There had been an issue at work, and it had taken forever to connect with the asshole running our sister office in California. It was closing on 4AM by the time I managed to get on to the cable-machine. Anchor-Guy was also a nice reason to go to the gym in the middle of the night. It was how I noticed the little anchor tattoo on his shoulder blade half-hidden by his tanktop. I'd spent a lot of time staring at the back of Anchor-Guy when he did free weights. I had no idea who he was, but he was everything you'd imagine from a gym bro: tall, broad- shouldered, arms and legs with movie-star definition, and an ass that practically fought to escape his little gym shorts. Despite Juan's jokes, I was here to sweat, not cruise.īesides, at 3 AM it was usually just me, a couple insomniacs, and the occasional business-drunk trying to sweat the booze out before going home to his wife. Even if I went there, there was no way any of those hard-bodied gym-gays were going to notice a scrawny Indian cybersecurity specialist trying desperately to put a little muscle on his chest.
My friend Juan tried to convince me to join his gym downtown, but that place was a fucking meat-market. The best part of going to a 24-hour gym in the middle of the night was never having to talk to anyone.
