Page 1 of Filthy and the Beast

CHAPTERONE

DAMIAN

In the twoweeks I’ve been working overnight shifts at the gym, one thing has become abundantly clear.

Jocks areridiculous.

All of them are a little bit ridiculous, sure, but the biggest, gruntiest dude-jocks hit a level entirely their own.

They think they’re acting tough or something, I’m not sure, but they preen around like clowns, putting on a show for the other jocks. They puff out their chests and roar at the ceiling and throw water over their sweaty faces. From ten at night until six in the morning, they punch the air and holler at the dumbbells like we’re in a war zone, pausing only to pose in front of the many, many mirrors.

They check out their own butts more than I do!

Not to mention the outfits. Tank tops are quite popular, especially with spaghetti straps, although they make theirs by cutting up old t-shirts, so it looks messy, and none of the athletes would use the phrasespaghetti strap. The jock color palette tends to be drab, with the exception of footwear. Their shoes and socks are massive clashes of bright nonsense—we’re talking full-on hot pink and gratuitous turquoise. The trend carries over to their undies, or at least my preliminary research has suggested as much.

Right on time, stroke of midnight, the most ridiculous jock of them all comes in. The belle of the football. The gruntiest grunt to ever grunt.

Towering over six feet tall, the man casts a quick scowl across the gym, then turns his eyes down. He’s all bulk, muscly in the thickest way, with faded tattoos, a silver speckle to his coarse, dark beard, and a seemingly permanent arch to his heavy brow.

No way in hell he’d wear hot-pink socks. I’ve only ever seen him in that same black t-shirt and black sweats.

Shame. He’d look cute.

I stand up from behind the desk and lift the tray of cupcakes I brought. Feeding the jocks, many of whom are pro athletes, isn't part of my job, but I’m nearing the end of cupcake class, and the studying is piling up.

“Hello! Blueberry ganache?”

The man hesitates, tightens his brow, and stares at me. I feel like Jack standing at the bottom of the beanstalk. This isn’t the first time I’ve tried to offload a baked good on the surly giant, although it is the first time he’s stopped. As he glances between me and the treats, confounded by our presence, I get my first real glimpse of his features.

The silver on his beard is lighter than the gray streaks in his black hair, short yet untidy. But his nose captivates me, wide and disjointed in two places, probably broken by a hokey puck or slammed by a soccer kicker or whatever. I’m sure it hurt like hell, but the broken angles make his honker absolutely gorgeous.

I stop myself from telling him that and raise the plate again.

“There’s a touch of lemon,” I add.

The man’s nostrils flare. His eyes, speckled brown and green against his olive-tan skin, flame with emotion. Clearly, he’s not a cupcake kind of guy, but I can’t make out the words in his grunt.

Not that it matters. Before I can even think to respond, he huffs into the gym.

“Drama queen,” I quietly sing to myself as I plop back onto my stool. I study a cupcake as I unwrap it. “One little mention of blueberry, and these jocks get emotional.”

If only they were all so fun to look at. I’d guess my midnight guy passed fifty a few years ago. I’m twenty-six, and not generally interested in men of my moms’ generation, but this particular older fellow does stir my ganache.

He moves through the gym, towards the heaviest weights. This late, it's thinly populated, but the few dedicated athletes making use of the facilities steer away from him, like fish clearing out for a shark. The big jock doesn’t pay them any mind. As he walks, he extends his ropey arms up high and, when he reaches his destination, drops into a squat.

He stretches, grunting to himself and bouncing his substantial ass. Focusing like he's about to jump into a burning building, the man glares a hole into the wall. Another muscly dude wanders towards an empty bench near him. Without glancing up, the man with the beautiful nose hefts a comically large weight and casually, effortlessly, tosses it to the bench, where it lands with a resounding thud.

The younger dude averts his eyes and scuttles away, the ritual of masculinity apparently successful.

“Whoa, cupcakes. Can I have one?”

Reggie smiles at me. My friend Owen’s brother also owns the gym. When my previous employment at a gaming café came to a sudden, depressing conclusion, Reggie jumped in to offer me temporary work.

“Please.” I hand him the tray. “There’s a touch of lemon in the blueberry. No one else will eat them, though.”

Reggie is big, tall, and thick with muscles, but his energy is a warm sun in comparison to the old jock’s stormy mountain. He peels off the wrapper and devours it in two rapid chomps.

“It’s the sugar,” he says with a full mouth. “Not ideal for the workout.” When he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs. “Metabolism.”

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