Switch for another appointment

You aren’t interested in the snobby rich bitch. She just came in to tease you and spend her daddy’s money.

You glance at your clipboard and Saturday’s schedule of appointments. You see that there’s a young woman coming in for a swimming lesson. Hmm, you think, wondering how old the client was.

You head into the office and sit down at the computer. Flipping through client’s files, you find the young woman’s file. Her name was Brielle Sanderson, daughter of Robert Sanderson the local media magnate. Reading the file, you discover that Brielle was eighteen and… afraid of water? According to the report, a lifeguard was to be around whenever she was near the pool. Well, you are certified.

You pick up the phone and ring up Rebecca, the physical therapist.

“Hey Rebecca, can you do me a favor?” you say.

“Depends,” she responds. “What do you want me to do?”

“Could you switch appointments with me? Shelly’s a waste of my time.”

“Why’s that?”

“She doesn’t train to become stronger. Shelly just wastes her father’s money and tries to tease me with her little body. All you would have to do is watch her to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself.”

“And you’ll keep an eye on Brielle? She’s a little twitchy around the water. The girl’s only managed to get in the pool up to her ankles, and the shallow end is only a foot deep.”

“I have a gentle touch,” you laugh. “She’ll be okay.”

“She’s yours. And don’t worry about owing me a favor in the future. A day without her screaming is a blessing.” Rebecca clicked off, replaced by dial tone.

You set the phone back on hook. Smiling, you pad off to the pool, glad that the center’s uniform specified wearing a swimsuit at all times.

By the pool, you pull of your white shirt, setting it over one of the deck chairs. You grab two thick fluffy towels from the shelves lining the wall and place them on the chair as well. Behind you, you hear the doors from the locker rooms creak open and a young voice say, “Hello?”

You turn to face the doors and see a your appointment’s blonde haired blue-eyed head poking out.

“Hello,” you say, a wide smile on your face. “I’ll be your trainer for today. I’m Richard.”

“I, I was told that Rebecca would watch me today.”

“She got caught up with a few other things and asked me to help you. Come on in, you’ll be safe.”

Brielle stepped into the room tentatively. She was a slim girl, with long curvy legs and a small, but healthy chest. She was wearing a black one-piece with thin shoulder straps and high-cut hips. The young woman quivered, her eyes wide in fear.

“It’s okay,” you say. “You’ll be fine. Come on over and sit down on the chair.”

As she walked up to the chair, you see that she’s quite a bit shorter than you, her head only coming up to your chest. She sat down on the deck chair and looked up at you, her eyes widening as she took you in.

“Wow,” she says. “You’re different than most of the guys here.”

You smile. You’re taller than most men, standing at 6’4. You’re hair is a dark black, thick, and hangs down to your shoulders in a braid. Most of the male employees of the centers are full of muscles, trying to compete with Ahnold’s physique at his prime. You are as they say ‘ripped,’ not as noticeable as the others, but very strong and limber.

“I know,” you laugh. “I’m a true representative of America. The Lakota in me is strong, but I also have African, French, Cherokee and English ancestors. Rumor also says there might be some Welsh and Dutch far back in the line.”

“W, what’s your last name?”

“Wakanda. It means ‘possess magical powers.’ My grandfather was the son of a cavalryman and Lakota squaw. He was born out of wedlock, but his father died at the Battle of the Little Bighorn. Being raised by his mother in the white man’s world, she gave him a surname of strength albeit feminine in form. He married another half-Lakota. My grandfather married a mixed Creole, and the rest is history.”

“Wow,” Brielle said in awe. “That’s amazing, Mr. Wakanda.”

“Mr. Wakanda’s my father,” you laugh.

“What should I call you then?”

“Most people here call me Richard, but my friends know me as R.G.”

“What’s the ‘G’ stand for?” Brielle giggled.

“Gerald, for my mother’s father, but that’s our little secret, okay?”

“Okay, R.G.,” Brielle smiled broadly.

“Now, we have a couple hours to ourselves here, and you do have to get a little wet today. Preferably more than your ankles. Shall we get started?”