Page 9 of Jacked
He throws his head back and laughs too loudly, squeezing the back of my neck and then slapping my ass playfully before darting ahead of me to sprint up the stairs.
“Best compliment you could give a trainer, bro,” he calls back to me.
I gather my dwindling energy and launch myself after him, taking the steps two at a time. He only stays ahead of me for a minute, his chiseled ass bouncing right in my line of vision like a bullseye. I pull my hand back and give him a hard smack right on his ass cheek. He yelps in surprise and stumbles just long enough for me to get past him. I cackle with victory and manage to skid to a halt in front of our apartment door half a second before him.
“Dick,” he mutters without any venom.
“Speaking of dicks…” I unlock the door and step inside. We both kick off our shoes and I drop my gym bag right on top of my sneakers. I couldn’t be bothered to change after my workout, so I’m still wearing my shorts and tank top, both damp with sweat and clinging to my skin. If it bothers AJ that I flop down on the couch in my gym clothes, he doesn’t say anything. He didn’t change either, so it can’t be that big of a bugaboo for him.
He claims the other side of the couch. He puts one foot up on the coffee table and slumps into a comfortable position with his thighs falling wide open, his shorts riding up a few inches and the wide sleeve of his tank top falling to one side to leave one dark nipple on display. The brown hairs around his nipple draw my attention for just a second. I’ve always had a strange fascination with how hairy some dudes are. I always chalked it up to the fact that my body hair is lighter and naturally thinner, like I’ve got body hair envy or some shit.
“Speaking of dicks?” AJ raises his eyebrows, giving me a look of equal parts amusement and confusion.
I laugh, shaking my head and pulling my attention away from his hairy nipple and the curious musings about whether hair like that is soft or coarse.
“When I was getting changed earlier, there was this dude strutting around the locker room bare-assed. I swear to god, I’ve never seen a bigger dick in my life. I still can’t decide if I should feel insecure about it or glad I’m not carrying a weapon like that.” I chuckle and mirror AJ’s slouched position, my knee bumping against his.
His forehead furrows and his eyes get a little wider with a look that’s somewhere between surprised and panicked. His chest hitches with a couple of fast breaths and then he lets out a hoarse, strangled sounding laugh.
“Dude, you’re not supposed to stare at other guys’ dicks in the locker room. That’s like the golden rule. Eyes to the sky, man.”
“It wasn’t like I was pulling back shower curtains like a perv. He nearly put my eye out swinging that thing around,” I say. AJ’s cheeks pink and he bounces his knee. “You seriouslyneverlook?”
Anxiety and a hint of shame make the pit of my stomach clench. Shit,isit weird that I notice dicks sometimes? I notice tits too—like, alot. Should I tell him that so he knows I’m not checking out guys in a gay way? Rushing to defend myself feels weird too though. Like I think there’s somethingwrongwith checking out dudes in a gay way.
“I mean, sure, sometimes…” he finally admits, shifting in his seat and tugging on his shorts, pulling them back to their original length. It doesn’t do much good though, they ride right back up as soon as he lets go of them.
He meets my gaze and things feel awkward and tense for a minute. It’s like I can feel all the sticky beads of sweat on my skin and the way my clothes fit a little too tight. AJ clears his throat and a crooked smile forms on his lips. I take my hat off and drag my fingers through my hair before putting it back in place.
“No homo?” I say with an awkward laugh.
The tension bleeds out of his posture, and he barks out a stilted chuckle too. “No homo,” he agrees. “You hungry?”
“Yeah. Anything but hot dogs.”
AJ snorts. “Or eggplant?”
“Dude.” I throw my head back and cackle, and just like that, whatever weirdness was lingering is gone.
AJ
Slater leans over the island counter, watching as I pull veggies, hummus, and a package of chicken breast out of the fridge.
“Grab the lentils and rice from the cupboard for me?” I nod towards the pantry.
“Thanks for sharing with me. I gotta get to the grocery store,” he says, grabbing what I asked for and setting it on the counter along with the rest of the ingredients for the protein bowl I’m going to throw together for us. He grimaces, then chuckles. “Honestly, I need to learn to cook. I’m such a fucking stereotype, always letting my girlfriends cook for me or living on frozen chicken or takeout whenever I’m single.”
“Dude.” I scoff and shake my head. “Yeah, you’re going to need to learn to cook.”
“You going to teach me?”
“Sure.” I push the cutting board and knife towards him. “Lesson one: chop the vegetables and don’t cut off any fingers.”
He picks up the knife and salutes me with it. “Yes, coach.”
While he gets to work on that, I pull out the rice cooker for the lentils and rice. It’s nice to have someone else in the kitchen with me for a change. Slater whistles a cheery tune to accompany the rhythmicthunk, thunk, thunkof the knife hitting the cutting board with each chop. I glance over to make sure he’s managing it without any bloodshed, and he seems to be doing just fine.
There’s a lingering tightness in my gut from a few minutes ago. Not because I admitted that, sure, sometimes I look, but from how embarrassed and panicked Slater looked for a second when I hesitated to answer. I know that feeling. I’ve fucking been there. That sickening, sinking feeling when you blurt out some dumb-ass shit and for a split second everyone just stares at you before they burst out laughing. One second you’re bonding with the guys, the next you’re the butt of the joke.
