squats. As she finishes, I’m letting her rap on with the loser talk. — . . . but you know what they say about life happening while you’re making other plans . . .
Sorenson is evidently the type of chick who can talk and talk while saying nothing, and I still can’t quite figure her out. Possibly stopped trying after marriage and a kid. Woke up from an extended Prozac daze doing diapers, and a husband who won’t touch her, who’s away on business and golf, to find herself a misshapen behemoth.
How did that happen? Why am I fat?
You learn to respect cliché and stereotype in my business; they rarely give you a bum steer. But there’s no ring on that chubby finger. Enough speculation: I’ll find out what makes her tick soon enough. First, there is fat to be melted, and it’s time to check out the sort of juice this bitch has in the bullpen.
I’m not a great treadmill fan, I prefer to use high-intensity free-weight routines to build muscle, core strength, while raising the cardio and keeping the fat burning. But the treadmill is useful to boot up the cardiovascular system and give a couch whale some stamina. She climbs on and I start her on 3 mph, a gentle roll. She’s still blabbing, now wanting to talk about
the incident
, but sorry, Ms. Sorenson, if you got the gas to gab, you got the gas to go! I move it up to the point where the hoe
shuts the fuck up and sweats
. It’s a heavier session than I normally intro anybody of her size and weight with, but somehow I really don’t care whether or not she comes back, which I seldom feel with clients. It is my living, after all.
Marge and one of Lester’s clients emerge from the shower, heading to the juice bar. I catch Marge shooting a satisfied smile over at my new girl. Somebody almost as lardy as her—at least in the young, white, and rich demographic—is a rarity in Miami Beach. Yet there’s the seed of an impression that Sorenson is perhaps different. Yes, that soupy air of depression hangs over her, and there’s something of the self-pitying victim about her that annoys the fuck out of me. But I sense that she really wants to get better; a defiant glint in her eye shines through the creeping dread.
After Sorenson leaves, with some reluctance, looking at me as if there’s some dramatic disclosure to come, other than “Same time Friday,” I burn four hundred cal on the treadmill, then drive home. No snooping press mofos, so it’s all good.
I fix myself a lunch of steamed broccoli and spinach, with a peanut-butter-and-banana protein shake (460 cal). My phone vibrates in the pocket of my shorts, the caller ID telling me it’s my dad. — Hey! My baby girl! What a chip off the old block!
— Eh, thanks.
— My heart was in my goddamn mouth when I heard. I said to myself: what in hell’s name was she thinking of, tackling an armed guy who was firing off rounds? Then I thought, she’s a Brennan: it’s the way she’s made. That was how it had to go down.
I love my dad, even though he sent me here to live with Mom when I wanted to stay in Boston. Of course, loving somebody doesn’t mean you can’t acknowledge that they can be a real asshole. He’s written a series of five police-procedural detective novels, all featuring Matt Flynn, a BPD dick turned PI. Each one has sold more than the previous, and the current has just made the
New York Times
bestseller list. He now does a bullshit feature on “Flynn’s Boston” for the
Globe
. As an ex-gym-teacher, he’s very driven. I don’t know why he worries excessively about his police credentials, or lack of. You only have to take a lardass cop to lunch to nail the procedural shit, the rest is a testimony to his writerly powers of imagination.
Dad’s dust jackets claim he was a Boston homicide detective for eight years. They’ll be laughing at that one in a few Mick bars in Southie. He served with the BPD, in uniform, for only three years before he was kicked out for “racist behavior,” following
Sorenson is evidently the type of chick who can talk and talk while saying nothing, and I still can’t quite figure her out. Possibly stopped trying after marriage and a kid. Woke up from an extended Prozac daze doing diapers, and a husband who won’t touch her, who’s away on business and golf, to find herself a misshapen behemoth.
How did that happen? Why am I fat?
You learn to respect cliché and stereotype in my business; they rarely give you a bum steer. But there’s no ring on that chubby finger. Enough speculation: I’ll find out what makes her tick soon enough. First, there is fat to be melted, and it’s time to check out the sort of juice this bitch has in the bullpen.
I’m not a great treadmill fan, I prefer to use high-intensity free-weight routines to build muscle, core strength, while raising the cardio and keeping the fat burning. But the treadmill is useful to boot up the cardiovascular system and give a couch whale some stamina. She climbs on and I start her on 3 mph, a gentle roll. She’s still blabbing, now wanting to talk about
the incident
, but sorry, Ms. Sorenson, if you got the gas to gab, you got the gas to go! I move it up to the point where the hoe
shuts the fuck up and sweats
. It’s a heavier session than I normally intro anybody of her size and weight with, but somehow I really don’t care whether or not she comes back, which I seldom feel with clients. It is my living, after all.
Marge and one of Lester’s clients emerge from the shower, heading to the juice bar. I catch Marge shooting a satisfied smile over at my new girl. Somebody almost as lardy as her—at least in the young, white, and rich demographic—is a rarity in Miami Beach. Yet there’s the seed of an impression that Sorenson is perhaps different. Yes, that soupy air of depression hangs over her, and there’s something of the self-pitying victim about her that annoys the fuck out of me. But I sense that she really wants to get better; a defiant glint in her eye shines through the creeping dread.
After Sorenson leaves, with some reluctance, looking at me as if there’s some dramatic disclosure to come, other than “Same time Friday,” I burn four hundred cal on the treadmill, then drive home. No snooping press mofos, so it’s all good.
I fix myself a lunch of steamed broccoli and spinach, with a peanut-butter-and-banana protein shake (460 cal). My phone vibrates in the pocket of my shorts, the caller ID telling me it’s my dad. — Hey! My baby girl! What a chip off the old block!
— Eh, thanks.
— My heart was in my goddamn mouth when I heard. I said to myself: what in hell’s name was she thinking of, tackling an armed guy who was firing off rounds? Then I thought, she’s a Brennan: it’s the way she’s made. That was how it had to go down.
I love my dad, even though he sent me here to live with Mom when I wanted to stay in Boston. Of course, loving somebody doesn’t mean you can’t acknowledge that they can be a real asshole. He’s written a series of five police-procedural detective novels, all featuring Matt Flynn, a BPD dick turned PI. Each one has sold more than the previous, and the current has just made the
New York Times
bestseller list. He now does a bullshit feature on “Flynn’s Boston” for the
Globe
. As an ex-gym-teacher, he’s very driven. I don’t know why he worries excessively about his police credentials, or lack of. You only have to take a lardass cop to lunch to nail the procedural shit, the rest is a testimony to his writerly powers of imagination.
Dad’s dust jackets claim he was a Boston homicide detective for eight years. They’ll be laughing at that one in a few Mick bars in Southie. He served with the BPD, in uniform, for only three years before he was kicked out for “racist behavior,” following
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