Penny Davis can’t afford to hire a personal trainer to get her fit for bikini season until ex-military hard man, Hawk Sturgis, offers her an unorthodox fitness regimen and an even more unorthodox payment plan, guaranteed to have her heating up the beach in her new bikini just in time for the summer hols.
When we finally arrive at the gym, and he unlocks the door, I’m thinking death is imminent. He places a meaty hand against my neck and eyeballs his chronograph to check my pulse. I’m wondering if it’s even possible to count that fast. I’m not sure if the resulting grunt means it’s acceptable, or that he’s totally disgusted with my lack of fitness, but at least he’s not dialling an ambulance.
He marches me at a fast trot to a back room with mirrored walls and free weights.
I head straight for the nearest weight bench. It’s the perfect place to collapse and have a whimper. But I don’t get far.
‘Davis! About face!’ he huffs.
And I’m standing at attention again, while he walks around me, hands on his hips muttering. ‘Uh huh, mmm hmm, right.’ He nods to my blue trainer bottoms. ‘Take ’em off.’
‘Sir?’ My voice cracks.
‘You want a beach job, I need to know what I’ve got to work with.’
‘I have a leotard, back home. Believe me, it doesn’t hide anything. If we could just wait–’
‘Take. Them. Off.’ Between each word he makes a stabbing motion at my trackie bottoms with an index finger that looks like it might be a registered weapon.
I shove the trousers down and step out of them, embarrassed by the comfy, and now sweaty, granny panties I wore to work out in. I never expected to have to display them.
‘And the top.’