by Maxi MacNair
I nestled into my jacket, sipped my tea, and breathed deeply, wondering if Derek and I would leave this place tonight in a similar fashion. Maybe it was just the tea or heartburn, but my chest warmed at the thought. The week I had spent with him was one I couldn’t forget, even after all these months and a couple moments of denial. The way he first looked at me, our first real date… the candles and the touch of his fingers along my waist and lower… the sweet signature his lips left on mine. I took another sip of my tea but almost swore I was tasting him, instead. I wonder if the memory of me is as imprinted on him. I wonder if he can, and does often, replay in his mind the first moment he saw me, kissed me, touched me like I can and do more often than I want. It’s hard not to, I carry the evidence of that week together every waking moment now.
**Keep Flipping for a preview of another Bonus Story included**
**Look Inside Preview of Bad Boy Desire: Luke**
I can tell from the way the manager keeps looking at me that he thinks I have no idea what any of this equipment is for. He definitely has me pegged as some dumb blonde only looking for a job where I can get discount yoga classes. Even if it’s been a while since I’ve been to the gym, I at least know what the machines are called. There’s no need for him to just assume, but I can’t bring myself to blame him. I look down to my bright blue running shorts and my matching running shoes. I probably look like a joke to someone way more serious about their fitness.
I can remember, back in the early days of college, I used to be so athletic. I would hit the gym three times a week: two days of cardio and one for strength training. I remember being able to count my abs. I let a hand slip down to discreetly poke at the layer of fat covering what had once been a well-maintained core. That had been many years and many final exam stress-binges ago. I decide that I need to start doing sit-ups again as soon as possible.
“Are you still with me, Anna?” he asks. He’s all booming voice and neck muscles. Probably a personal trainer. My eyes find the nametag pinned to his chest: Dwight. Names have never been my strong suit, but I decide quickly that I wouldn’t forget his. I nod politely to answer him, keeping my expression attentive as he starts going over protocol for the dead lift weights and bars.
I guess it doesn’t really matter. He’s only showing me around as a formality. I’ll be working at the front desk, and it’s not like any of the members would single me out to get pointers on weight lifting; not with my thin arms and slender figure.
As if he could read my thoughts, Dwight sighs quickly and his voice gets a bit softer. “Look,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I know that you won’t be using this stuff, and if the world worked a bit better, other clueless idiots wouldn’t touch it either. But a lot of the time, clueless idiots do pick this stuff up and they either hurt themselves or they break shit. It gets expensive. I need you to know when to tell someone to stop and have someone else teach them how to use the equipment. Got it?”
I give him a quick thumbs up. “Sure thing, boss.”
He gives me a once over, and I can tell that he hasn’t made up his mind about me yet. He does gently squeeze my shoulder before letting go and continuing with his lecture about proper equipment use. It feels friendly enough, like he was an uncle that I don’t see more than twice a year. I wonder if I might have been too quick to judge. Dwight doesn’t seem like the typical muscle-bound meat head, though he certainly looks the part. His biceps look to be thicker than my thighs and could probably support about three times my bodyweight.
I shake my head to clear it. The first day on the job is no time to get distracted, especially by anything to do with my new boss. I follow after him as he continues walking me through the tour. It doesn’t seem to be anything too special. There’s the pool area and some rooms for group classes and lessons, and separate rooms for weight training and cardio machines. I all but swoon over the rock wall that takes up the entire south wall of the facility and goes up three stories. I haven’t done any climbing since my early days in school and I miss it fiercely. My fingers itch to feel the textured plastic of the fake rocks again. I don’t let my pace slow too much as I trail behind Dwight. He’s talking about the rest of the work that all the employees pitch in to get done.
“We all have to keep up with the towel situation. Gym policy is to provide all members with clean towels to use, which can be a pain in the ass,” he said, a vein starting to bulge out of his temple. “Lots of people just leave them lying around places. Just, whenever you get a chance, take a walk through and pick up any of ‘em that you see and pitch ‘em in the bins. There’s one by every door, so you’d think it’d be easy enough for…” He trails off and gives an embarrassed little cough. “Just, if you see any, put them in the bin.”
“Towels in bins. Anything…else…?” I can’t help but get distracted this time. Underneath the stairwell, there’s a small ring set up like a boxing arena, but it’s an octagon rather than a square. Inside, two men are beating the living hell out of each other. I probably wouldn’t have noticed at all, if not for the crowd growing around the stairwell and on the walkway above. They’re getting all riled up by something going on in there, and the curiosity gets the better of me.
My entire face must be a question, because without even asking, Dwight says, “Ah, looks like Stark’s got another victim. Care to watch?”
Violence for the sake of violence has never really appealed to me, but something in Dwight’s tone convinces me that this is something that I want to see. I nod, and we walk over to join the crowd. We’re not the only ones. People flock over to gawk at the spectacle.
And what a spectacle it is. Two men in shorts and gloves circle each other, and there’s the distinct smell of testosterone in the air. They’re both somewhere between twenty and thirty, and both are drenched in sweat. Both men step close, and one throw a sweeping punch towards the other’s head, but misses as the other man leans back to kick the first in the ribs. The puncher takes the hit easily, pulling back to circle around and throw an elbow directly into the kicker’s kidney.
“Luke Stark,” Dwight says, pointing to the puncher as the other man buckles and falls to his knees. “One mean son of a bitch. He keeps it in the ring, though. Never met anyone so polite.”
“Luke…Stark…”
It isn’t the violence of the event that draws me in, but I can’t help but appreciate when someone seems to be doing exactly what he wants, and I could have watched for hours. Luke’s tan arm extends to connect a punch straight into his opponent’s jaw. His muscles aren’t bulky like Dwight’s, but they’re by no means small. They have such distinct shape that I wouldn’t call him wiry, but he’s a good deal smaller than his opponent, a hulking bear of a man. From the blood on his face, it looks like Luke’s taken his fair share of punches, but he still seems to be winning. His grin seems to imply as much.
“Luke does most of his training here. He’s nice enough, but I’ve heard some talk that he might be involved in some underground fighting. Probably best to stay clear of all that,” Dwight says. He gestures for us to move on with the tour, and I follow after him, taking one last look over my shoulder at the dark-haired fighter. There’s a tattoo on his left shoulder, but he won’t stay still long enough for me to figure out exactly what it is. It could be a Celtic knot, or maybe some kind of tribal band.
The image of Luke dodging around his opponent in the ring stays with me all day, even when I take my place behind the reception desk and make casual small talk with my co-worker there, Justin. He’s a bit younger than me, and does his chemistry homework after showing me the basics of the computer system. I don’t much mind, as my thoughts insist on wandering back to that fight. And it isn’t like the job is mentally taxing; I swipe membership cards and the system tells me if they’ve paid their fees or not. It’s January, so there are still plenty of people pouring in to keep up with their New Year’s resolutions. I find myself uncharitably thinking that things will slow down a lot in the upcoming weeks, but fo
r now, I’m glad for the distraction.
‘I’ve really got to stop thinking about that fighter,’ I tell myself as I get my things ready to go.
“Don’t forget to do a walk through,” Justin reminds me as I pull the strap of my purse over my shoulder. “Gotta’ get those towels under control.” The sardonic tone makes me laugh as much as the jaded look on his face. I remember college being pretty rough; apparently that’s still the case for Justin.
As I wind my way through the facility at a more leisurely pace than before, I notice a few things that I hadn’t on my whirlwind tour with Dwight. For one thing, the gym is spotless. Everything looks so meticulously cared for that I have to wonder what kind of magical janitorial staff works here.
‘If they’re working this hard, I guess picking up a few towels is the least the rest of us can do,’ I think, pulling a grossly damp towel from the seat of a stationary bike. I make a note to check out the showers at some point. They’re probably cleaner than my entire apartment.
I shake my head and continue on my way. There are more instruction rooms than I remembered from Dwight’s whirlwind tour that morning, and they all seem to be empty. Most have large windows to make the whole room visible from the hallway, but there are a few that are entirely private. I make a mental note of where those rooms are, in case I need to duck away from work for a few minutes.
‘Or whatever else I would need privacy for,’ I think with a sly smile. As it is, even with the ring fighter fresh in my mind, that sort of thing doesn’t sound appealing in the least. I’ve been in a good place recently, but that’s only due to a lot of effort and healing. There was a rough patch a few months back, fallout from my breakup with Sam. He was what I thought I wanted, with a collection of qualities that I’d told myself I was looking for. Little by little, it became clear that he had a rather serious drinking problem. It drove us apart, ruining a relationship of almost two years.
‘I just need time to sort out my feelings,’ I think, shaking my head. ‘Dating is the furthest thing from my mind right now, and I need casual sex even less.’
I meander back towards the entrance, waving goodbye to Dwight. He’s jogging on one of the treadmills, staring intently at the heart rate monitor on the console, so I doubt that he sees me. It’s still early enough in the day that I don’t have to worry about the lack of lighting in the parking lot, but I do decide that any time I stay late, I’ll have Dwight or somebody walk me out. ‘Better safe than sorry.’ Maybe I’m just too nervous for my own good, but being vigilant rarely ever got anyone into trouble.
With the thought that the day had been plenty of excitement, I drive myself back to the apartment that I share with my best friend, Monica. She’s always good for a laugh, and I find that I can’t wait to tell her about this mysterious Stark guy. Of course, when I walk through the door, Monica’s already dressed to go out. Her low cut dress shows off her wealth of cleavage, and the bright yellow of it makes an amazing contrast against her dark brown skin. Her lips are stained a deep plum, and I’ll never know how she does her contouring to show off her magnificent cheekbones, but they look as perfect as ever.
“How was your first day?” she asks, fiddling with one of her earrings and staring at herself in the mirror.
“Oh, you know,” I say. I know she’s only asking to be polite and that there will be plenty of time to talk about Stark and everything else later. “Job’s a job.”
Monica frowns and tweaks her hair to sit more securely in place. “That’s no way to think,” she says. “Positive, Anna! You gotta’ think positive!” She winks at her reflection and then turns to me. “Am I good?”
“Flawless,” I say. She ducks in close to me and kisses the air beside my cheeks.
“I won’t be long. Promise.”
“I won’t wait up,” I reply.
She laughs. Her purse is in her hand and she’s out the door in a flash. I smile vacantly after her. Same old Monica, always in a hurry. I hang my keys on the hook by the door. Monica brought in the bills and left them in a pile on the kitchen table, and I flip through them with a groan. I’m already late getting my rent to Monica. She told me not to worry about it, to just pay her when I can, but I worry anyway. I’ve been trying so hard to not be a burden while I get my life back on track. Breaking up with Sam had taken its toll, and I’d lost most of my friends, my job, and more. Maybe this job is what I need to turn things around.
I find myself wishing once again that I had done the reasonable, responsible thing and gone to trade school, but no, I had insisted on pursuing a major in art history. Even knowing that it was inevitable that I would find myself in the sort of situation I’m in now, I had forced my way into the program and stuck with it, and now I have my degree for all the good it does hanging on my wall, reminding me of all of my debt.
And with that, all my stress comes flooding back. It always does when I think about my finances, though that’s all I can really think about these days. My head drops back and I let out a long groan. I can feel the telltale signs of a stress headache building up behind the bridge of my nose, and I decide that maybe a bath will help calm me down and let me relax.
I head over to my bedroom and stretch my arms high above my head, rolling my neck to try to alleviate some of the tension forming there. Knowing how much I love taking baths, Monica let me have the room with the attached bathroom because it came with a gorgeous claw-foot tub. I trace a finger over the cool porcelain as I start the water running. I wait for it to get scalding hot before putting down the stop. I like to resemble a cooked crab by the time I get out of the bath.
As the tub fills, my mind wanders back to that fight. Watching Luke in the ring, he looked more like a dancer than a fighter. His body moved with such grace, he had such complete control over every tiny motion; I can’t help but wonder if he had choreographed the fight, if he had practiced that specific set of movements over and over, or if it had only been his instincts paired with intense amounts of skill and training. It’s easy to see why people would think that fighting like that could be fake, but the determination in his face was so different than the expression of a man trying to remember the right steps. He had stared down the other man, reading into his movements, reacted, circled around, fully committed to the fight. The dance.
I sit down on the toilet, stripping off my clothes and dropping them to the floor. The brush of my fingers against my skin makes me shudder, cluing me into how keyed up I’ve become. I have to remind myself again that I’m not attracted to violence, that I don’t want to see men pounding each other into the floor. My fingers skate up to my nipples, circling around my areolas. The heightened response I receive has me gasping and leaning into my own touch. My nipples rise up, rock hard, eager for more. I squeeze one, slipping my other hand over to cup my breast. A shuddering sigh spills out of my mouth as my lips quiver in pleasure. I can feel a building wetness between my legs, but I don’t indulge just yet. I let my fingers coax more and more ecstasy from my skin.
Tapped and Taken by Two
*Round 1*
Kylie McKee knew what the test would say before the lines turned blue. She’d never been pregnant before, but her body felt different, and when she missed her period, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind what was up.
Seeing the confirmation of what she already suspected brought her three simultaneous reactions. First, and most important, a warm glow of pleasure. While this was unplanned, she’d often considered motherhood. It was something she wanted, and for the first time in her life she was in a reasonably good place to provide for herself and a baby. She hoped it was a daughter.
Second, a dim disappointment at scaling back her MMA training for the next nine months. A bummer, as she’d been getting pretty good, and stronger than she’d ever been in her life.
Third? She had no idea who had fathered her baby.
She supposed it didn’t matter. The baby was hers, and she didn’t need someone else in her life to help. The father had to be either Jason
Bright or Max Waller. They were they only two men she’d been with in the past few months, since moving to Venice Beach. And what a night it’d been, something to cross off her bucket list. Something she never thought she would ever do, but Kylie was the type who didn’t worry too much in the moment and usually just went with what felt right, which had gotten her to Venice Beach in the first place. That night, doing what felt right meant she’d brought both of them home and they’d all had the time of their lives, and even now doing what felt right meant she was going to have this baby.
Her memory of the night wasn’t too crisp, they’d all had a good amount to drink. She remembered hard, slick muscles, tattoos in two different styles, tangled bedsheets, hot breath and the intoxicating threshold where pleasure meets pain. Afterwards, feeling the same euphoric exhaustion she got from long and hard training session where she gave everything she had. She thought they’d be too macho to do it. That night, they were challenged over tequila shots, she didn’t think it would turn into what it did.
Kylie imagined that both Max and Jason remembered the path it took them to go from after-training drinks to tangled on her bed the same way she did. Kylie enjoying their bodies in every way, they enjoying her body in the same way. Taking one step, expecting it not to go any further, only to find you are already starting to think about taking the next step, until finally, the next step was all anyone could think about. Eventually, naked, doing what came naturally.
She’d known them both about three months. She met Jason first in front of the Ultimate Pro Elite Spartan gym where he’d been futzing with his Harley, a light and lean candy orange 883 Iron. Kylie, eager to connect with people in her new area, told him the bike was beautiful, then asked if he trained at the gym. He puffed up like a peacock, did some typical macho flexing, and told her he did. He dressed like a rockabilly singer, modern pompadour undercut and bold stars tattooed up his forearms. His dark jeans and white t-shirt were tight. More American classic style tattoos peeked out from under his clothes.
