Shopping for an Heir by Julia Kent

eyes away from the old man and the beast, listening to the heavy metal pounding through his earbuds. If he closed his eyes, he could recall the image of Suzanne’s gloriously nude body.
    Hey, there.
    Bad idea. The rowing machine suddenly became unbearably uncomfortable.
    He looked at Old Jorg and imagined the locker room toilet.
    Better.
    Understanding why he’d had that dream wasn’t exactly rocket science. Stimulus, response.
    See Suzanne, dream about her.
    But truly grasping why he kissed her—and why she let him—was a puzzle.
    He hadn’t even opened those damn inheritance papers. Tucked away in his gym bag, he’d thrown them in on a lark. Vince had a keen way of cutting through bullshit to get to the down-and-dirty heart of an issue.
    He’d ask him after they moved the equivalent of a skyscraper in weight.
    A pinch at his ear and the muted bliss of death metal was interrupted by Vince’s hot breath.
    “Gotta go. Emergency.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    But Vince was gone, the front door swinging, Old Jorg watching with blinking eyes, like an old wrinkled owl.
    Shit.
    Gerald tucked his worry away, knowing Vince would have told him if he’d wanted to. Instead, he jumped off the rowing machine and made a beeline for Vince’s tires.
    Might as well flip rubber if he wasn’t going to wear any.
    Bracing his legs as he lunged down, he lifted the huge, stinking black mass of petroleum, end over end, three times. Glutes screaming, he ignored them. Bodies in motion don’t sound like people screaming, thank God.
    Self-torture he could handle.
    By the time every muscle in his body shook, he was dripping with sweat and no more enlightened, but at least he wasn’t plagued by a racing mind with nothing better to do.
    Vince came jogging back in just as Gerald sat on a boxer’s chair, drinking water.
    “Wimped out already?”
    “Where’d you go? Tea party?”
    “Emergency,” Vince said tersely.
    “Sorry. Everything okay?”
    “Don’t wanna talk about it.”
    “Fine. Don’t talk. Lift.”
    “Too edgy. Spar with me.”
    Gerald snorted. “I might be a masochist, but I’m not suicidal. I can tell you’re stoked. Too much anger. Too much energy. Pick some naive kid in here and beat him. I’m not going in the ring with you.”
    Vince cursed.
    “Run with me, then.”
    “I’m wiped, man.” Plus, whatever had made Vince leave like that loomed over them like a bad spirit, not quite ready to move on.
    “Too wiped to run?” Vince walked over to the weight racks and grabbed a vest. He began tucking little weight pouches into the pockets. By Gerald’s count, he loaded up eighty pounds.
    “Three miles,” Gerald said grudgingly.
    “That’s like getting your dick stroked over the pants, man.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “You’re a tease.”
    “You’re comparing being your running partner with that ?”
    “Sex brain, man. I’ve got it bad.”
    Bzzz.
    Gerald’s phone buzzed in his bag, which was on a long bench next to him. He grabbed the phone.
    James McCormick.
    “My boss? What’s one of my bosses doing texting me at six a.m. on my day off?”
    “They own your ass, G.” Vince began running in place, wearing a hundred-pound vest. “C’mon. Get it done.”
    Gerald read the text:
    I have a medical appointment that has been moved to eight a.m. Pick me up at my residence.
    The guy got to the point.
    Yes, sir , he typed back. Received.
    “I gotta work early,” Gerald said with a sigh, half relieved not to need to run, half sad to have to drive James McCormick to the cancer center. For the past half a year, Gerald had managed his boss’s appointments, which the elder McCormick hid from his sons. The old man asked him to keep it quiet, and Gerald was the only one he trusted to see him in a weakened state.
    “G, it’s your day off.”
    “Not anymore.”
    “Fishing for a reason to leave?”
    “No. James McCormick needs me for an eight o’clock medical appointment.” He knew he could take a different day off