Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) by Nancy G. West

spun around to scan the room for prospects.
    Pete, long, lean and lifeguard gorgeous, immobilized me with his incredible eyes. “We’ll start with your upper body, using machines that work your arms and back.”
    I imagined him massaging my shoulders.
    “I’ll instruct you on each machine and prepare a chart describing each exercise and listing the number of repetitions.” He radiated a smile.
    “Okay, Coach.”
    We stopped at the seated bench press. He said to hold the grips at the sides of my chest, keep my elbows pointed out away from my body and press forward to a straight-arm position. I pressed. The grips didn’t budge.
    Pete rolled his eyes. “Keep trying.”
    Elbows out, I strained against the grips. Nothing.
    He glanced around, his smile plastered on. “Try not to grunt.” He probably longed for one of the young, gorgeous specimens he usually coached. He lowered the weights to thirty pounds. I tried again and managed to shove the grips forward five times. He added five repetitions.
    “Your face is red.” He rolled his eyes up. “Let’s see if we can manage the rope grip extension.”
    Exuding displeasure, he backed me up to a pulley with a handle on the end. He told me to grasp the handle behind my head, point my elbows toward the ceiling and extend my arms up straight. When I pulled, the handle went up three inches. In spite of my obvious inability to control the device, he made me wrench the blasted handle up twelve more times. How did this sadist ever get to be a trainer?
    I spotted Ned Barclay across the room and yearned for his patient approach to exercise.
    “Let’s try some standing bicep curls,” Pete groused.
    With my arms twitching, I followed him to the next station. The handle for this apparatus was on a pulley attached to the floor. At least I could see what I was doing.
    “Grab the handle. From a straight arm position, curl the bar to your chest.” I struggled through twelve repetitions, and he added eight more. My arm muscles quivered so much, I didn’t think I could hold a toothbrush. If only God had made me thin, I wouldn’t have to endure this torture.
    “You’ll like the next one.” Pete unveiled perfect teeth. “You get to lie down on the floor.”
    The thought of reclining was delicious. As soon as I lay down, he handed me a heavy iron bar, told me to place the rod across my chest and push it straight up. After I shoved the bar up five times, he put weights on both ends. I insisted I simply could not lift it. My arms were mush. If I managed to lift the pole and dropped it, the bar would land on my nose, my chin or my boobs.
    Pete said he had an appointment. “Forget the other arm strengthening machines. You can finish with leg extensions.” He flipped his hand toward the machine that Ned Barclay had chivalrously repositioned for me. When he removed the torture bar from my chest. I wondered how long it would take me to get up off the floor.
    Having endured the longest thirty minutes of my life, I scraped myself up, dragged my body to the leg extension machine and slumped in the chair, not bothering to check the settings. I gazed to a faraway place outside the building and pondered how my abused limbs could possibly lift one more frigging bar.
    I held my breath and hoisted my legs with all my strength. They flew up like twin rockets. Ned Barclay, bending over me, was about to speak, but it was too late. My foot hit him full force between the legs.
    His smile contorted into a grimace, then to fury. He stumbled away in reverse, cradling his crotch behind a towel. He bobbled backwards across the gymnasium, straining to keep his knees from buckling. His face was crimson. Every person in the weight room and basketball court gaped at him. His eyes were fixed on me in horror. I wondered if he’d ever walk normally again.

Twelve

      
    How, in a split second of self-absorption, had I managed to alienate, and perhaps injure, a really nice man? My full-force upswing in a short