The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins Read Online Free PDF Page B

than them. Nobody wants one who looks like shit, and other things being equal (which they seldom are, but never mind), the older you get the more like shit you look. Of course there are exceptions; the celebrity or “personality” trainer springs to mind: trendbuckers like the J-Micks, Harpers, Warners, and Parishes of this world. But it usually means that I get fat, unsavable fortysomethings who aspire to look like me, while Mona gets slightly out-of-shape thirtysomethings who want to look like her, and a disturbing roster of Belsen model bitches, taking time off from sitting with their fingers down their throats, waiting for that Condé Nast hotline to ring. But that is about to change!
    Not all of them are time-wasters, though. Ubercool gym bunny Annette Cushing strides in with a cheerful expression and a confident sweep for the juice bar. One of Mona’s clients, but she’s ignoring her, wrinkling her button nose and focusing her black saucer eyes on
me
. — Congratulations, Lucy! That was soooo brave. Whatever possessed you?
    — Didn’t have time to think, I explain, as I see Mona’s mouth hang open; my deeds have obviously passed the self-absorbed bitch by, — just react as I was trained to do.
    — That kick, the one the camera picked up . . .
    — What’s this? Mona asks. Lester points up to the TV; it’s back on the loop again. — OH MY GOD! Mona squeals in excitement, and scuttles under the mounted TV set to hear better.
    — A simple kickboxing move, it’s like a foot jab . . . I tell Annette, extending my leg to demonstrate.
    — You didn’t say anything . . . Mona bleats in half-assed accusation, then her chin drops as Annette asks me, — I was wondering if I could do some of that stuff with you?
    — Sure, I point at our rack of personal cards. — Give me a call. It’ll have to be at the Miami Mixed Martial Arts, though. I glance at Mona: hoe had to eat that one up like it was a one-thou-cal slice of Key lime pie!
    — Yes, I’m ready to get my hands dirty, Annette smiles, then walks off with an edgy Mona toward the pristine Pilates studio. That bitch paid eight grand (or rather some fucking sugar daddy of hers did) to get that crappy trainer accreditation and equipment.
    We can hear the phone’s shrill bell ripping out from the small office. Lester springs off the stool and goes to answer it. His eyes, then his head, pop back around the door. — Call for you, Lucy. They all want you now, superstar. And as I advance toward him, he raises his hand for another high five. — A hero and a TV celebrity! Man, that is good for business!
    — I know, right? I grin, slapping flesh and heading into the small, ugly room, lit only by one small window. Workstation desks are built in against the walls, on three sides. I pick up the phone, partially buried under some client worksheets on Lester’s desk. Another overhead TV silently shows my open-mouthed shock and the fat chick in pink’s chubby pointing finger. I pick up the phone. — Hello, Lucy Brennan speaking.
    — Hi . . . The voice is soft and hesitant. I feel I’ve heard it before. — I’m Lena, Lena Sorenson. I was the witness on the bridge last night. I shot it on my phone. Those guys . . . running in the road . . . and you disarmed the gunman? The police station?
    It’s her! The fat chick! The one who made me a star! — Right . . . okaaaay . . . I look at the screen, but we’re gone, displaced by the picture of a young girl, around ten. According to the bar on the bottom of the screen, she’s gone missing. Then the conjoined Arkansas twins reappear.
    — I got your number from the Internet, the fat chick gasps. — I Googled your name and the web page for the gym came up, with you listed as a personal trainer.
    Right, you creepy, stalking loser. — Greaaat . . . how are you?
    — I’m good . . . well, maybe not so good, she says in cagey, semiconfessional tones. — I’ve kinda put on a lot of weight recently, and I really want to get