[Alyssa]
A little after five o'clock, everyone finally left, leaving Chresanto and I alone. He goes upstairs after instructing me to change into some workout clothes, and I follow him, our paths ending with us going into our separate rooms.
Fifteen minutes later, I jog down to the basement to see Chresanto dressed in a fitted navy blue muscle shirt, grey basketball shorts with a white stripe going down the side and white Nike sneakers. I'm wearing a matching purple and lime green sports bra and shorts set while a pair of white Adidas cover my feet; luckily, I have no bruises masking my sun-kissed golden brown skin.
"Ready to begin?" Chresanto questions, walking toward the treadmill. I nod and follow him; Chresanto sets the treadmill to the settings that he thinks suit me best and gestures toward it, his way of telling me to step on it.
I get on, but Chresanto doesn't press the start button. "What is this for?"
"This is to help you get faster, Alyssa." I give him a dumbfounded look. "If you can't fight your protector off, I at least want you to be able to escape. I don't know what I'd do if anything were to happen to you. Now, press start and get to running... or else I will."
Before I can protest, Chresanto presses the flashing start button and the conveyor belt begins to move. I start out with a jog to keep up with it, and I watch as Chresanto goes over to a corner and picks up a pair of boxing gloves, sliding them on.
"Why can't I do that?" I question, continuing to watch him from the floor to ceiling mirror that covers the entire length of the wall in front of me.
"Because," Chresanto begins as he tightens his gloves, "you need to work on speed before you can move on to dropping hits." He starts to punch the bag hanging from the ceiling, kicking it every once in a while, and I go back to running on the treadmill.
After twenty minutes of running, and silence, my calves begin to hurt. "Chres, can I stop running now? My calves are starting to hurt."
Chresanto stops hitting the punching bag, drenched in sweat. He pulls his shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest to me. I begin to stare at his perfectly carved chest, his abdomen sporting a good looking six pack; it's pretty evident that Chresanto likes to work out and keep his body in shape, and that has to be one of the most attractive things a man can do in my eyes.
Most of Ace's clients are, again, big names and pay big bucks for us, but none of them even come close to being able to compare to Chresanto. He has the muscles of Hercules but the beauty of a true Greek god; Ace's other clients, however, mainly have grey hair and aging bodies. I let my gaze travel over to his arms, his biceps coming into view as he flexes his arms to take off his boxing gloves then he tosses them in the corner where they were. He must know that I'm staring at him because he flexes his arm once more then chuckles and saunters toward me.
"Would you like some water?" he questions, walking past me. He stops at a mini fridge and opens it, bottles of water the only thing in it. He grabs two of them before walking back to me and holding one out. I hesitantly grab the bottled beverage before opening it and taking a sip. "Drink up because next, I'm going to show you how to fight off your attacker from behind."
I nod before taking a long chug of my water. As I remove the bottle from my lips, I can't help but to notice a scar on Chresanto's left arm. I point to it and ask, "What happened?"
