Page 27 of Jacked
These guys are all cool as hell. The fact that I didn’t even realize they were gay for the past month I’ve been working at Sweat is… Well, it kind of fucks with my head if I’m being honest. Maybe I’ve bought into the stereotypes too much.
Slater bumps his arm against mine and I glance over to see him looking at me, his eyebrows raised and a silent question in his eyes.
You good, Bro?
I nod and nudge him back.
I’m good.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AJ
Dre bookeda remote campsite at a state park in Wisconsin, so the drive takes about four hours. It was just enough time for most of my nerves about hanging out with these guys outside of work to melt away. Just because we all get along when we’re talking lifting technique doesn’t mean there’s real friendship potential here, right? If Slater hadn’t been on board, I probably would have begged off from the start. But it turns out I didn’t have anything to worry about. These guys listen to the same music I do, make the same dumb jokes, and root for the same sports teams. The only thing I’m going to have to get used to is how often Butch and Fender joke about sucking dick.
We pile out of the car in the quiet, heavily wooded area. When we drove in, the guy at the gate told us the nearest campsite to ours would be about two miles away, so it’s just us and the sounds of birds and cicadas. There’s a decent sized clearing with a dented metal firepit right in the middle.
“I need to take a piss,” Silas declares before heading for the woods.
“Really? You’re not even going to give me a run for my money this time?” Callan calls after him. “Where’s the fun in setting up a tent if I’m not trying to do it faster than someone else?”
“I can take a piss, go for a walk, tie one hand behind my back, andstillhave my tent up before you do,” Silas says before disappearing into the trees.
“What’s the challenge? Who can pitch the fastest tent?” Fender’s voice is so deadpan that it takes me a second to get the joke. Sadly, it only clicks when he grabs his dick and Ezra blushes.
Dre opens the back of the van and has to jump back as all of our shit spills out into the dirt. The one-person tent I lent Slater for the weekend ends up right on top of the pile. He scoops it up and then backs out of the way so everyone else can start grabbing their shit.
“So, tent pitching race starts now, right?” He smirks.
The rest of us descend on the pile and Callan curses.
“Bunch of fucking cheaters around here.”
“Don’t be a sore loser, baby,” Fender coos, finding his own tent and scampering away with it to start setting up.
My competitive drive kicks in and I throw a few playful elbows, nailing Butch in the chest with one and Callan in the gut with another. Dre, Ezra, and Xeno seem content to hang back and let us beat each other up.
I finally find my tent in the pile and haul ass over to the empty spot next to Slater. He’s already got his tent nearly finished by the time I dump mine out of its bag. The look of intense concentration on his face distracts me for a few seconds. His eyebrows are furrowed, his hat is askew on his head like he’s been doing that on and off thing he does with it just in more of a hurry than usual, and the tip of his tongue is sticking out between his front teeth. You’d think he was trying to perform open heart surgery instead of assembling a small tent.
I bite back a laugh at the triumphant expression that lights up his face as he slides the last pole into place and shoves it roughly into the ground.
“Done!” he shouts, holding both arms up triumphantly.
“Shit,” I mutter, remembering we’re in a race. Obviously, I can’t win, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to come in last place.
I scramble to assemble my tent, and in the end, Fender manages to beat me, but I finish before Callan, Butch, and Silas. I would rather have won, but I can live with third place.
“All hail the tent pitching champ,” Butch calls, giving Slater a high five once he’s finished with his own tent.
With our tents all up, we organize the rest of the shit we brought, and then Xeno whips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat off his face.
“It’s hot as balls, man. I’m going swimming.” He tosses his shirt through the open flap of his tent, then kicks off his sandals and steps out of his shorts.
Annnnnnnd speaking of balls.
I tilt my head back so fast I think I manage to give myself whiplash. Those are some damn ominous gray clouds in the sky though. Extremely interesting. Definitely more interesting than anybody’s bare ass or swinging dick. The warm, firm grasp of Slater’s familiar hand on my shoulder startles me.
“It’s just a naked dude, man. Breathe.” He chuckles and squeezes my shoulder.
