Marcia King-Gamble - All About Me

Mine were even bigger—40 size triple D and not full of saline either. My booty I’d been lugging around since I was twelve, and damn proudly, too. It got men’s attention usually. But I had this spare tire and a couple of double chins I wanted to get rid of. That was the real reason I was here. I was sick and tired of hearing how beautiful I could be if I would only lose weight.

“It takes work, sugar!” Quentin Abrahams, my personal trainer, constantly reminded me. “Work and watching every calorie that goes into your mouth.”

Easy for him to say. The man didn’t know what it was like to be fat. He was built like a brick house. All muscle and sinew. And hotter than any man should be. He set me on fire.

“Okay, folks, now that our warm-up is over, time to get some real work done,” the small, dark-skinned instructor chirped, bringing me back to earth. There wasn’t even the slightest hitch in her breath.

“Witch!”

I wanted to kill her. Well maybe murder was a bit strong. I wanted to slap her perfect face. Here I was huffing and puffing like Farmer Jones’s prize cow and there wasn’t even a glimmer of moisture on “Missy Fitness’s” forehead.

“What! Is she kidding?” the blonde on the other side of me groaned. “I’m done.”

“Yeah, me, too,” I agreed. “But looks like girlfriend wants to work us some more.”

The woman I’d been speaking to earlier suddenly stopped midstep. Her breath came in great big gusts. “The treadmill’s starting to look better and better.” With that she left.

I looked at the wall clock. Forty three minutes of agony before the class was over.

The back of the room was slowly beginning to clear out, making big people like me with ungainly belly rolls more noticeable. The skinny minnies, dressed in pastel Lycra, sports bras and expensive jewelry were up front and center.

I should never have let Quen talk me into trying this “Step and Sculpt” class. Seven o’clock in the morning was usually when I hit the snooze button for the second or third time.

Quen said the class would be a breeze. And he expected me to go at least three days a week. The man was doing drugs. Mind you that was over and above the sessions he and I had scheduled.

Heaving, I clutched my side. I had a stitch and wanted a drink of water badly. As I slowed down, marching in place, the class continued on, the show-offs straddling steps that had a minimum of two risers.

“This is getting old,” I muttered.

The woman next to me sighed. “I hear that.”

I at least had the smarts to pass on the risers. It was hard enough for me to clamber up one step much less do half hops and “V” steps. I had no clue what the instructor even meant by that. As for a sashay and mambo that was a foreign language—Spanish to me.

By some major miracle I made it through the rest of the class without collapsing. Afterward I hobbled behind several sweating women and headed for the showers.

“Looking good, Chere,” Quen called after me.

The deep timbre of his voice gave me chills. It figured Quen Abrahams of all people would have to see me like this, hauling my sorry ass toward the showers. I rolled my eyes and snorted something under my breath. This had all been his idea. And I was going along with the plan because I wanted him bad.

No man deserved to look like he did at this ungodly hour. Quen was wearing a monogrammed blue short-sleeved polo shirt that stretched across his broad chest, and showed off his muscular arms to an advantage. Where the shirt V-ed there was a patch of dark hair. His khaki shorts skimmed midthigh giving me a-to-die for view of runners’ legs. The same dark hairs curled over them. And his sneakers, well girlfriend, they had to be at a minimum a fourteen and they looked brand new. It was his hands that had me. They were large hands with long, nimble fingers, the nails neatly trimmed.

I wanted those hands on me. All over me. I dreamed about them.

“Must have been some workout,” Quen said, preparing to move along. “You keep showing up three times a week, sugar, and we’ll have you slimmed down in no time.”

An hour later, my body aching, I flopped behind my desk at the Flamingo Beach Chronicle and began opening Dear Jenna’s mail. It was more of the same whining and I quickly got bored. I began daydreaming of scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries. Soon it became pork chops and chicken legs. I was that hungry.

“Hey, Chere,” Jen St. George, my boss greeted as she flew in. Girlfriend was turned out as usual. She had a certain style about her that I’d tried copying but couldn’t pull off. Jen’s eyes were overly bright. There was a bounce to her step that made me want to strangle her. Came from sleeping with one of Flamingo Beach’s hottest guys. Jen had hooked up with wisecracking radio personality, Tre Monroe. His radio audience called him D’Dawg.

“You’re early,” Jen said, sounding astounded. “Is something wrong?”

“Good morning to you to, missy, and no, there ain’t—isn’t—anything wrong.”

She was right; I was always at least half an hour late. Mornings were rough on me. They made me hungry and grumpy. I was what you called a night person.

“I’ve been working out at the gym,” I announced, twirling around. “New Years resolution, remember?” We’d both made resolutions, mine was to lose weight and exercise, Jen’s was to exercise more patience. It was only the second week of January but I’d managed to keep mine. I waited for her to compliment me.

“Good for you. You’re sticking to the program. Is Quen still working with you?” Jen raised a sculpted eyebrow as if she didn’t think that was possible. She must think I was bluffing about losing weight?

“Yeah he is. Why?”

Jen stood and stretched. There wasn’t a ripple in the midthigh skirt she wore or a bulge where her belly should be. “Nothing. I’m getting coffee. Want a cup?”

Fetching coffee was my job but I never seemed to get around to it. “Sure and while you’re at it bring back a couple of them chocolate donuts the girls brought in.”

Jen shook her head and wagged a finger in front of my nose. “Chocolate is totally off-limits. Those calories will go straight to our hips. I need to lose five pounds so that I can fit into my wedding gown.”

I began bouncing up and down and screaming. “Jen’s getting married, y’all. Tre’s finally popped the question.”

Several heads poked over the divider. The commotion had gotten the attention of the clerical staff who were on their desks looking over.

Jen held up her left hand for all to see. My mouth flapped open like I was catching flies. Shoot, I’d never seen a rock quite that size. D’Dawg had to be making some big bucks. I wanted one just like hers.

Oohs and aahs came from the other side of the partition. My girls had calculators for brains. They were crunching those numbers, and computing the cost of that ring right down to the last dollar.

“Congratulations!” Envy dripped from that word.

“Good luck, Jen. You caught yourself a good one.”

I heard a rustle and several stifled screams.

Heads disappeared, which meant Luis Gomez, the big cheese had come in.

I was hugging Jen when Luis, stinking of cigar smoke, stuck his head in our office. “Morning, Jen,” he said, totally ignoring me.

“Morning,” she replied.

I stuck a tongue out behind his back. I couldn’t stand him. Never could. But there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about me. I had the owner of the paper, Ian Pendergrass’s ear. I’d been Ian’s housekeeper once; the worst one he’d ever had. But I’d served a purpose. Ian, the old goat with his randy ways deserved me.

“I’ll be back with that coffee,” Jen said smoothly, slipping out of my embrace.