Elgin’s Trial
By Mr. J.
Chapter XI: No Sweat
“I don’t understand why you agreed to go with me to the gym.” Matt raises his voice as she jogs on the treadmill.
“I figured you needed some emotional encouragement.” Tracy yells. “Lord knows I could use some.”
“But you’re toned and fit.” Matt gestures towards her. “Look at me. I’m a human blob. Besides, this is fraternization.”
“Relax. We’re just two friends catching up over power walks and strength training.”
“Two friends of the opposite sex.” He corrects her.
Tracy darts her eyes around the room. He does have a point. Every so often a man or woman lifts their eyebrows as they walk toward the handlebars and elliptical bikes, as if to show disdain on the seeming couple several feet away. She feigns ignorance, one eye trained on the stats on the monitor while glaring at them with the other. Oh, what would the neighbors think?
“It’s not like we’re dating or anything. They don’t give a shit anyway.”
“I thought we’re supposed to keep a low profile.” Matt admonishes her.
“The more you sweat it, the more you call attention to yourself.”
“You call this low profile? They’re practically eyeballing us over there.”
“For an investigative reporter, you sure do worry a lot.”
“What can I say? I got it from my mom.”
Tracy sighs.
“Fine, if anyone asks I’m a backup dancer for Lady Gaga and you’re my gay best friend.”
“Do you mind?” An octogenarian points at her ear buds. “I’m watching TNN.”
Tracy glares at the half-naked blonde giggling on the screen, yellow headlines crawling below her. ‘CHINESE TROOPS BRACE FOR WAR!’ ‘PRESIDENT NUTJOB VISITS UN, URGES CALM’. She rolls her eyes. She’d long dismissed the three cable news nets since they merged in a desperate attempt to stay afloat years ago, reduced to T and A, and sensationalist headlines in a bid for relevance. The Benny Hill antics make her grateful to have chosen psychology instead of communications as a major many moons ago.
She shakes her head ruefully, regretting the slow decline of journalism from the former glory of her childhood. Legs aching, she climbs off the machine, spent yet feeling glad to have made herself useful as something other than a glorified pencil pusher. She swigs from her bottle as Matt follows behind, trying his best to act natural despite his fears of being found out. The scent of Tracy’s musk drifts into Matt’s nostrils. He struggles to retain an air of professionalism as feelings of arousal rise within him—difficult as that may be.
“I’m beat.” He jerks his thumb towards a narrow corridor behind them. “At least it’s my day off. Aren’t you going to hit the showers?”
“I’d prefer to do it at home.” Tracy excuses herself as she fetches her jacket from the lockers.
Matt watches as her behind swishes and sways, admiring the aerodynamics of her shapely bum. It’s hard not to imagine what it must be like to caress it, her cushy cheeks reminiscent of airbags. His cock swells within his pants. He feels as though he’s back in high school, his brain reduced to little more than mush. He blushes as a fellow gym rat flashes an admonishing stare. He mumbles something about not caffeine withdrawal and not getting enough sleep.
It’s a lousy excuse, and he knows it.
Tracy returns jacket in hand, no less energetic than she was when they arrived several minutes earlier. There isn’t a trace of flop sweat on her face, or the tiredness normally associated with such a heavy workout. A normal human being would at least lag behind as they try to force their heavy legs to move. Instead she strides toward him light as air, seemingly unconcerned as she smiles.
“Let’s get out of here.” She motions toward the door.
The wind picks up as they walk through the parking lot. Matt’s nose reddens as they stride towards their respective cars. As hardened as he is, the stinging cold is one of his biggest pet peeves about the northeast, that, the overcrowding, the nepotism and the lack of hospitality. Oh, and let’s not forget the not so subtle racism and bigotry. But at least he gets to do what he loves—the same cannot be said for his childhood friends, their grandiose dreams of a career in finance, journalism or the arts crushed as they’re forced to wait tables or take up careers at the docks, all because they had the misfortune of not screwing the daughter of the dean of communications at their alma mater.
“So have you read the files I gave you?” Tracy asks as she opens the driver’s side door.
“I’m still sorting it out, all that scientific mumbo jumbo. I have a friend of mine helping me with the jargon. I still can’t tell a PBA from a watered down brew. Don’t even get me started on all the tri-this and bi-that. Molecular chains...ugh.”
“So when do you think you’ll publish the story?”
“After the holidays.” Matt grunts. “People are too distracted by jolly old men and Rockettes to pay attention to read a story about some poor girl’s campaign to expose the corruption of her deceased boyfriend’s employer.”
“Like they aren’t distracted already?”
“It’s different, Tracy. It’s Christmas.”
“And what prevents me from bypassing you and uploading all the files to the Internet?”
Matt guffaws.
“The last person who did that ended up in a CIA secret prison in Poland.”
“I guess I don’t have a choice but to trust you.” Tracy sighs.
“You’ve come this far. That’s more than I can say for some of the sources I’ve worked with.”
“I guess we better go.” Tracy glances at her watch. “My boss will kill me if he finds out I’ve been seeing you on my lunch break.”
A sudden bang shatters the calm. Matt throws himself on top of her, shielding Tracy from whatever harm imaginary or real that may lie around somewhere in the parking lot. Their breaths are ragged and shallow, the rapid thumping of their hearts adding to their sense of paranoia. Gripping her arms, Matt can’t help but appreciate the eroticism of the moment, feeling as though the two of them have been ripped out of a B-grade spy novel. Looking over her shoulder, he notices a beat up two-door speeding away, smoke trailing from its exhaust pipe.
“Who is it?” Tracy asks.
“It’s nothing, just a car backfiring.”
Pulling out from under him, she haphazardly fishes out her keys and climbs into her car, unscathed but no less frightened by the scare.
“I’ll guess you’ll be hearing from me soon?”
“I guess so.”
As she drives off, Matt catches his breath, stumbling towards his on jalopy as he prepares for his own haul back to work.