Page 6 of Jacked
CHAPTER THREE
AJ
I’ve walkeddown the street to Sweat every day for the past week since I moved into the new apartment, but this is the first time I’ll step through the door as an official employee. I applied to a handful of gyms around the city and went in for a few interviews, but what I liked about Sweat the first time I walked in the door was the other trainers.
Yeah, the place is state of the art, with all brand-new equipment plus a boxing gym in the back, and that definitely didn’t hurt its cause with me, but I can show someone how to lift weights and target muscle groups anywhere. Finding a place with the right vibe was a hell of a lot more exciting.
Air conditioning blasts me, cooling the sweat beading on my skin after even the short walk in the blistering heat. I tug my tank top up to mop my face with the bottom of it.
“I would give my left nut for an end to this damn heatwave. This shit is ungodly,” someone rumbles with a laugh.
I drop my shirt and nod in greeting at the dude behind the counter. Silas. He’s a fucking beast, a brick shithouse if I’veever seen one. If his sheer mass wasn’t intimidating enough, his tattoos and resting snarl face would be. In contrast, he’s wearing a bright yellow t-shirt with a SpongeBobface stretched tight across his massive chest. He twists his expression into a grin that looks almost painful and holds his fist out for a bump in greeting.
“You back to get your ass handed to you again?” he says in that same low, gruff voice.
“Oh, fuck no.” We bump knuckles and I shake my head. “I’m going to need to up my game for atleastthe next year before I consider going toe to toe with you again.”
He throws his head back and laughs, the sound booming through the gym.
It’s quiet this morning, which isn’t shocking. I didn’t expect the place to be crawling with clients first thing on a Monday. There are maybe a dozen guys scattered between the cardio equipment and the free weights, and I recognize half of them as fellow employees.
“Oh, wait, it’s your first official day today, right?” Silas snaps his fingers and then starts rummaging around on the desk. “Andre told me he was leaving your new hire paperwork…” He pushes some more papers aside, then grunts and plucks a paper-clipped stack out of the mess.
“Thanks.” I try not to grimace, taking the papers from him. I was hoping to jump right in this morning, not spend an hour writing the same shit on three different versions of identical paperwork.
The stench of sweat and peppermint hits me, and a more slender, muscular arm covered in freckles and ginger hair lands around my shoulders.
“Aw, come on, Si, don’t torture the poor dude right off the bat.” The ginger plucks the papers out of my hands and flashes me a grin.
Silas rolls his eyes.
“Have you met Fender yet?” He waves at the guy with his arm around me. “He’s the one you can complain to when the IRS throws you in jail for not filling out your tax paperwork.”
“Psh. Oooh IRS,scary,” Fender scoffs, dropping the papers back onto the desk. “At least let me give him the tour and introduce him to everyone first.”
“Fine.” Silas sighs. “Godspeed.” That second part is clearly directed at me as Fender steers me away from the desk.
“I’ve actually been coming in for the past week, so I know my way around pretty well. And I think I’ve met most of the guys.”
He waves his hand dismissively. “That was as a client. Now it’s time to pull back the veil and see Sweat through the eyes of an employee.”
“Watch out, guys, Fender is about to pull back the veil,” Callan mocks from across the room where he’s working with a client, coaching free weights. I met him on my first visit earlier in the week. Similar to Silas, Callan is solid muscle, with dark hair and a thick beard. He has more of a teddy bear expression, but from what I’ve seen from him so far, he’s cutthroat and competitive as hell.
Fender gives him the finger, but otherwise ignores the teasing. He starts the tour by giving me all the tips about which machines like to act up in which specific ways, like the treadmill that sometimes needs a good punch to the buttons to get it working, and the stationary bikes that occasionally like to alarm until you either unplug them or give them a good kick. It’s hard to tell if beating up the machines is actually how Andre expects us to handle shit or if Fender is fucking with me, but I take mental notes along the way anyway.
“Locker rooms.” He points out the doors, which are labeled male, female, and gender neutral. Although, I can’t say I’ve ever seen any women in here when I’ve been. “Don’t fuck in theshowers. Dre hates that, even though he does it all the time,” Fender says. “And when you’re donenotfucking in the showers, make sure you clean up after yourself. No one wants to step on a used condom or slip in someone else’s spunk.”
I sputter a laugh, torn between amused and horrified. Who the hell is fucking in the gym showers? Now I’m almost sure Fender is just doing a little good-natured hazing.
After the locker room, he leads me over to the free weights. Callan has already moved on to box jumps with his client, but there’s one other guy in the free weights area using the power rack. I admire his form for a second, his thighs spread correctly as he lowers himself down with the heavy bar across the back of his shoulders. I can see the flex of his muscles, his round ass stretching his shorts to their limit, sweat glistening on his skin. He lets out a little grunt when he reaches the bottom and the sound twists strangely in the pit of my stomach.
He racks the weights, then meets my gaze through the mirror, and recognition clicks. I met him earlier this week too. Butch. It’s a ridiculous name, but if I’ve ever met anyone wholookslike a Butch, it’s him. He’s got that all-American blond hair, blue eyes, and round cheeks baby face look about him that makes me hungry for apple pie the second he flashes me a toothy smile.
“Ajax!” he bellows, spinning around to face me, then grabbing me in a rough hug that turns into a fist bump. I laugh and shoot Fender a confused look as I try to keep up with whatever back slapping, hand jerking greeting Butch is going for.
Fender just shrugs.
“It’s AJ, actually,” I correct him.
