I even see the way his jaw hits the floor when I wink at him as I hit the apex of my lift.
What can I say? If they’re gonna gawk, they’re gonna get a fucking show.
But I don’t see the poor asshole walk into the wall in front of him as he stares at me. I only hear it: the sick crunch of his nose crumpling up like a balled up piece of notebook paper.
As blood pours down his face, the dude whimpers like a fucking pussy. I roll my eyes and catch the gaze of one of our personal trainers, who rolls his eyes right back.
“Fuck’s sake, Chase,” Brett swears as he jogs past me to help our injured customer. “That’s the third time this week.”
I just shrug. “His mamma should’ve told him it ain’t polite to stare.”
I’m not fucking phased—not by the attention and certainly not by the blood. I saw my fair share of that shit with my battalion in the Middle East. Saw a lot more working as muscle for the Cox crime family—and even more still when I wound up in jail for it.
But the army rangers, the mob, and the U.S penal system are all behind me now. I’ve got a good fucking gig going here with Eric at Power Plus—and for once, it doesn’t involve killing anybody.
They say crime never pays—but you can fucking bet that the corporate life does. Eric’s the mastermind of the operation. I’m just the hard body with the bad reputation that lends us some credibility.
We’ve made fucking billions opening gyms across the country, and we’re good enough at it that gyms are just the beginning. Fucking Eric has some kind of fifty-year plan for our brand, I have no goddamn doubt—I’m just here to punch him in his pretty mouth and put him in a headlock if he starts waving his dick too wide.
We’re a good fucking team, Eric and me.
And when you sow seed as well as Eric Hale and I do, you’d better fucking bet it won’t be too long until you’re gathering all the sweet, ripe fruit.
Which, speaking of fruit—you wouldn’t fucking believe the juicy-ass peach that just walked through Power Plus’ front doors.
She’s got long, wavy, bimbo blonde hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun. And a cute little workout outfit that she obviously just fucking bought.
As she talks with Jackson at the front desk to set up her membership, I can already see him losing himself in her pretty blue eyes and sizing up her glossy blowjob lips. When he puts his dirty hands on her slender shoulders to position her for her membership photo, I imagine ripping his fingers off and making him eat them.
Don’t get me wrong—I like Jackson. But I’m a territorial bastard, and I’ve already decided that this girl is mine.
I raise my eyes to Eric’s office, which is a couple stories up and overlooks the gym floor. Sure as fuck, there he is, eyeing this sexy piece of ass just like I am. Eric lords over his domain from above like some kind of god, but I fancy myself as more of a Jesus-among-the-people type.
When his eyes meet mine, I’m fucking smirking.
He can run down the stairs as fast as he likes—but I already know I’m going to get to this girl first.
Power Plus isn’t a cheap fucking gym—most of our clients are celebrities, billionaires and, worse—so as she signs our membership agreement, I check her finger for a ring.
Not wearing one—which is to my benefit. I don’t mind fucking the hell out of the bored wives of Hollywood fat cats, but if this woman did have a husband, she wouldn’t have one for long.
And if it’s her boyfriend paying for her membership…well. I don’t like the idea of going back to jail, but maybe she could be convinced to suck cock for gym time instead.
My gaze slides down to her wrists as she hands over her credit card to finalize her membership payment. They’re bone-thin and delicate. The kind of wrists that, if I wrapped my fingers around them too hard, I’d be afraid they’d break.
This girl is thin—too thin, in my opinion. I like my women with a little more meat on their bones, and this hot little slice looks like she’s been living for a little too long off of nothing more than diet coke and cheeseburger dreams.
If she’s looking for a workout, I’ve got a workout for her that she won’t forget.
As she struts her stuff across the gym floor, I figure she must be single after all. She’s got a model walk, for one thing—and the way those hips move, they’re looking for trouble in all the right places.
I figure she’ll go straight for the cardio area. Most women do.
They think if they lift anything that’s not bright pink or weighs more than five pounds, their muscles are going to balloon up like fucking She-Hulk or some shit. How else could some jackass have been able to make such a fortune off of fucking Shakeweights?
But to my surprise, she doesn’t hop on a treadmill or start putting in her rounds on a stationary bike. No, this little cutie tucks her gym bag into a locker and makes her way over to the weights—my domain of choice.
I won’t lie. I’m impressed. I like a woman who’s not afraid to pump a little iron, if you know what I mean.