A few hours later I'm pounding on Jax's front door.
"Let me in, asshole, I need to pee!" I shout angrily. A young couple walking on the sidewalk shoots me an annoyed look. I stare right back. Despite this being Queen's Village in the nice, hipster part of South Philly, it’s still Philadelphia. We're expected to be loud assholes.
Just as I'm trying to decide which alley I'm going to sneak down to relieve myself, the door opens to reveal a smirking Tristan West.
I have a lot of thoughts about Tristan, but the one thing I can't deny is that he's gorgeous. He's over six feet tall and a solid 200 pounds of muscle. I know him from the MMA gym I joined because of Jax in college—and it's an understatement to say they both look the part of a fighter. Tristan is the pretty boy of the two, with just-woke-up tousled, dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes that always feel like they're staring straight into the secrets of your soul. His jawline is defined and he’s got just enough stubble on his face to give him a rugged look, but not enough that it comes off as a scruffy beard. His skin has a warm tan, most likely from all the shirtless runs he does around the city for his cardio workouts.
I also know from my time at the gym that he's completely shredded from his training. Every pound of him has a purpose, his body built to be an efficient fighting machine with a low body fat percentage and muscles defined not by lifting weights, but by training with a real purpose and a fuck-ton of hard work. His dedication to the sport is unrivaled and it definitely shows in his appearance. I’ve never met a man as comfortable in his body as Tristan, and that fact coupled with the physical result of his workouts gives him an air of confidence and raw masculinity.
Basically, an effortless Adonis.
He's also a total ladies’ man and a shameless pig. Or maybe that's just to me, since I assume there’s a reason why women all fall into bed with him. Either way, he and I have been at each other's throats since the first day I stepped in the gym and he gave me directions to the ballet studio down the street.
"Of all the women I know, you're easily the least ladylike," he drawls.
I glare at him and push past, heading for the bathroom. "I guess that's really saying something, huh? God knows you've been with half the women in this city," I throw over my shoulder.
By the time I come out of the bathroom, he's sprawled on the couch and is back to watching whatever MMA fight he was analyzing before I pounded on his door.
"Where's Jax?" I ask as I plop onto the loveseat next to the TV.
"Still out at happy hour," Tristan responds without even looking at me. I notice he's watching a UFC title fight, most likely analyzing the champ's fighting style for his own arsenal of skills.
I glance at my phone. "Jesus, still? It's 9pm. How much do those corporate assholes drink?" I throw my head back with a groan.
"Look, Remy—" I immediately growl at the condescending tone, knowing I'm not going to like what's about to come out of his mouth. "I don't mind if you hang out until Jax comes back, but could you be a doll and shut the fuck up? I'm trying to work." He smiles sweetly. "Actually, I take that back, I do mind. Can you just wait for him in the kitchen like a good woman? Maybe make me dinner while you're in there."
I glare and launch a pillow directly at his head—which he deflects easily.
"I can't believe chauvinists like you still exist in this day and age. Hasn't the women's movement stomped you out yet?" Then I pause, thinking of something. "Actually, what surprises me the most is that you still find women to sleep with you. Although I doubt the women you fuck even know the definition of chauvinist, so maybe that's my answer."
He chuckles and gives me an exaggerated once-over. "Everybody knows your hatred for me is just a cover for how badly you want to be under me," he says with a smirk.
I exaggerate gagging at his words. "No thanks, I'd rather take a beating from the guy on the screen than entertain the idea of you flopping around on top of me for thirty seconds." Tristan bursts out laughing. "Actually, I'd rather take that beating than sit here with you right now. I'll just wait for Jax in his room." I stand up and head for Jax's bedroom upstairs.
I've barely reached the stairs when I hear, "Don't pull another New Year's and mistake my room for his again, or I'll assume you've decided against your women's movement and want to be under me, after all."
This time, my pillow hits him directly in the back of the head.
“That wasone time!” I screech. “One time that I got drunk enough to pass out in your bed instead of his. It’s hardly proof that I’m secretly salivating over you.”
I ignore his amused chuckle as I stomp into Jax’s room.
I'm sitting on the bed scrolling through my phone when Jax finally gets home. I wince when I hear him shout Tristan's name—he’s definitely shitfaced.
Sure enough, he has a giant grin on his face when his door swings open.
"Remy baby!" he shouts gleefully. He throws his suit jacket on his desk chair and then immediately launches himself at me on the bed. I grunt at the impact.
"Get off me, you big oaf," I grumble as I try to shove him off of me.
Where Tristan is a shredded 200 pounds, Jax is a massive 230. They're both just as muscular as the other but Jax has about four inches over Tristan and loves to do strongman workouts and eat everything in sight. With his massive stature and dirty blonde hair, he practically screams Viking descent.The fact that he works in corporate America as a sales guy for a tech company has always made me laugh. Even with custom suits and perfectly gelled hair, he'll always be an overwhelming presence in any room. But with his contagious smile and affable personality, it's easy to get over the feeling of intimidation and fall in love with him.
He's also been my best friend since middle school. My parents moved us into the development where his family lived and—being the crazy tomboy that I've always been—Jax and I became fast friends. People always teased us about dating, but it only took one awkward kiss when we were seventeen to realize just how gross that idea sounded. He was my brother, my protector, my friend. We did everything together in high school, to the point that we couldn't fathom going to college in different cities. So although we attended different schools, we both moved to Philly our freshman year.
I also joined the MMA gym because of him. I was looking for a new sport after I couldn’t get rid of the Freshman 15 and by that point, he was already deep into his obsession with MMA. It was an easy choice since he and Tristan were constantly watching and talking about fights—and I’ll be honest, I was coming off of a bad breakup andreallyliked the idea of punching guys in the face. But it quickly became so much more than that. I learned valuable self-defense and became the healthiest that I’ve ever been. And while I never fought like the guys did, I was obsessed with taking classes and learning the techniques.
Now, three years after college, the boys are living together and working separate jobs. Both boys have gone pro, though Tristan truly lives, breathes, and sleeps MMA. Most of his income comes from private lessons and teaching classes. He’s so focused on becoming the next world champ that his entire schedule revolves solely around his training.