HOLLY
The treadmill beeped again. I felt the belt rising beneath me as it went into another incline, this time five-percent. The muscles in my ass and lower back threatened to cramp up in response.
“How’s it lookin’?”
I was sweating bullets. Hot and sticky. Whatever hair wasn’t bouncing around behind me in my ponytail was now plastered to the sides of my face. I used to hate him seeing me like this — in fact, I was very self-conscious of it. But over the last week and a half, Dylan had seen me a lot more sticky.
“Looking… like this program… might be bullshit…” I gasped.
My trainer broke into his familiar sadistic grin. “Does it hurt?”
“All over,” I said. “And… I’m sweating… like a…”
Whore in church?
“Sweat is just fat crying,” Dylan interjected. It was one of his more corny sayings
