Free Grimm: The Chopping Block by John Passarella Page B

said. “Gotcha. Full bore. You know me.”
    “Remember, Decker,” Monroe said as they approached the glass door with three golden Ps arranged diagonally, like a mini-staircase. “Pilates is about patience, precision and breathing.”
    “I know how to breathe.”
    “Probably not the right way,” Monroe said, almost to himself, but Decker’s Blutbad hearing didn’t miss a word.
    “You mean I’ve been doing it wrong all these years?” Decker said. “It’s a freakin’ wonder I’m still alive.”
    “Okay, the Pilates way,” Monroe amended.
    “I know all about Pilates,” Decker said as Monroe held the door open for him.
    “Really?” Monroe said, unable to control the sudden elevation of his eyebrows.
    “Yeah,” Decker said, smirking again, as he entered the studio. “Can’t wait to toss around that medicine ball. Bet I can knock you on your ass, Mr. Veggie Burger.”
    Monroe sighed. “It’s not a medicine ball,” he said, hurrying to catch up to Decker. “It’s an exercise ball. And you don’t throw it at people.”
    “Oh, yeah?” Decker asked. “So what do you do with the damn thing?”
    “Mostly,” Monroe said, unable to help himself. “You sit on it.”
    “Are you kidding me?” Decker asked, pulling up short. “What the ever-loving hell happened to you, man?”
    Again, Monroe sighed. “Don’t worry about it. We’re signed up for a beginner mat class. No balls today.”
    “From what I see, the balls have been missing for a while, man.”
    “You know, as soon as I said it, I knew it was a huge mistake.”
    Monroe’s early optimism had fled, reduced to a perfunctory sense of obligation to finish what he had started. But he chose to keep up appearances and hope that Decker would turn the corner and find some value in the class.
    “Don’t sweat it, brother,” Decker said. “I’m ready to kick some Pilates ass.”
    There’s no kicking
. The words popped unbidden into Monroe’s head, but he wisely kept them to himself.
    * * *
    Fearing Decker might become self-conscious in a group setting, Monroe had led him to the back row of the class. Out of a dozen students, Monroe counted eight women and four men. And, except for a middle-aged man who had “recent-divorce” written all over him, the others clearly had some experience with the postures, which exposed a flaw in Monroe’s plan. If the class was like an ad hoc pack, Decker’s proficiency status dropped him immediately down the dominance hierarchy, which didn’t bode well.
    Decker lasted all of ten minutes before the problems started. He handled the early postures well enough, even allowing for the restriction of his flannel shirt and jeans. No problems with “one leg circle” or “roll up” and “swan dive.” But “double leg stretch” and “hundred” had him puffing and grunting when he wasn’t muttering curses. “Teaser” gave him fits, especially near the end of the hold period. “Leg pull prone” led to him crashing onto the floor and rolling off his mat.
    “Son of a motherless whore!”
    “Decker,” Monroe whispered, embarrassed by and for him.
    “It’s nothing, I’m fine,” Decker said, waving his arm at the rest of the class, which had collectively paused to gape at him. “Go on about your business.”
    When Decker elevated sideways in “side bend” with his arm extended over his head, Monroe wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t.
    Decker teetered one way, then the other, and then toppled over with a roar, emitting a growl of frustration as he woged. For a moment, Monroe feared the Blutbad might attack the class. Some of them turned around to stare; others pointedly ignored his outburst in a way that made him angrier still.
    “Decker!” Monroe hissed.
    But Decker ignored Monroe’s entreaties. He stood and kicked his foam mat across the floor. It spun in a half-revolution and struck a middle-aged woman two spots farther down their row.
    “Hey!” the woman yelled, indignant.
    The instructor,