No Pain, No Gain

The doors slide open and the gym exhales cold, conditioned air over me as I step inside. The place smells like rubber mats, metal, and citrus cleaner, and the bass from the speakers pulses steadily through the floor. My white athletic shoes squeak on the polished floor, announcing me. I'm wearing a pink sports bra and matching shorts under my caramel leather jacket like a secret I haven’t decided to share yet.

The gym bag hangs off my shoulder, heavier than it should be, because I don’t go anywhere unprepared anymore. The mirrors along the front wall catch me from a dozen angles at once, and I deliberately avoid looking too long at any of them. Never trust a mirror, or what's inside.

Rows of machines stretch out in perfect lines, the music thumping just low enough to feel in my chest. There is something about gyms that feel like being the dessert on a buffet. The men pause and stare at me hungrily. I head straight for the locker room without acknowledging anyone or looking them in the eye.

The noise of the gym dulls as the door closes behind me, leaving only the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant echo of running water. The locker room is quiet, the air thick with the smell of bleach and stale sweat. Rows of lockers line the walls, and the space is empty enough that I do not have to worry about anyone.

My footsteps echo off the tile as I walk to my usual locker at the far end, away from the showers. I spin the combination, the click too loud in the silence. I shrug off the leather jacket, its familiar weight lifting, and hang it on the hook inside. I look around, quickly adding my shoulder holster and the Colt Peacemaker that it carries.

The revolver is heavy, familiar, and reassuring in a way nothing else ever quite is. I slide it beneath a towel at the bottom of the locker. The gym bag follows, then I close the door and add my lock. I turn toward the mirror near the sinks and study my reflection.

Dark curls frame my face in a way that never quite looks intentional. There is something in my eyes that people notice even when they cannot explain why. I am half succubus. My mother is Lamashtu, and my father is Jesse James, which sounds like a joke until you are the one living with the consequences.

I did not inherit horns or wings or anything so obvious, but I did inherit something worse. I draw attention whether I want to or not. Men respond first, and they respond hard, literally and metaphorically. Something in me pulls at them, and they lean in before they realize what they are doing.

Women react differently. They pull back. Sometimes it is subtle, and sometimes it is not, but it is always there. Distrust, irritation, or something sharper that they cannot quite name. I do not take it personally. If I were them, I would not trust me either. I look away from the mirror before I can think too much about it and head back out to the gym floor.

The space opens up in front of me, filled with movement and noise and people pretending not to watch each other. Heads turn as I walk past, and I can feel the shift in attention like a change in temperature. I ignore it. Acknowledging it only makes it worse.

I move toward the leg extension machine and take a seat. I adjust the pad across my shins, lean back, and grip the handles at my sides. Pushing the weight up in a smooth, controlled motion, my quads tighten. I hold at the top for a count before lowering it slowly. I repeat the movement, keeping my form clean.

By the second set, the noise around me fades into the background. I try not to think about who is watching or what they want. I only have to focus on the lift, the control, and the burn building steadily in my legs. It is one of the few places where everything makes sense.

I finish the set, stand, and move on before anyone has the chance to approach me. I cross to the cable station and run through a few controlled movements to warm up my hips and core. Then I make my way to the leg press, because I want something heavier, something that demands more from me.

I settle into the seat, plant my feet on the plate, and adjust my position until everything feels aligned. Lowering the weight slowly until my knees bend deep, the pressure builds. I drive it back up, steady and controlled, refusing to let it rush me or break my form. For now, the weight is the only thing that matters, and that is exactly how I like it.