrick grabbed the bar and secured it on the rack. “Good job. I knew you could do it.”

  Ollie pulled himself to a seated position on the bench. He panted and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

  “Fun, huh?”

  Patrick took a different attitude to workouts than Ollie. Patrick worked out as much as he could. Ollie would see him here on days off or after shifts working out. Where Patrick seemed to thrive on working out, Ollie saw it as a necessary evil. If he could take a pill and get the perfect body, he would.

  “You should be proud,” Patrick slapped Ollie on the back, “Sticking around to do some cardio?”

  Ollie nodded, still unable to speak. He ached. He wanted to go home, but cardio was part of the plan and he knew he should not skip it. He feared that once he let himself skip one day; it would be even easier to find excuses the next time. As an extra precaution, his friend Cameron met him there so they could do cardio together. Thirty minutes on the elliptical or treadmill went much faster when there was someone to talk to.

  “Same time Wednesday?”

  Ollie nodded and gave Patrick the fist bump he expected as a goodbye. Not only was Ollie learning how to work out, but he was learning how to be a bro. “See you then. Thanks for the good work out.”

  “Anytime, bud.”

  Patrick finished racking the weights, grabbed his clipboard, and turned to head up to the front. His next victim was probably waiting nervously for his half hour of punishment.

  Ollie walked in the opposite direction towards the drinking fountains in the back of the gym near the locker rooms. He pushed the button and sipped at the stream of cool water. He wiped his lips and turned to scan the room for Cameron. He finally spotted his friend in the back row working to program the machine for his preferred workout. Ollie laughed at the look of concentration on Cameron’s face. The equipment was the same as always, but Cam acted like it was his first time selecting from the workout options.

  “I’m dying, Cam,” Ollie said as he stepped up onto the machine next to him.

  “And you look like a sweaty mess. You’ll never find a man looking like that.”

  Cam saw every opportunity—even cardio at the gym—as a chance to meet Mr. Forever. His hair was done, his outfit matched, and he would work out hard enough to get a light glisten, but not hard enough to make any sweat stains on his shirt. He put effort into looking good at the gym even though he snapped his man five years ago.

  “I’m not going to find a man at the gym.” And with the way things were working out in his love life, he was not going to find a man anywhere. Ollie went on plenty of dates but did not find much quality.

  “Your trainer might show more interest if you did.”

  “Patrick?”

  “Hotty McHotass. I think you may refer to him as Patrick.”

  Patrick was hot. When Ollie first met him, he wondered if working out with him would be too much of a distraction or if he would be able to properly focus. Patrick was just out of college, tall with reddish-blond hair, and light blue eyes. He played basketball in high school and had maintained his trim, muscular physique.

  Aside from looks, what made him most attractive was his sincerity. He seemed genuinely interested in getting to know his clients. Early on he had gotten to know Ollie and what made him tick. The knowledge helped him to motivate Ollie in ways that were unique to him versus other clients. He focused on why Ollie wanted to work out and leveraged that to make him push harder and keep going even when he did not want to.

  “I’m not going to date my trainer.

  “I wasn’t talking about dating,” Cameron winked, “You need to get laid.”

  “So, you’ve told me.”

  Cameron was not lying. He did need to get some. He had been single for way too long and did not even have wild stories of a gay man on the prowl to show for it. The dates he managed to go on just ended without a hookup. They probably could end differently, but he had not been interested. He loved sex, but had wanted something more from it. Could there be more than just grunts, groans, and awkward goodbyes afterward?

  Cameron waved his hand in front of Ollie’s face. “Hello….”

  “Sorry. Lost in thought.”

  “Lost in celibacy, you mean.”

  Ollie snarked, “I’m focused on getting fit.”

  “When you should be focused on getting…IT.”

  Ollie rolled his eyes. Were there really just two choices? Finding a quality guy to date or banging any guy just because they breathed? Was there anything in the middle?

  “Like that one,” Cameron pointed at a muscled college-aged guy who just checked in at the front. “Or that one doing squats.” He was putting on a good show as the fabric of the gym short stretched across his ass at the lowest point of the squat.

  Both were good choices—cute, fit. But they were also obviously very straight. And even if they were gay…Ollie looked down at his belly. No one that looked like that wanted someone that looked like him.

  “I don’t know why I have a single best friend if I can’t live through him! I want sexcapades! Drama!”

  “Maybe you should be the single one and I’ll be Mark’s boyfriend.”

  Cameron laughed, “That might work.”

  “What’s new with him, anyway? I haven’t seen him in weeks.”

  “He’s
got a big trial coming up so he’s been putting in a ton of hours at the office. A couple of nights he slept on his couch there.”

  “Sounds awful.”

  “I miss him, but at least we are stocked in wine. It gets me through most days.”

  “Any juicy details about the case?”

  “Just some gruesome murder stuff that he has to prove his client didn’t do.”

  “Oooh…maybe there will be a Netflix documentary about it.”

  “Well, I think this guy actually did it, so I’m doubting there will be much intrigue. But we can dream. Then maybe Marvin can retire to a beach house.”

  Ollie increased the speed, “The beach means more cardio. Let’s do this.”

  They both put in ear buds and started their cardio mixes. It was time to sweat.

  Two

  When the half hour was over, Ollie was completely soaked in sweat. Cameron had given up running after two minutes and had returned to a walk.

  As they cooled down, Cameron stretched his arms, “Whew, what a workout.”

  “You’ll never get skinny at that pace.”

  He shrugged, “What can I say? Mark likes my curves. I aim to please.”

  “Plans tonight?”

  “Well, I’m going to sit in the sauna for a bit. Then it is pizza, wine, and crappy TV.”

  Ollie’s eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend, “How many curves does Mark love, exactly? Too many and people start to call them rolls.”

  Cameron punched Ollie lightly on the shoulder and shut down his machine. “You should do the sauna sometime. There’s usually some good eye candy in there—and they tend to be careless with their towels.”

  Ollie shook his head, “People send me dick pics for free—and without me asking. I’ll pass for tonight.”

  “Your loss.”

  “Next time, I promise.” Well, probably not, but it seemed best to give Cam hope.

  Cameron waved goodbye and headed into the locker room. Ollie walked up to the front where his bike was locked up at the rack just outside the front door. The ride home would burn a few extra calories. An app on his phone helped him track how many calories he consumed and burned for the day. He should be right on track if he kept to the dinner plan. He did wish he could join Cameron for pizza and wine. He missed pizza. Maybe after Puerto Vallarta.

  Patrick was at the front desk. He smiled, “Looking good! I’m proud of you.” Ollie matched the extended fist with his own.

  As he left, he imagined being in the sauna and Patrick walking in. His towel loosely wrapped around him and barely able to cover his bulge. That was definitely a fantasy he would build on later—but also one that might get him in trouble at their next workout.

  Hotty McHotass. Maybe that name would stick as Patrick’s nickname. Or maybe he would get Ollie turned on during a workout and would get weirded out by the vibe and stop being his trainer.

  Why was being a single gay man so hard?

  He took out his phone and opened up his most used app—Flame. It was one of many apps available to help gay men connect. The landing page showed who was close. The closest was a picture of a fit guy’s chest and abs, aged 25, and feet away. He had to be working out.

  “Maybe you’ll send me some pics.” A nice distraction from thinking about Patrick. “Hey, how’s it going tonight,” he wrote in the chat screen.

  Fate would decide if that resulted in a response, a block, or simply an ignore. Ollie unlocked his bike and headed towards his apartment, secretly hoping he would feel the vibration of a notification in his pocket signaling a response.

  Three

  Ollie checked the time left on the oven for his dinner. Marinated chicken breasts baked under the heat, one for tonight and two more for lunch this week. He tried to cook some meals ahead of time to avoid falling into the trap of grabbing fast food or being tempted by some other poor lunch choice. If he was stressed out, he easily gave into temptation if it had a side of fries.

  To accompany the chicken, he had prepped some salads. One in a bowl for tonight and two others in travel containers for work. He tried to jazz things up with a variety of vegetables, but ultimately a salad was a salad and it got old. However, until he met his goal, he would have to push through with the same meals every day.

  His phone vibrated on the counter. He assumed it was Cameron. The man he called the Silver Fox had been in the sauna and he had not stopped talking about it. There were a dozen pictures of daddies—mainly porn stars—that Cameron said this guy looked like. “He had facial hair like this one…this one has the same eyes…this one has the same penis.” The Silver Fox was one of the careless ones with his towel.

  There was no notification on the text icon. He scrolled through and noticed a notification on Flame. His finger hovered over the app icon for a moment. Was it a response to his earlier message? Was it someone else? Always a mystery, but usually a disappointment. Ollie pressed down on the icon and opened the app.

  The inbox icon was highlighted and he opened up to view all of the messages stored there.

  He exhaled, not realizing he had even been holding his breath. It was not a response to the earlier message—it was a new conversation.

  The profile picture was blank—usually not a good sign and something Ollie used as criteria for whether or not to respond. He clicked ion the message anyway. What did he have to lose by looking?

  “Hey. I think I saw you at the gym earlier. You’re very cute and wanted to say hi.”

  Bonus points for more than a one-word opening. Double points for it being longer than my opening which the app had learned to suggest as a predictive phrase as I started typing. This seemed personal and intentional.

  “Thanks. It was a good workout. Bathing suit season is just around the corner.” In Arizona, it always seemed to be bathing suit season. Maybe Ollie could figure out who the stranger was even without a picture if he knew where the guy had been working out. With Cameron’s surveillance of the gym, if the guy was worth noting, they had looked and judged. “What were you working out tonight?”

  Ollie flipped over to his text messages and wrote to Cameron, “Someone from the gym messaged me on Flame. No pic though.”

  The timer sounded on the stove and Ollie donned his oven mitts and removed the baking dish with the chicken breasts. At least it looked and smelled good even if it was not cheesy enchiladas.

  “Stats?” Cameron replied.

  Ollie opened Flame again and looked to see what he could learn from the biography. 30 years old, six feet tall, 230 lbs. Self- described as “stocky”. Ollie compared that with his own profile where he shaved off a year and about fifteen pounds. He had found many guys even added an inch or two in height. He pictured the gym and tried to pinpoint a man that fit the stats—all he could picture were the abs and asses that Cameron pointed out. He took a screenshot of the stats and sent them to Cameron.

  “You can do better,” Cameron responded within a few seconds.

  Ollie thought about the comment. The stats were not “perfect” but were pretty much in line with the average guy. It was even the group that Ollie saw himself struggling to be in. The perfect body was a goal but the reality was he was fighting a war against obesity.

  And was doing better based solely on weight? What about nice, funny, rich…or any number of personality traits?

  He set the phone aside and grabbed his plate of chicken and salad. He settled into the stool at his counter. The perfect man still on his mind, he began to make a mental checklist of what he hoped to find. Physical things seemed to be important—a comparable height preferred, but he had dated shorter and taller. Dark hair seemed to be a type, but there were plenty of blondes and redheads that had caught his eye. Someone that could tell jokes and laugh at other’s jokes. Likes dogs—or better, owns dogs.

  He picked up his phone and opened Flame. “Care to swap pics?” The mystery might as well be solved. He sent off three pics showing his face, all with big smiles and good hair. And all from the sho
ulders up. The X-rated pictures would come in time. Ollie liked to lead with tame shots and see where things went.

  Between bites of salad he scrolled through profiles to see who else was out there and doing the same thing. He recognized most of the profiles as being the regulars who lived near him. Many he had chatted with, and nothing came from it. Neither had found it necessary to block the other, possibly saving each other for an emergency. A few people had updated their profile pictures and Ollie paused to mentally compare to what he remembered seeing before. It was a constant game of self-promotion and reinvention.

  Several vibrations shook his phone and he scrolled to the messages. The new guy had responded with four messages—several of which were probably pictures. He opened up the conversation thread.

  “Sure. I’m Jeremy, btw.” Then there were pictures of Jeremy. The first was cropped from a group photo—shoulders of people on either side were visible. The photo manipulation made the image pixilated. Nice smile, full facial hair, and sunglasses obscuring his eyes.

  The second was a selfie in bed, face half-obscured by the pillow as he lay on his side. Not pixilated, but still hard to get a clear idea of what he looked like.

  Finally, the third picture was taken on the beach as he lounged in a chaise under an umbrella. Better lighting and no cropping, but still with sunglasses. Jeremy was not ready to do a full reveal for whatever reason.

  Ollie sighed. What was so hard about sending a clear picture? Depending on his mood, he either blocked these profiles or tried to redirect and circle back to pictures later. With time and conversation, sometimes the guy on the other side would feel more comfortable. Some guys were looking to keep a low profile, which was certainly okay. Had anyone ever been outed or blackmailed based on pics they shared in chat?

  “Where was the beach vacay?” At least he could get a recommendation on a place to visit, if nothing else materialized from this conversation.