AIR AND STEEL

“Three more reps! Come on, sonny, push that bar, keep those shoulders tight, slam it up, let’s go!”

I shove the weights up, keeping my elbows tucked in, completing the bench press in one smooth motion. My arms burn from the exertion, a line of cold sweat dripping off my nose, and I struggle, holding the weights at their peak.

“Last two, bring that barbell all the way down, raise that chest, come on, it's just air and steel, sonny, AIR AND STEEL!”

I grunt as I thrust the weight up again, arms trembling as they reach the top of the movement. Turns out the fucking trainer knew more than just yoga, and it turns out, building a good physique is fucking hard.

“Final rep, bring it down, I want to see that bar touching your chest. Back up now, come on, you can do it, air and steel, sonny, AIR AND STEEL, IT’S NOTHING BUT AIR AND STEEL!”

I let out a strangled yell as I give it my all, the barbell reaching its zenith, lifted high in its absolute glory. I bask in the high, vision blurry at the edges, and feel the trainer give me a pat on the shoulder. I rack the weight and slump over the bench, breathing hard, destroyed by the workout.

“Good work, Claude,” the trainer says, taking the weights off the barbell. “Let’s move back to the yoga mats to cool down.”

“And then I’ll do it all again in two days,” I groan, reaching for my paper cup of water. I toss the paltry amount of liquid down my throat and stumble over to the cooler to fill it back up again.

“That is the path we walk,” the trainer says, completely seriously.

I’ve just about made it to the mats when I see Dr. Kee walking into the room. His gaze fixes onto me, eyes roaming over my body, and I feel like he is dissecting me, taking me apart and then reconstructing me in his head. He nods to himself, satisfied with what he sees.

“It’s a good body, yes?” he says to the trainer.

“Never seen anyone recover so quickly,” the trainer says.

“Most exemplary,” Dr. Kee agrees. “Now, I was flicking through the tabloids just the other day, when I came across this set of pictures on page two.”

He pulls up a photo on his phone—it’s me, sitting with Tiffany outside Intelligentsia, both of us sipping coffees and laughing.

“And I thought to myself, this is a man who still owes me something.”

“I know,” I say, meeting his gaze. “You have nothing to worry about.”

“It’s been over a month,” Dr. Kee says. “If I catch wind that you’re stalling…”

“I’m not.”

“I have many friends, many clients,” the doctor slowly says. “You and I both know what will happen if you fail to make good on your deal, Claude.”

“Argh!” Ella Sue cries in frustration, throwing her hands into the air.

We’re sitting at a cafe by Venice Beach, watching the bodybuilders there do their thing. With all the screams and grunts sounding from them, Ella Sue’s little complaint hardly gets noticed by anyone around.

She puts her phone down on the table and shakes her head.

“They didn’t want me for The Three Snake-Leaves,” she sighs. “Nobody wants me.”

“That's not true,” I say. “The Vanderbilt biopic said…”

“As an extra, without credit anywhere! That doesn’t count,” she protests. “I don’t know if I should even stick with it…”

“It’s just air and steel, Ella Sue,” I say, banging the table. “AIR AND STEEL!”

She gives me a strange look.

“It’s what my trainer says. Supposed to be a reminder that you can do anything. You um… you kind of have to be there for it to make sense,” I say.

“Ooookay…” she says, picking up her phone again. “I just thought this whole thing would be easier, y’know? I always thought I was pretty good at acting, but I’m not so sure anymore…”

“I think you’re a phenomenal actress,” I say. “Honestly? If I were the one in charge, I’d hire you in a heartbeat.”

She coughs into her hand, saying something like “Ahem… MGM… Ahem…”

“Maybe in a year or two, if things go well?” I say, offering her a smile.

“Let’s hope so,” she says, smiling back at me. “It’d be cool to have a mega-rich friend.”

“Speaking of which,” I say, “let me check if Tiffany’s managed to get through to Father.”

I start to check my phone, but she’s faster on the draw.

“Oh shit!” Ella Sue says, “It’s official! Look!”

She turns her phone to me, the headline reading: Superstars Breakup! Tiffany and Eric fall out, for good!

She looks at me like I’m some sort of god.

“You made this happen,” she breathes.

“It should have happened months ago,” I say, shaking my head. “Now, let’s just see if I’m in too.”

With that, I check how I’ve been doing on the AMA:

Tiffany Najbreit, Score: 55 (as Markus and Claude) (+40)

Ella Sue Sergeant, Score: 75 (as Markus and Claude) (+25)

It’s good progress, but the real interesting thing is my score with Father:

Warren Najbreit, Score: -1000 (as Markus), 13 (as Claude) (+13)

Whatever Tiffany told Father… it must have made a decent impression. Nothing, of course, is ever going to improve Father’s perception of Markus Najbreit, but Claude Ashworth? He’s the reason why I’ve got a shot at this at all.

I send Tiffany a text through my Claude phone: Saw the breaking news. How are you feeling?

It’s surreal, she texts back a second later. Fans on the internet are getting so angry… I’m hiding in my house and cutting off social media for the next few days.

You didn’t spill the beans on the shit he did? I ask.

Ella Sue scooches her chair over so that she can get a good look at my phone too.

Father didn’t let me, Tiffany writes. Said he still wants an out in case your plan falls through.

But he accepted it?

“Provisionally” was the word he used. He called it bold. I don’t think he believes you on the Rothschild thing, she writes. But he thinks it’s worth a shot anyways.

I’ll see you in three days then? I write.

Count on it, she replies.

“Did you just score a date with Tiffany Najbreit?” Ella Sue asks, clutching my arm.

“I need to buy myself a tux,” I say, turning to face her. “I’ve got a Ball to get ready for.”