Own the Eights: Own the Eights: Book One

by Sandor, Krista

  She inhaled a cleansing breath, and just as she was about to blow it out, releasing all her anxious energy, a squirrel shot down the alleyway. She glanced at the leash in her hand. The leash she’d forgotten to attach to Mr. Tuesday’s collar. And before she could even call out for him to stop, the squirrel chaser took off.

  2

  Jordan

  “Ninety-six, ninety-seven…”

  “I can’t do it, Jordan. I can’t get to one hundred, man.”

  Jordan Marks easily held his push-up position and glanced at the young man next to him. Bird-like forearms shaking like rickety pipes and sweat streaming down his face, the guy struggled to lift himself back into a plank position.

  “Look at me, Craig,” Jordan said, his muscles strong and engaged as he maintained perfect form in his own plank.

  The guy turned to him, red-faced and about to pass out.

  But there was no way in hell Jordan was going to allow him to give up or let him collapse onto the floor of Deacon CrossFit.

  “Craig, take a deep breath and focus.”

  The man complied, and the trembling subsided as a spark ignited in Jordan’s chest.

  This was what he lived for.

  Pushing people to their physical and mental limits. Showing them that they deserved more and ingraining in their heads the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset’s main principles: failure was not an option, finish what you start, and in every facet of your life, always be a ten.

  The Marks Perfect Ten Mindset was his creation, his blog, that over the past two years, had thousands of followers, garnered millions of likes, and hopefully, if he got the news he expected to get today, his ticket to opening his own gym and jumpstarting his brand as not just the city’s top personal trainer but to go global and spread the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset around the world.

  Jordan hardened his features. “Tell me, Craig. Why are we here?”

  “To get strong using the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset,” the man bit out.

  “What does that mean?” he barked.

  “It means you try to be the best.”

  Jordan frowned. “Try?”

  The man shook his head. “No, it means failure is not an option. It means you’re never less than a perfect ten.”

  “Just in the gym?” Jordan prodded.

  The man blew out a tight breath. “No, in every aspect of your life.”

  Hell yes! He had Craig right where he wanted him. The next step was to bring it home.

  Jordan flicked his gaze to the mirror and caught a glimpse of his body and was rewarded with muscled perfection. Neat, styled hair—even in the gym—and a cocky smirk that said he had it all and knew it. Well, that’s what he went out of his way to project.

  He inhaled a slow even breath and went in for the kill, that satisfying moment when a client committed completely to the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset.

  “All right, Craig. Stay with me.”

  The man nodded, drops of sweat falling to the mat.

  Jordan held Craig’s gaze. “There are two women on a bench. One has her hair in one of those God-awful messy buns. She’s got glasses, baggy clothing, and those clunky sandals. The other is fit and rocking a miniskirt with fuck-me heels. She’s got a killer body and looks that put a supermodel to shame. She’s a total ten. Which woman do you ask out, Craig?”

  The man gritted his teeth as determination burned in his eyes. “The ten.”

  “Damn right,” he answered, cracking a triumphant grin.

  Craig smiled through the pain as excitement surged through Jordan’s veins.

  Another Marks Perfect Ten Mindset convert. His program worked. He knew this from the thousands of before and after photos his clients and blog followers had sent him. But it never got old watching the shift and witnessing the moment when his client grabbed confidence by the reins and took off.

  “You’ve got three more push-ups. Perfect ten push-ups. Come on! We’ll do them together,” he said, lowering himself an inch above the ground.

  Craig powered through the final reps, and when they came to their feet, the entire gym cheered their success.

  Craig beamed. “I did it!”

  “Hell yeah. You owned it,” Jordan answered, slapping the man’s shoulder.

  Craig wiped his face with a towel, grinning from ear to ear. “Thanks to you and the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset. Dude, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to be you, the Jordan Marks. You’ve got it all. You’ve probably always had it all. It’s nice of you to share a little bit of your awesomeness with us mere mortals.”

  Jordan grabbed his water bottle and took a long sip. That’s precisely what he wanted everyone to think.

  Jordan Marks, always a winner.

  Jordan Marks, the specimen of physical perfection.

  Jordan Marks, the guy who had it all.

  He thought of the top drawer of his childhood dresser, and the muscles in his chest tightened.

  Jordan Marks hadn’t always been a perfect ten. Not even close—but that was his secret, his past, and he wasn’t about to broadcast it to the world. The Marks Perfect Ten Mindset wasn’t just his creation. It was also his shield, the barrier that stood between himself and a life best left forgotten.

  He set the water bottle on a bench, brushed off the memories, and went back into badass trainer mode. “In the end, the Perfect Ten Mindset is a choice you have to make. I lay it out, but you have to do the work.”

  “Amen, brother!” Craig said, pride radiating off the guy in waves.

  Jordan checked his watch. “That’s it for today. Great work! Now, hit the shower.”

  Jordan grabbed his iPad to log in the training session when a sugary sweet voice, dripping with awe, cut through the hum of the treadmills, and the clang of free weights hitting the ground.

  “Jordan, that was amazing!”

  He didn’t even turn around. He knew the buttered-up, baby doll sound of a gym bunny’s coo and was well versed in the body language that said, this tiny scrap of a sports bra would look great on the floor of your bedroom, and so would I, buck naked, with your cock down my throat.

  He’d had his share of gym pussy, one hell of a slice of it, especially when he was younger. But just shy of twenty-nine, he had bigger things on his mind than bending the gym’s front desk receptionist over the leg press machine and fucking her hard and fast. He’d worked his ass off these past two years, training clients, opening new locations, and building his blog. And he didn’t write Dear Diary bullshit posts either. Literal blood, sweat, and tears went into his articles. Hours of research went into deciding which protein powders to recommend. He spent his nights paging through sports medicine journals and his early mornings recording downloadable coached runs to share with his followers. He didn’t have time for screwing around or screwing the cotton candy brained chicks who threw themselves at him in droves.

  Sure, he could have his pick of women. But his sights were set on the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset becoming a household name, and himself, a leader in healthy life transformations.

  He’d show all those fuckers from his past that he’d won. That he was better than them in every single aspect that mattered, appearance and success.

  “That’s why we keep him around.”

  A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Now, this was a voice worth acknowledging.

  Jordan glanced up from his iPad to find the sturdy frame of Deacon Perry, the founder of the Deacon CrossFit chain, striding toward him. Gray flecks threaded through the man’s dark hair as he surveyed the gym.

  Jordan shook the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Deacon.”

  “The place looks great. Any hiccups?”

  “This is the fifth location I’ve opened for you, Deac. I’ve got it covered.”

  The man gave him an approving nod. “Only open three months and already running like a well-oiled machine.”

  “Jordan’s the bomb. We’ve even had professional athletes calling to schedule sessions with him,” came the syrupy
voice of the desk receptionist, Shelly.

  He turned to the young woman. She fit the bill for the look Deacon wanted for his CrossFit front desk staff. Young, perky, and trim, Shelly was the first thing clients saw when they entered. And she wasn’t just a pretty face. She’d already worked the desk at a few rec centers in the city, and more importantly, he’d never hire an idiot. But she was still a woman, and it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t help falling all over herself around him.

  Most women did.

  Jordan hardened his features and met the woman’s gaze. He was all for praise and admiration. He lived for the likes he received on his posts and loved seeing his subscriber numbers rise, but he needed to talk to Deacon and didn’t have time for Shelly and her effusive adoration.

  “Some boxes got delivered this morning, Shelly. Can you go through them? It should be the promotional giveaway prizes for our new clients.”

  “Anything for you, Jordan,” she answered with a swish of her ponytail.

  “Are you tapping that?” Deacon asked under his breath as Shelly jogged to the front.

  Jordan shook his head. “No, man. You know I keep it professional.”

  Deacon’s gaze hovered over Shelly’s Lycra covered ass. “I may need to stop in here more often.”

  “She’s twenty-two, Deac.”

  “My favorite number,” the man answered without missing a beat.

  Jordan shifted his weight. “I did want to talk to you about something I’ve got coming up. Do you have a minute?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got some time,” the man answered with a curious expression.

  His mentor knew something was up.

  Jordan steadied himself. Jordan Marks didn’t get nervous. Jordan Marks owned the room, any room. Six four and built like a god with a face to match, jittery was not a word in his vocabulary. At least, that’s what he tried to project. But today could be a game changer, and the butterflies in his stomach agreed.

  “Let’s talk in the back,” he offered.

  Deacon followed him, past a row of state-of-the-art cardio machines and several trainers working with clients, to a small office tucked near the locker rooms.

  Deacon settled himself in a chair as Jordan sat behind the desk.

  “Now, spill, Marks. I’ve known you long before you became Marks Perfect whatever. What’s going on?”

  “You do read my emails?” Jordan quipped.

  Deacon stretched his arms then relaxed into the seat. “In between the ones sent from Maureen’s lawyers.”

  Jordan leaned forward. “About the divorce?”

  It seemed crazy that Deacon and his wife were splitting up. He’d known Deac’s wife, Maureen, as long as he’d known his mentor, and she’d been like a second mother to him. She’d given up her teaching career to help get Deacon CrossFit off the ground and now devoted herself to raising their girls.

  The man sighed. “Divorce. Time with the kids. The amount of spousal support. It’s always something. Now, come on, Jordan. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

  He’d met Deacon a decade ago entirely by chance. Working at a deli as a delivery guy in college, he’d been sent to Deacon CrossFit to drop off some sandwiches. Rail thin and gangly, he wasn’t surprised when he’d entered the gym, and a couple of bulked-up meatheads started giving him shit.

  Careful with that bag, Tinker Bell. It looks pretty heavy for you.

  He’d heard it all and was just about to brush off another bout of bullying when Deacon Perry strode up to the front with an air of confidence, that at the time, Jordan never even dreamed of attaining. The hulk of a man looked him up and down, then made him an offer.

  You want to make sure no one ever fucks with you again? Come back tomorrow.

  And he did just that. He showed up the next day and the day after that.

  Every day for the next four years.

  His time in Deacon’s gym transformed his life. He graduated from college with a double major in English Literature and Kinesiology and Exercise Science, and Deac was right. He’d put on fifty pounds of muscle, ran a six-minute mile, and could bench press three-fifty in his sleep—and nobody fucked with him. Through damn hard work and dedication, the skinny kid from the Colorado plains stepped foot into Deacon’s gym a lamb and came out a lion.

  Jordan brought up the gym’s master calendar on the computer and tilted the screen for Deacon to see. “I’ve rearranged the schedule for the next three weeks.”

  Deacon slipped on a pair of glasses from his pocket and gazed at the screen. “I don’t see you on there very much.”

  “I did that on purpose. You see, Deac, I’ve entered a contest, and if I win, I’ll need the next few weeks to focus on my blog.”

  “That perfect thing?” his mentor asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset.”

  Deacon sat back and pocketed his glasses. “What kind of contest is this?”

  “If I win it, I’ll become a paid contributor on the CityBeat site.”

  Deacon whistled. “Even I know of CityBeat. They’ve got a huge fitness community.”

  Jordan nodded. “It’s a complete lifestyle platform, and if I get it, things could really pick up for me.”

  Deacon narrowed his gaze. “I see. And Deacon CrossFit? Is that a part of your plan?”

  A twist of regret gripped his heart. “I owe you everything, Deac. I’d never leave you hanging. But this could be big for me.”

  “And you’re pretty sure you’ve won?” the man asked.

  Jordan crossed his arms. “I can’t see how they’d choose anyone else. There are only a few other blogs that come close to my number of subscribers, and one is a bullshit relationship wannabe guru. There are a few other lifestyle bloggers, but, as far as content, I’m clearly the best.”

  His mentor looked him square in the eyes. “You do what you need to do to win, son.”

  Son.

  The word shouldn’t still sting, but it did.

  “When do you find out?” Deacon pressed.

  Jordan glanced at his phone, laying on the desk. “Today, I’m just waiting on an email.”

  “I can tell,” Deacon answered, biting back a grin.

  Jordan frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at your leg.”

  Bouncing up and down like a tween waiting to meet Justin Bieber, his knee bobbed with nervous energy. He forced it to stop. He needed to get his shit under control.

  He came to his feet. “That’s nothing. This is when I usually hit the pavement for a quick afternoon 5K.”

  Deacon’s lips twisted into a wry grin. “You might want to make it a ten today.”

  Jordan nodded. “I probably should, and thanks for backing me on this. You know I won’t let you down with the gym.”

  Deacon watched him closely. “Just know who got you to this point.”

  “I know, Deac, and I’m so grateful to you and,” he stopped himself, nearly mentioning Maureen.

  A muscle twitched in his mentor’s jaw. “Damn right! You’ve come a long way from—”

  “Straws!” came a shrill, sugary voice, and Jordan froze.

  He could almost hear the taunts and see the kids’ laughing faces.

  Straws. Fucking straws. Pelting him in the head. Brushing past his skinny limbs.

  “Why the hell would you say that?” he barked at Shelly, who froze like a deer caught in a pair of headlights.

  The girl crumpled. “Because I opened the boxes in the front with the water bottles, and I thought the smaller box with the straws for them was in here?”

  He swallowed hard, then found the box on the floor by the door. “Yeah, this is probably it,” he said, handing it to her.

  Shelly skittered away without a swish to her ponytail this time.

  “Walk me out,” Deacon said, eyeing Shelly’s ass again as she left the office.

  Jordan grabbed a ball cap, swiped his phone and earbuds off the desk, and followed his mentor out of the gym.

  Onc
e on the pavement, Deacon put a hand on his shoulder. “Who taught you how to be the best, Jordan?”

  A wave of resolve crashed over him, washing away the vexing memories.

  He was not the skinniest kid in his class. He was the Jordan Marks.

  “You did, Deac,” he answered, his voice steady.

  “Now, get that run in, clear your head, and prepare for success.”

  “Thanks,” he said to the man who’d been more of a father to him than his real father had ever been.

  “And Jordan?”

  “Yeah, Deac.”

  “What do you know about Shelly?”

  He shrugged. “She works the desk.”

  Deacon nodded and glanced inside the gym. “Go crush that 10K!” he said, his gaze trained on the front desk.

  Jordan bit back a grin. Jesus! What was Deac thinking? But he had bigger things to worry about than his mentor checking out a pretty girl. He popped in his earbuds, set off down the street, then glanced at his phone. He’d get in his run, and then he’d check his email—because discipline mattered. Yes, he wanted the CityBeat gig. He wanted fame and notoriety.

  But he was not a quitter.

  If he set a goal, he exceeded it. He told himself he’d run three miles today. Instead, he’d follow Deac’s advice and run six. Pushing his body to the limit with each stride, he stripped off his shirt and tucked it in the band of his mesh shorts as he passed by the shops and cafés dotting the Tennyson town center.

  He liked this neighborhood and had rented a small bungalow not far from the gym. Working for Deacon, he’d been all over the state setting up CrossFit locations. But this place, while still near the bustling city, had a small-town feel to it that strangely appealed to him. He kicked up his pace, darting off the sidewalk and onto the road to pass a couple pushing a stroller. He cut back onto the pavement and passed a little bookshop, that lately, seemed to be packed with old ladies staring out of the front window.

  He regulated his breathing, his body grateful to burn off the nervous energy he’d harbored all day. He crossed the street and headed for a large patch of open space. He’d finish his run at Tennyson Park, doing laps under the shade of the giant oaks and beech trees that lined a trail circling the space. He’d completed twelve laps when his phone beeped, signaling the six-mile mark. And like a kid waiting to go downstairs on Christmas morning, anticipation building, he stopped and stared at the email icon on his screen.