by Hazel James
She laughs. “Aww, is someone having a hard time?”
“Someone is trying not to have a hard time. These pictures are for promo, not porno.” I shoot her a side-eyed smirk and go back to my list.
Muskogee.
Chickasha.
Enid.
Christ, that feels good.
Lawton.
Broken Arrow.
Checotah.
“There.” She wipes her hand on a gym towel slung over her shoulder.
I glance down. Every inch of bare skin below my neck is coated in a sheen. “I feel like one of those greased pigs at the rodeo.”
“And you smell like a piña colada.”
“The only thing that matters is the way you look.” Jesse double checks Leilani’s handiwork and unsnaps the lens cap. “Those muscles on a couple of billboards will pay your electric bill for months.”
Leilani makes a show of checking me out. “I agree. Your abs will bring all the girls to the gym.” She launches into her own version of Milkshake while I roll the barbell into place on the mat. I know it’s only been a few months, but it’s hard to remember what Battles was like before she got here.
I’ve never had an employee fit in so seamlessly before. For that matter, I’ve never had that in my personal life, either. It’s refreshing not worrying about how many hours I’ve spent at work or whether she understands the mission.
Her kick-ass advertising plan for Battles 2 is just a bonus. Over the next few weeks, I’ll have a segment on News 9, a feature article in The Oklahoman, and a radio spot on 101.9, which she assured me was part of a well-rounded media blitz and had nothing to do with Captain Fuckface. Once we open in October, we’ll get some footage for a commercial, too.
And if that wasn’t enough, she has some great ideas for ways to bring Battles to veterans who can’t come here on their own. It took me ten years to build this program, and in a matter of weeks, she figured out how to increase our outreach by about ten thousand percent.
Fuck, I need to stop thinking about that or I really will get a chub.
“You ready?” Jesse asks.
I nod and position my hands in a wide grip on the barbell.
“Remember, just hold it a couple of inches off the ground.”
I do as I’m told for the next hour as we move through a series of photos that Leilani said would be perfect for the website, flyers, and her bedroom wall. She didn’t look like she was kidding about the last one. That led to a joke about me being hung that left her red-cheeked for five solid minutes.
I love embarrassing that girl.
In fact…
“Hey Jesse, I just had a great idea.”
He looks up from his laptop.
“You know how we were talking about the adaptive equipment at the new gym? I think we should get some promo stuff for that, too.”
“Sounds good.”
“And I have the perfect model.” I shift my gaze to Leilani, who looks horrified.
“Uh-uh.” She moves her head back and forth, but I’m not fazed.
“Oh yes. This is happening.” I saunter toward her and unleash a smile I know damn good and well she can’t say no to.
“Nope.” She takes a step back and points a finger at me. “You don’t get to come over here all sexy like that. It won’t work.”
I cross my arms. “You sure about that?” She tries to scowl, but her eyes keep dipping down. From what she’s said, I’m the Ron Jeremy of forearm porn.
“Now you’re fighting dirty.”
“I thought you liked it when I was dirty,” I say, my voice just loud enough for her to hear, “but, I understand if you’re scared.”
“I never said I was scared.”
Bingo. One thing I can always count on is Leilani’s competitive side. As long as it’s not morally wrong, the quickest way to get her to do something is to imply she can’t.
“So what’s the problem?”
“I’m not all…” She waves her hand up and down my body.
“Covered in oil? I can fix that.”
“No, you’re the guy with the bulging muscles. I’m just a regular person.”
I take two steps into her personal space. “You look like you belong in a gym. You’re toned and healthy. You have an ass that women would kill to have. Your skin is flawless. Sounds like the perfect model to me.”
“You’re biased.”
“Hey Jess?” I call out, keeping my eyes locked on Leilani.
“Yeah?”
“Do you think my girlfriend is hot?”
He pauses. “Can I answer that honestly without you punching me in the face?”
“Yep.”
“She’s smokin’ hot, bro.”
I lift a brow. “Told you.”
“You’re relentless.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.” I lean in and tip her chin up. “Are you convinced yet?”
She smiles slowly. “On one condition. You have to do them with me.”
“Fine, but I get to oil you down.”
That makes her giggle. “I don’t know if I just lost or won.”
“I’d say we both won.” I press a kiss to her cheek and turn back toward Jesse. “Looks like you’ve got yourself two models.”
He nods and scans the area around his setup. “Before y’all get ready, why don’t you help me move that weight bench over here.” I choke back a laugh when he points at the same one Leilani and I christened last weekend.
So much for not having a boner in these pictures.
“A Jack-less Coke for the hunk at seat number four.” Sharon adds a maraschino cherry and a paper umbrella and sets my drink on the bar. “Where have you been? We haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Working my ass off.”
“Oh, no!” She clutches her chest. “Stand up.”
Confused, I push my barstool back and rise.
“Turn around.”
The moment I do, she heaves a sigh of relief. “Thank God. It’s still there and looking just as firm as ever.”
My shoulders bounce with laughter as I take my seat again. “I can’t believe I just fell for that.”
“But I’m so glad you did,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Where’s your partner in crime?”
I take my phone out of my back pocket and tap the home button. Marshall should have been here fifteen minutes ago. “Running late, I guess.”
“And who’s that?” Sharon points to my background image of Leilani in front of the angel wings at Haleiwa. Of all the pictures I have of her, this one is still my favorite. “You’re going to tell me she’s your girlfriend and shatter my dreams, aren’t you?”
I give her my most apologetic smile. “I’m afraid so.”
“Dammit.” She jokingly hangs her head, then demands to see the rest of my photos of her. We spend the next half hour talking about my trip to Hawaii and all the plans Leilani and I have for Battles 2.
When my phone finally rings, I expect to see Marshall’s name since the fucker still hasn’t showed. Instead, John’s pops up.
“What’s up, dude?”
“Just got back from a conference in Tulsa. Did Leilani ever get a surgery date?”
“Not yet. The patient advocate figured out where they screwed up the paperwork, but she has to start at the beginning again. She has an appointment next month to get her referral going. Why?”
“I met up with one of my plastic surgeon buddies at the conference. We got to talking about the VA and how they screwed her over and he offered to do her reconstruction for free if she doesn’t mind driving to Tulsa.”
My jaw drops. “He what? Why?”
“His dad was a Vietnam vet who never got the medical care he needed before he died. I guess this is his way of giving back to help other people.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“It’s worth a consult, at least. I’ll text you his info.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll keep you updated.” I toss a ten on the bar, tell Sharon bye, and smile all the wa
y to Leilani’s apartment.
“Lei, you have a visitor,” Rebecca calls over her shoulder.
“I swear to God if it’s that asstwat again…” The murderous look on her face dissolves the second she clears her bedroom door and sees me. “Hey! What are you doing here?”
“Remember John from our Hawaii trip?”
Her brows pull together. “The surgeon?”
“Yup. He called and said he has a friend who offered to cover the cost of your reconstruction.” I pull up the information he texted me after I left the Angry Bison. “His name is Dr. Anderson. He said he’d do it all—the expanders, the fills, and the implants. We just have to drive to Tulsa for your appointments.”
Her hand flies to her mouth. “Everything?”
I nod.
“For free?”
I nod again.
“Holy shit.”
With tears in her eyes, she walks into the kitchen and collapses on the counter, covering her head with a nearby towel.
Rebecca and I exchange a confused look. “Why are you hiding under a dishtowel?” she asks.
“Because I’m an ugly crier,” Leilani wails, which makes us chuckle.
I join her in the kitchen and remove the towel so I can pull her into my arms. “I hope those are happy tears.”
She tilts her chin up and gives me a watery smile. “Very happy tears. Thank you for this.”
“I’m just the messenger, but you’re welcome.”
According to my sixty-second internet search before I drove here, she won’t be done with her reconstruction until January or February. My next goal is to convince her to stay with me while she recovers, but I’ll save that for another day.
“Clay?”
“Hmm?”
“You think they’ll give me star-shaped nipples?”
I toss my head back and bark out a laugh. Holy fuck, I think I love this girl.
Flying and Falling
KIKI SMIRKS AND SHAKES HER head as she loads more paint on her roller. “You’re hopeless.”
“It’s not my fault,” I say, jerking my chin over my shoulder. “He’s the one who refuses to put a shirt on.” Not that I’m complaining. Watching the muscles in Clay’s arms and back has made seven hours of painting completely worth it.
Rosa bringing tamales for lunch helped too, but it was mostly his muscles. They’re incredible. Delectable. And, judging by the puddle of paint I’m wiping up, really damn distracting. Thank God Clay had the foresight to get the walls done before the flooring guy comes in.
While I’m on the subject, I should also thank the good Lord for the truck Marshall bought today—more specifically, for it being at some dealership two hours away. Not even Clay’s muscles would have made up for spending a Saturday at Battles 2 with that witless cocksplat.
He keeps doing petty, passive-aggressive shit like taking the pens out of Clay’s desk or leaving the speaker volume on full blast. Last week, he hid the refills for the stapler. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if I wasn’t trying to get my month’s end paperwork done. Although we still aren’t speaking outside of basic office pleasantries, I know he’s behind this nonsense. But rather than give him the satisfaction of hearing me bitch about it, I got my revenge in a different way.
I put an ad on Craigslist for two free goats and listed Marshall’s number in the contact information along with, “Se habla Español.” The last part was a spur-of-the-moment idea, and thanks to Marshall’s lack of brain cells, it ended up casting all suspicion away from me. Every time someone called, I heard him curse the ignorant asshole who can’t get his numbers right in his own fucking Craigslist ad.
That wasn’t even the best part, though. He was still trying to finalize the details of his truck purchase—the one he picked up today—which meant he couldn’t turn his phone off because he didn’t want to miss a call from the dealer. I celebrated my victory with a doughnut.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but goats will never fail me. I should put that on a bumper sticker and slap it on his tailgate.
“Sooo,” Kiki starts, dropping beside me to roll her brush in the tray, “we get a four-day weekend for Columbus Day.”
“And?”
“I thought I’d come for another visit and celebrate the grand opening with you guys.” Her innocent smile might fool everyone else, but I’m not buying it for a second.
“And by ‘celebrate the grand opening,’ you mean seeing if Alex is still single and interested in dating a hot soldier?”
She juts out a hip. “Can’t a girl support the hard work her sister has done all summer?”
“Sure.” I tuck my tongue in my cheek and wipe up the last of the paint I spilled. Kiki got to Battles late yesterday afternoon, just as Clay and I were finishing up the hiring paperwork for one of our new personal trainers. Alex Browning is thirty-two, has two bachelor’s degrees, and just moved here from Amarillo, Texas.
Kiki, in her sneaky journalistic glory, spotted his bare ring finger and asked how his family was settling in. When he said it was just him, her eyes lit up like a kid in a candy store.
Their flirty exchange was a welcome palette cleanser after the squabble Clay and Marshall had right before Alex’s interview. Instead of helping, Marshall made last-minute plans with some friend who was only in town that evening. I could practically taste victory when Clay said, “What the fuck, man? Skipping this and going out of town tomorrow?”
But no. Marshall gave a lame-ass apology, and rather than fire him for flaking out on his responsibilities, Clay just reminded him that he was a key member in the Battles team and that we needed him.
I don’t know about that “we” part. I need Marshall as much as I need a hemorrhoid.
“Hell yes!” Kiki abandons her roller in the paint tray and bounds over to the speakers, cranking the volume as the first few notes of Flo Rida’s Low fill the empty gym. In an instant, I’m whisked back to the summer before my senior year in college. Me and a bunch of girls I trained with were bored and made up a floor routine to this song. It’s one of my favorite memories from gymnastics. No judges. No costumes. Just six athletes doing what we did best for the fun of it. Kiki never made it past a basic tumbling class when we were kids, but she hung out with us when she wasn’t training for track. That day, she became the videographer.
“What do you say?” She grins widely, taking her phone out of her back pocket. I haven’t done this routine in years—certainly not since my Humvee accident—but we used to do one-handed stuff in the gym all the time. It shouldn’t be too hard to adjust for my missing arm and rusty skills.
“I say challenge accepted.” Finding enough space isn’t difficult, considering the only furniture in the building are the chairs we brought to stand on while we painted. I glance over at Clay, who’s eying us from his section on the far wall. Aside from watching me do an aerial cartwheel while we were in Hawaii, he’s never seen me in action.
I give him an air-kiss, take my place, and count down the beats to the opening hook. When it starts, I launch into a power hurdle for a round-off, back handspring and trade my double Arabian for a simple back tuck to gauge how my body responds.
I’d forgotten how good it feels to soar through the air, and now that I have a little taste, I want more.
I split-leap and twirl across the gym and move into a series of dance elements that are more fitting for a club than a competition, but that doesn’t seem to bother Clay as I slide up to him, rolling my hips lower and lower in time to the lyrics. He groans, and I laugh before bounding to the other side of the room.
My second tumbling pass adds to my high. Coach used to say, “You can take the girl out of gymnastics, but you can’t take gymnastics out of the girl.” She was right.
Kiki cheers as I sail past her on my way to the corner to set up for the final pass—a round-off, back handspring, double whip, back handspring, full twist. With the adjustments I’ve made to the first two passes, I know she expects me to change the last one too. Log
ically, I should, and I almost do… until I get my feet in position and lift my head. Clay’s standing about fifty feet in front of me wearing an expression I’ve never seen. It’s a mix of pride and reverence that has me flying, flipping, and spinning toward him. I land with a small hop to the right, a pounding heart, and a grin glued to my face.
It takes him a few seconds to pull his jaw off the floor. “That was fucking incredible.”
I nod, not because I’m cocky, but because he’s right. That was the best routine of my life in all the areas that matter most—I challenged myself, believed in myself, and had so much fun doing it.
Kiki pockets her phone and high-fives me as DH, Paige, and DH’s cousin, Eric, join us.
“I don’t want to brag or anything, but I can trip over my own two feet on a flat surface,” Paige teases.
“Sometimes it only takes one foot, babe.” DH punctuates his jab with a kiss on the top of her head.
“Don’t be jealous,” she says, swatting him in the stomach. “Seriously though, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
“Me neither,” Eric says.
“Thanks! I haven’t done that in forever. It’s kind of nice to know I still can.” I look at Clay again. His expression has changed from awestruck to something bordering on mischievous.
“What?” I ask.
“I know what we’re doing next year.”
My brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”
“My summer project. We’re doing a gymnastics camp.” He bobs his head like he’s picturing everything in his mind, and knowing him, he probably already has it half planned out.
I step toward him and wrap my arms around his sides. “Guess this means I have to stick around, huh?”
“Oh, you’re sticking,” he says, his voice low as he brings his lips to mine.
“Aaand I’m going back to painting,” Kiki announces with a laugh.
The guys shout, “Same!” and sprint back to their places on the wall.
“Aww, come on, have some respect!” Paige calls after them. “This is a real-life romance book right here!” When it’s clear her words are having no effect on the Rhoads men, she turns back to Clay and me and holds up a finger. “Just know I’m calling dibs on a front-row seat to y’all’s HEA.”
