Ollie pressed it to his ear. “This is Ollie. Can I help you?” There was a crack of static and then a dial tone. “Huh, I think we got disconnected.” He handed the phone back to Kayla. “Did they give a name?”
“No, it was male voice, I think, and they just asked for you.” She pressed some buttons on the phone. “It showed up as unknown on the caller ID. Oh well, maybe they’ll call back. You have plans tonight?"
"Um," Ollie faltered, was this like a buy the new guy a beer thing or...
She laughed. "Easy, junior, you're not my type. And I'm guessing I'm not yours either." A gentle grin pulled up one side of her mouth and Ollie huffed a laugh.
"That transparent, huh?"
"Let's just say I've had plenty of material to study. Now back to my original question. What are you doing tonight?"
Ollie’s brow wrinkled. What material? "Um, I actually have plans. Dagen is going to show me some weight training stuff."
A knowing smile spread across Kayla's face. "Ah, well, you boys have fun, and I'll see you tomorrow. Hope you won't be too sore." She winked at him before disappearing from sight.
Excitement morphed into plain old nerves as Ollie walked through the glass door that separated Open Wounds from Rourke MMA. He'd run upstairs to change into more work-out appropriate attire and had been thankful Dagen wasn't in the apartment. He'd needed a minute to calm his nerves, which is all he got because Dagen's absence upstairs had meant the man was right where he said he'd be: in the gym, waiting for Ollie.
Ollie glanced around the large open room and was struck by the lingering scent of sweat in the air, despite the current lack of occupants. The only people Ollie could see were Vidar and Rory talking amongst themselves beside the MMA cage, and Dagen walking out from one of the back rooms with a clipboard in his hand and a stopwatch around his neck. Their eyes met and the jolt it always seemed to send through Ollie was becoming less and less unwelcome. Dagen's mouth tipped up into a smile as he beckoned Ollie to him, and the nerves holding his stomach captive eased. Ollie returned the smile with a nod and walked to the free weight area that Dagen had stopped in the middle of.
"Hey, how'd the tattoo go?" Dagen asked. He had changed clothes too, Ollie noted as he tried not to stare at the muscular breadth of his chest beneath a stretched white tank top. The shirt revealed more of the chest tat Ollie was always salivating over. It was a rose, much like the one on Dagen's right arm, and the leaves surrounding the flower were the dark lines sweeping up his neck that Ollie wanted to lick every time he caught sight of them. There was more, Ollie could tell. More dark lines hidden beneath the thin white fabric, sprawling down to cover the entirety of his left pectoral. The dark jeans he’d seen him in earlier were gone as well, and Ollie swallowed when his eyes caught on the way the shiny material of the black basketball shorts molded to the outline of muscular thighs or the bulge between them with every shift of Dagen's legs.
Ollie cleared his throat. "Good. So, uh, how do we do this?"
"First, we'll take your weight and measurements. Then we'll walk through the program I've put together for you. We won't go full speed tonight, but just get you familiar with the equipment and work on your form."
"Form?"
"Yes. The motion you use during the lift. Holding your body correctly will maximize your results and prevent injury, so it's super important. Ready?"
Ollie liked the way he seemed to be in full-on professional mode. He should have known Dagen was completely serious when he said he'd teach him how to train, and it was another point in Dagen's favor that his word seemed to mean something. Ollie followed him over to the mirrored wall where a scale and filing cabinet sat on the floor beside an enormous rack of dumbbells. Dagen pulled open the second drawer of the cabinet and reached inside, pulling out a cloth measuring tape like a seamstress would use.
"We'll measure your neck, chest, biceps, waist, hips, thighs, calves, and height. Ok?"
Ollie nodded and stepped closer. Dagen held his eyes for a moment before gently wrapping the tape measure around his neck. As the material tightened against his skin, Ollie was afraid he would panic, but it was over in a second. Dagen scratched down a number on the sheet attached to the clipboard he'd left sitting on top of the file cabinet beside the neck on a diagram of a man's body. On top of the sheet, Ollie saw his own name neatly printed on the line for the client's name. He felt a touch to his chest and realized Dagen had continued his measuring. He worked quickly and efficiently down the rest of Ollie's body, slipping the tape measure into place with minimal touching, then jotting down the result beside the corresponding body part on the diagram. After the last blank was filled, including his six-foot height, Dagen put the tape away and asked Ollie to step onto the scale. One hundred and forty flashed in digital numbers on the little screen after Ollie settled his weight onto it. The corners of Dagen's mouth pulled down while he recorded the number on the sheet.
"Is everything ok?" Ollie asked, watching the furrow of Dagen's brow.
"Yeah." Dagen gave him a little smile. "Let's walk through your workout."
Dagen had pegged Ollie to be on the lighter side of average for his height, but the number on the scale confirmed that more than likely Ollie had actually been underweight when he’d arrived at Open Wounds. The little bit of weight he’d put on in the last couple weeks had settled unto to his frame nicely and Dagen let that soothe him even as the same anger he'd felt at seeing the bruises on Ollie's torso tore its way out of the corner of his mind he'd stuffed it in. Had the stress of dealing with whoever had put those bruises there kept Ollie from eating like he should? Dagen shook himself. Ollie was a grown man, only a year younger than Dagen according to the answers he'd given to Dagen's assessment questions, and he could take care of himself. The busted knuckles that had worried Dagen at first glance now filled him with a sense of pride and relief. Whoever, or whatever, Ollie had endured, he'd obviously fought his way out. Dagen would do anything in his power to see that he never had to fight like that again. Or at the very least, see that Ollie would have the strength to do so if he ever had to.
"Remember to keep your knees from extending past your toes." Dagen said, watching Ollie perform his second set of squats. "That's it. Stick your butt out like you're sitting down in a chair. Head up. Back straight and push through your heels. Good."
Ollie was the perfect client. He listened intently to all of Dagen's instructions and didn't hesitate to adjust his form when Dagen pointed out areas that needed correcting. He'd decided to start Ollie on a five by five routine consisting of ten exercises that Ollie would complete five sets of with five repetitions each. After some trial and error with weighted dumbbells, they'd found the weight for each exercise that Ollie could lift comfortably for the repetitions required. The goal of the five by five routine was to try to minimize the amount of rest needed between each set from one training session to the next. So, if Ollie needed two minutes of rest this session, Dagen would try to push him to one minute and fifty-five seconds rest during the next. Dagen felt this was a good way to start building on and strengthening the muscle Ollie already had. His endurance was already proving substantial. Probably from the running, Dagen thought.
Finishing his last set, Ollie placed the dumbbells he'd been using back on the rack and reached for the bottle of water Dagen had given him.
"Any pain?" Dagen asked, eyes darting down to where he knew remnants of the bruises still lurked under Ollie's shirt.
Ollie shrugged. "A little, but none that's sharp or anything. Just the normal ache." He wouldn't hold Dagen's gaze, but it seemed more like embarrassment than dishonesty that kept his eyes averted, so Dagen let it go.
"Good. One more exercise and some stretching, and we're done." He moved to pull the dumbbell he thought would be a good weight for Ollie to use for side bends off the rack but stopped when Ollie caught his arm. The dark eyes that had been avoiding his didn't waver now, holding his gaze like they'd never been hesitant to do so.
"I just
wanted to say thank you. For doing this."
"You're welcome, Ollie." Warm fingers pressed into the flesh of his forearm for a moment before Ollie let go and stepped back. Dagen felt that gentle squeeze like a brand, burning all the way down to the bone.
"Do you like pasta?" Dagen asked, his head stuck in the pantry, broad back to where Ollie was sitting on one of the stools at their small kitchen island. Their. Ollie wondered when in the last two weeks his thinking had gone from "Dagen's" or "the apartment" to "their apartment." It was enough to rattle his nerves. After the workout, Dagen had insisted Ollie join him for dinner since he was cooking anyway and there would be plenty. Ollie had tried to protest, but in truth, he was hungry. Hungrier than he'd been in recent memory.
A tremor went through him, and he gripped his shaking fingers around the glass of water Dagen had placed in front of him.
"Ollie?"
Ollie's eyes snapped up and over to Dagen, straightened up out of the pantry now and watching him with worry lines creasing his forehead. Clearing his throat, Ollie tried for a little smile. "Sorry, um, pasta sounds great."
"Ok. Any food allergies?"
"Nope. I'll eat just about anything...except kale. I don't get why everyone's obsessed with that shit."
Dagen laughed. "You're not going to get the bunch I have in the crisper and set it on fire or anything, are you?"
"Don't tempt me," Ollie said into his water glass, surprising himself.
Dagen shot him a look while he laid out some dry ingredients next to the stove and started filling a deep stainless-steel pot with water. "So, no kale. What about spinach? Or do you have something against dark leafy greens in general?"
His smirk was doing things to Ollie's insides and he realized, again, why he'd been so adamant about avoiding this very situation. He was hopelessly attracted to this man, and right now, in this moment, he found he didn't want to fight it. He was probably crazy, but he let himself settle a little more comfortably on the stool, leaned his elbows on the counter, and simply enjoyed watching a beautiful man cook him dinner.
Beautiful, tattooed, muscled...kind-hearted.
"When are you going to tell me about the tattoo you want?"
Dagen chuckled. "Over dinner. Now, don't change the subject - spinach?" He picked up a bag filled with dark green leaves and shook it to emphasize his point.
Ollie felt his lip curl up the slightest bit without his permission, and then pursed his lips in confusion when Dagen's eyes went soft and his lips pulled into the sweetest smile Ollie had ever seen.
"What?"
Dagen ducked his head with a little shake, that smile frozen on his face as he reached for a head of garlic, big hands breaking off cloves to set on a cutting board. "No spinach, then."
Squinting, Ollie leaned farther over the counter. "Are you making fun of me?"
Dagen's hands stilled as he looked up and held Ollie's gaze. "Does it look like I'm making fun of you?"
Holding Dagen's stare was like looking into the sun. There was heat there that should scorch the flesh right off Ollie's bones, leave him brittle and picked clean. Instead, he felt it sear a path from where his eyes held Dagen's gorgeous ones—they were the bluest Ollie had ever seen them today—down into his chest to set his heart pounding before traveling even further south. His pants grew uncomfortable the longer those eyes kept him captive, and he swallowed as he shook his head, adjusting himself on the stool.
"Good. Now, sit your ass right there, drink your water, and let me feed you."
Dagen watched with a satisfied smirk as Ollie finished his second helping of chicken fra diavolo before he leaned back in his chair and patted his belly.
"That was amazing. Consider me converted. Microwave burritos have nothing on that."
"Told you." Dagen grinned. As soon as the food was ready they'd both tucked into it with barely a word spoken. When they'd reached for second helpings, conversation had started to flow a little more easily. Ollie told Dagen about some of the tattoos he'd gotten to do in the two weeks he'd been in the shop and the appointments he'd already scheduled for the next few weeks. And Dagen had started to explain his transition from power lifting to strong man.
"So, you got hurt?" Ollie asked, going back to the conversation they'd been having before he'd cleaned his plate for the second time.
"Yeah. I'd been power lifting since I was a teenager and thought it would be easy to walk into a strong man competition. I was wrong." Dagen sighed. "I tore my right hamstring." He could feel it even now, sitting comfortably in his kitchen, this weird pull in his leg that hadn't been there before. "I was lucky though. It wasn't a complete tear and healed on its own without me having to have surgery, but I was still down for months. For the first couple, I couldn't even put weight on my leg."
"How did it happen?"
"The event was carry and drag. We had to pick up these sand bags, each one heavier than the last, carry them over to a sled attached to a chain and then drag the sled over a finish line. I felt a pull on the very first one but didn't want to stop."
"Damn. I'm sorry."
Dagen shrugged. "I wasn't ready. I completely underestimated the sport. I know better now." He chuckled derisively. "Or, at least, Vidar refuses to let me forget."
Ollie hummed. "So, the competition tomorrow...it's a strong man?"
"Yes. It's a the local one that will decide who gets to move onto state level."
"So, you win tomorrow, go to state, and then what?" Ollie asked, picking up the crust of his garlic bread and breaking it into little pieces.
"The top three guys in each weight class are invited to compete at Nationals. Top three at Nationals get their pro card. That's where the money and sponsors are."
"Is that your goal? To get to Nationals?”
“Definitely.” Ollie’s eyes were curious, and Dagen didn't know why, but he wanted to give more than just the basic answer. "Having sponsors would be great. For me and for the gym, but...I guess more than that I just want to be successful." He laughed. "That sounds dumb, but I'm the baby of the family, right? And they've all had their successes. Or are in the process of getting there and I..." He broke off with a little shake of his head.
"You feel like you have to be successful too. It makes sense, really."
"You have siblings?" Dagen asked, realizing he still knew so little about Ollie.
"Um, no. I don't have any family." Ollie tensed as he spoke, and the eye contact Dagen found himself coveting ceased before the last syllable left Ollie's full lips. He opened his mouth to change the subject when Ollie raised his head and cut him off. "Do you have Saran Wrap?"
"Um, yeah I think so? For what? We demolished that whole pan of pasta."
"Not for leftovers, for your tattoo."
Chapter Seven
The crowd for the lifting competition was large despite the cool, damp day. The big bay doors that Ollie assumed used to let trucks dock to load or unload when the building housing the gym and tattoo shop was still a warehouse were wide open, letting in a crisp breeze as well as spectators of all shapes and sizes. Ollie had no idea that weightlifting as a sport was so popular, yet the proof was milling around the stage area set up on the side of the gym that was usually reserved for the thick mats used for ground fighting.
“Ollie!” A rich voice called, breaking through his thoughts and he turned to see Rory walking toward him. “How are ya, lad? Enjoying working in the shop?”
Ollie shook the hand that was extended to him. He hadn’t really talked much to Rory since that first week. “I’m good and yeah, everything and everyone has been great.”
“I know that look,” Rory said, squinting at him. “You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Ollie stared at him. Was he that transparent?
Rory slung an arm around his shoulders and led him closer to the stage area. “Take it from someone who was once an outsider. There’s no need for the worry.” Just as they reached the edge of the crowd, Rory’s face morphed from jovia
l to neutral in a heartbeat when a dark haired man stepped into their path. “Hello, Magnus.”
“Rory.” The man replied and Ollie looked from the man at his side to the newcomer and did a double take. Take away about a foot of height and probably a hundred pounds and it could have been Dagen standing in front of them - a much smaller, beardless version of Dagen anyway. Magnus was wearing the same neutral expression Rory now had plastered on his face. “Are you going to introduce me?”
Rory had gone tense beside him, but cleared his throat and made the introductions. “Magnus, this is Oliver Vos. Ollie, Magnus Rourke.”
Ollie knew from tidbits of conversation that there was another Rourke out there somewhere and he was happy to meet him, but Magnus’s eyes on him, accessing him, with some strange combination of Vidar’s intensity and Dagen’s care was unnerving. It didn’t help that they looked identical to Dagen’s either. Magnus stepped forward and offered his hand, and Ollie swore he felt Rory tense even further, like he wanted to take a step back for every one Magnus took forward. “It’s nice to meet you,” Ollie said, as he shook Magnus’s hand and tried to ignore the tension building between the two men. Before Magnus could even reply, Rory did take a quick step back.
“I’m gonna go check on Dagen. See you later Ollie.” He fled without a backward glance.
Ollie turned his eyes back to the man in front of him, but Magnus wasn’t looking at Ollie. He was watching Rory walk away with an expression frozen between anger and regret before his eyes returned to Ollie’s.
“Sorry about that.” He turned so that he was standing at Ollie’s side, facing the stage, but didn’t elaborate further on whatever the hell had just happened. “So, how are you enjoying your time at the house of Rourke?”
Open Wounds: The Boxed Set Page 5
