Fit To Be Dead (An Aggie Mundeen Mystery Book 1) by Nancy G. West Read Free Book Online Page B

immobile. A metal roller covered with spongy material jutted out eighteen inches below the seat. I eased down and squinted at obtuse instructions pasted on the contraption. “Leg extension. Place feet under roller. Straighten legs, keeping feet flexed. Do two sets of ten repetitions. Weight: 50 pounds.” I slipped my ankles under the roller and strained to lift my feet. My legs didn’t budge, but my back kinked.
    “Ouch.”
    The man on the adjacent thingamabob was sympathetic. “Each machine has to be set to your height and the weights to your strength before you can use it. Let me help you.”
    His smile made me want to know more. His mother had probably hated to cut those brown curls. I stood quietly while he adjusted my machine. He reeked of potential. He was a couple of inches taller than me and had probably just used the leg lift. He adjusted the bar only a single notch. That was okay by me. His height seemed dictated by a short knee-to-foot bone, which positioned the trunk of his body lower than usual. I didn’t want to stare. I could research leg bones online. He wore red socks like the club trainers.
    I didn’t intend to flirt with every man at the health club. But after Lester ran off when I told him I was pregnant, and I stumbled through umpteen miserable years of not dating anybody, I found the male species newly interesting.
    “I’m Ned Barclay. I work out here all the time, mostly weights. I can show you how to use every machine. Go ahead. Try it.”
    Noting his delectable muscles, I perched as he instructed with my stomach muscles tight and back glued to the chair. I hefted the rubber-covered bar up and down with my legs until the fronts of my thighs burned. People entering the room circled wide around my legs as if they expected the bar to fly off and hit them. I know I have a strange effect on mechanical equipment, but geez.
    “Shall we try a couple more leg muscle machines?”
    “Sure.” I loved his encouraging smile. Maybe he knew Holly Holmgreen.
    The second machine had an identical extension. You placed your feet above the bar and pressed your legs downward. With ten repetitions, you could cause equal injury to the backs of both thighs.
    “Do you know Holly Holmgreen?”
    “Let’s try the leg press.”
    This apparatus looked safe enough. The seat had a back support and large footrest. I relaxed and gazed at Ned’s liquid brown eyes. “I met Holly yesterday at the pool, on my first day here.”
    “Let’s move the seat back farther from the foot-rest so your legs are nearly straight. Put your feet on the platform, bend your knees and ease the platform toward you. Now, push your legs straight out.”
    I pushed. This footrest was not designed for relaxing. Ned told me to shove the torture tray out twelve times, at which point my thighs began to spasm. Oblivious to my quivering hams, he enumerated the benefits of the machine. “The leg press works your quadriceps, hamstrings, gluteus maximus...”
    I didn’t know the names of my body parts, but I’d discovered where they were. It was difficult to concentrate on Ned’s anatomical treatise with my legs twitching.
    “I know Holly Holmgreen. In fact, I used to date her.” He squeezed his words through thin lips, but he had a good vocabulary and great diction. I’m a sucker for men who speak well. Even my Aspects of Aging professor probably couldn’t rattle off muscles extemporaneously the way Ned did. I decided not to press him about Holly. Their relationship must be over.
    “Let’s move to the inner and outer thigh machine.” He took my hand and pulled me off the seat. I wobbled to the next chair and plopped down. “For outer thighs, put the pads outside your legs and push out.”
    After ten repetitions, he repositioned my legs outside the pads and said to squeeze my legs together umpteen times, which successfully damaged my thighs all the way around. How many women, too weak to remove their quivering thighs from this vise, had