As my orgasm rips through me, I call out his name into the steamy air. Kaede McWarren, hot in the sunshine, chest glistening in sweat, and looking at me like he could rearrange my very soul is one of my most-called-upon mental clit flicks. And it works every damn time.
Chapter 2
Kaede
Watching the two guys preparing for a heavy squat, I stretch out my shoulders, which are feeling a little tight this morning. I’m mentally cursing my best friend, Ross, for pushing me so hard for yesterday’s workout, even if it was for my own good. He’s probably cursing my name too because I returned the favor.
In every opportunity in life, there comes a point where success or failure hangs in the balance and you’ve got two options.
You can back off and watch the opportunity pass. Safe, but you’ll never get anywhere that way.
Or you can go for it. You might fail and crash land hard, which hurts and sucks like a son of a bitch. But you also might succeed, and that gamble, where hard work, planning, and dedication meet luck, is where greatness lies.
The lifter unracks his bar, and behind him, his training buddy encourages him.
It’s how I feel, on the cusp and ready to explode. A huge weight on my back, but I’m ready for it, ready to make the lift and trusting in myself. Oh, and Ross.
We’ve known each other since freshman year of high school, where we became a force of nature on the football field. He’d toss up the passes, and I would never back off, even if some meathead with visions of snapping my spine was giving chase.
Nope, I’d haul it in because I played like I had something to prove, not just with my balls—and no, I don’t mean in a teenage jock masturbation sort of way—but with my brain. The field was my chessboard, not just my grassy stage to posture and demonstrate my testosterone levels.
We were the infamous ‘One-Two’. Ross was the one, I was the two, and together, there was no stopping us. After college, we both worked at his dad’s company, Andrews Consolidated. Technically, I was Ross’s assistant, but that was never the truth of our arrangement. It was just the only title that would let me work in his office as his right-hand man.
In reality, he depended on me and I depended on him. We’d created something special in our partnership.
Ross was the face guy. He can sell ice to an Eskimo, and he’s not just a pretty face. He’s got brains behind that devil-may-care smile. Meanwhile, I was his ninja, working stealthily behind the scenes and setting him up to look good.
The main difference between us is that Ross is smooth and cultured, at least in public. He wears his heart on his sleeve a bit too often, but in doing so, he inspires people to follow him.
Me? I’m rough and take-no-prisoners when pressured. Ross knows that and knows our team works better when I stay in the shadows, despite my handsome mug. In the shadows, I can strategize, gather information, and create brilliant plans to make the ideas Ross and I come up with sing.
So give me a goal, toss up the pass, and I’ll catch it, just like in the good old days. I’ll juke, jive, spin, and hurdle if I need to. If all that fails, I’ll lower my shoulder and go Beast Mode on the problem, gritting my teeth and leaving a little blood behind in a way that I couldn’t if I were the flashy front man with all the attention on me.
Things were going smooth, but then it all changed.
We hit our sticking point.
Ross got engaged to his little sister’s best friend, Violet Russo.
The falling in love part hadn’t been the problem. I always figured it’d happen to one of us at some point. So I’d handled it like I had everything else, with laser focus and scalpel-like precision.
But Ross, being an Andrews, didn’t do things small. His relationship with Violet had been quick, crazy, and had even involved his punching out Violet’s ex in front of the media at one point.
In other words, it was true love.
“Yeah, man!” the squatter’s training partner yells, helping him rack the bar before they do a complicated handshake-fist bump thing that ends with their bumping chests and roaring at each other. “Hell of a fuckin’ PR!”
Personal records . . . Ross and I have set a few. Marrying Violet’s one record I don’t think he’s ever gonna top.
There were consequences, though. Namely, Ross decided that he was done with the family corporate life and walked away. He hadn’t asked me. In fact, I think he tried to set me up with one of the other executives to make sure I had a future at Andrews if I wanted it.
But fuck that.
It was always us. Together, we’re the magical One-Two, which is what I’d told him when I walked out with him. Except this time it’s One-One. Partners. Equals.
Brothers.
And so we started fresh, with business minds and a careful and thoughtful approach to our next venture.
Neither of us is the type to run out to McDonald’s and offer to mop floors, so we began with some small investments in a few start-ups, ones that are still paying passive income.
But we’d wanted something more and dreamed of creating something of our own. Finally, one night, over a few too many beers and a homemade cheesecake Violet, now his wife, had made, we’d hit on our winning idea.
Well, actually, it was me who hit it as I stumbled into Ross’s home gym and went tripping over the rowing machine, hitting my head on the edge of a dumbbell. It was more drunkenness than lack of space, given that he lives in a luxe penthouse, but that hadn’t mattered at the moment.
And so, in a little bit of blood and a lot of inebriation, One Life Gym was born.
“Hey, Kaede,” Ross says, interrupting my thoughts as he crosses the room toward me. “You ready?”
“Yeah, man,” I reply as we start a morning tradition for us, the walkthrough. We do it because this is our baby, our house, our home. And we love it, for good reason. We both knew hard work and working out. We’d developed our own fitness programs when we were in high school, using the Internet to guide us and topping it off with a lot of sweat education. And we’d both had good strength coaches in college, where we were able to soak up a lot of information about how to exercise. And fuck knows, we killed enough stress in the gym during our tenure at Andrews because Ross’s dad put a fuckton of pressure on Ross, which meant it was on me too.
Now, with Violet’s cooking, both Ross and I needed to stay physically active. Violet’s one hell of a woman, but she’s Italian and cooks like it.
So we created One Life. As we move through the zones, from the cardio deck where we snag the occasional dropped towel, making conversation with the morning Fitness Moms, to picking up plates in the double insulated hardcore area where the big boys can play with their big toys without disturbing folks, to the locker rooms and their luxurious steam rooms, I know every inch of this facility.
One Life Gym is, in my opinion, the ultimate in fitness. Ross and I spent countless hours and sleepless nights scouting locations, going over vendors, talking to welders and carpenters, and poring over business plans until we found the perfect site to build the first One Life.
Now, nearly six months after construction, we have a fully functional state of the art fifteen thousand square foot gym. It’s not the biggest gym in town, but it’s not about the size. It’s about attention to detail, from the parking lot to the interior to the amenities, that give the best experience to our members.
We pause at the dumbbell rack, and for the next five minutes, we shuffle the dumbbells around. I swear it seems to be a law of the gym that nobody ever puts their weights back where they found them. Eighty-pounders mixed with five-pounders? Sure, why the hell not!
“Seen the latest numbers? Training profits are up again,” Ross says as he picks up a pair of tens and ironically carries them from the heavy end to the light end of the rack. “Team’s doing well. Think it’s the complimentary sesh with sign-up?”
“It’s not just that.” And it isn’t. Our biggest profit maker is how we’ve staffed One Life. Our trainers are all top-fli
ght, and they don’t work on commission. We pay them a competitive salary so there’s no sales pressure beyond making certain target goals. We’ve also got two nutritionists on staff ready to work with the trainers and a clients’ doctor to make sure everything’s dialed in properly.
“Oh?” Ross asks. “What do you think it is?”
“The crew’s really busting their butts,” I explain to him. After all, I’m the Co-President and Training Manager, creating our programming and ensuring that all our trainers stick to strict guidelines to better serve our customers. I’ve taken the time to get certified myself, but more importantly, I spend an hour or more a day on the floor. It’s a great time to check in with our trainers, an opportunity to learn from them as much as possible, and also a way to be visible and accessible to members. “They’re getting good follow-through. Those initial appointments are converting to monthly training, and they’re gaining new clients by working the floor regularly too.”
“Like strippers selling lap dances,” Ross jokes quietly, just between the two of us.
While I get to bury my head in iron half the time, Ross is the head CEO and Operations Manager. He more or less handles the non-training staff employees, including sales, and most importantly, the members.
It’s the perfect situation for us both, using our strengths and balancing each other’s weaknesses to create something unique.
We finish with the dumbbells and stop by the power racks, Ross smiling congenially as he checks on one of our favorite members, Karen Smithers. She’s in her sixties, and at all of five feet two and a hundred and thirty pounds, she could give any chest-bumping bros lessons on intensity.
“Yeah budd-ay!” she hoots, hyping herself as she starts down on her squat, pausing at the bottom for a full two-count before powering up with a small grunt. She racks her weight, clapping her hands in joy.
“You see that, boys?” she asks, flexing her arms and posing for us with a big smile. “Ain’t nuttin’ but a peanut!”
“Awesome, Karen,” Ross says. At the same time, I say, “Great job!”
“Ain’t nothing to it but to do it.” She preens a moment longer then high-fives us both, white dust puffing up in the air around us from her chalky hands. We move on, chuckling as Karen finishes clearing her bar and moving on with her workout.
“That’s one badass grandma I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley at night. She might kick my ass. Even with the Ronnie Coleman quotes.”
Ross chuckles but counters, “It’s people like her who’ll help us stand out when we have the meeting with Jeffrey Sanders. I feel good about this. You?”
I nod, agreeing with Ross as I call out to one of the strongmen, “What’s up, Gus?” He’s a bouncer at a local nightclub and looks like he could rip your spine clean out of your body Mortal Kombat-style if the mood suited him, but in reality, he’s the nicest guy you’ll ever meet. Besides strongman, his hobbies include gardening and baking cookies. “How’s the family?”
“Baby’s doing great! Wanna see pictures?” He’s already wiping his fingers on his shorts and pulling out his phone to swipe through the camera roll. As we ooh and ahh appropriately over the chubby-cheeked baby, Gus warns us. “The wife says she’s going to feel up to coming back soon too. So tell AJ I’m gonna be making some arrangements with him.”
AJ is our best and most experienced trainer, and his sessions are prized and expensive commodities.
“You don’t want to work with her?” Ross asks, his brow furrowing since Gus obviously knows what he’s doing given the monstrous amount of weight on the bar at his feet. I laugh when Gus looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. “What?”
Gus explains to Ross, “I made that mistake back when we were dating, and after giving her a few form cues, I was in the dog house for three whole days. Something about her not needing me to mansplain proper squats because she’d been hover peeing her whole life. And before you ask, I didn’t ask . . . seemed like a woman thing. All I know is, I’m never pulling that shit ever again!” A haunted look crosses his face, and I swear he looks pale even though his skin is dark brown. “No way in hell. AJ can deal with that and I will happily pay for him to do it.”
He pauses and then points a thick, blunt-tipped finger at Ross before shifting to me. “And if you tell her I said that, I’ll kill you myself.”
His face is stone-cold serious, and we throw our hands up in the ubiquitous sign of ‘no problem, man.’ Gus’s mean mug melts as though it never happened and he’s all smiles again.
“AJ will be ready for her.” I make a mental note to give AJ a heads-up on that one. Gus’s wife, Brandy, has big plans to have a baby and compete in a fitness model competition in the same calendar year. Sounds like madness to me, but if anyone can do it safely, she can.
We head back into the front of the gym to get ready for the day shift to start. “Incoming,” Ross whispers out of the side of his mouth. “Two o’clock.”
I glance up and see Missy, one of our members, coming in with a determined look on her face and eyes locked on me like I’m the spring runway release of Prada’s special collection.
The very definition of spoiled socialite, Missy’s in here five days a week. She works out, but her main goal seems to be cockteasing men by turning every walk on the stepper or ‘squat’ into a chance to poke her ass out and show off more camel toe than the local zoo. Or sometimes, she stretches, using the yoga straps to mimic some sort of BDSM meets Kama Sutra situation.
Today, she’s in her typical uniform, which consists of a low-cut sports bra that has her obviously enhanced tits threatening to spill out all over the place, some skintight booty shorts that would barely pass a beach volleyball test, her hair pulled up in a high wrap ponytail like a bottle-blonde Ariana Grande clone, and wearing enough makeup to qualify as a YouTube video star.
Some of the guys seem infatuated with her, but she does nothing for me. She’s a Barbie looking for a Ken with a big bank account, and though I might be single, I want more than a real-life blow-up doll.
Unfortunately, Missy seems to not care about my opinion on the matter as she comes up, running a perfectly manicured hand over my right bicep. “Ooh, Kaede, have you been doing sets without me?” she purrs. “I thought we agreed that we would work out together?” Her pout is practiced, and I’m sure it’s gotten her whatever she wants her entire life. She’s also not talking about weightlifting when she says ‘work out together’.
“Hello, Missy,” I reply as evenly and politely as I can. I chose screen-printed DryFit T-shirts for gym floor staff for a reason, blending professional with sporty. With the way Missy’s not so subtly flirting, though, I wish I’d chosen a hazmat suit. “Sorry, I’m not a trainer, but I’m sure one of them would be happy to work out with you.”
It’s a clipped and professional way of pawning her off on someone else, anyone else. I never realized how hard Ross’s job is. If it were only me at stake, I’d tell her to fuck off. But it’s not just me, it’s One Life and our future, and I can’t go around being unprofessional just because a member is a stage-five clinger who refuses to take a hint.
“That’s not the same and you know it.” She smiles as if something I said was funny and then takes a long drink from her water bottle. She sucks at the spout with pink over-plump lips, hollowing her cheeks like she’s sucking on a dick and she’s thirsty as fuck. And I don’t mean for water.
When that doesn’t get the desired result, she gives up on finesse and gets straight to it. “How about dinner sometime? Do you like Sabbatino’s? I can get us a table tonight.”
Sabbatino’s is fancy, as in I don’t think I could get a table there on last-minute notice. Ross probably could if he dropped his last name, but there’s zero chance Missy is getting a table there tonight or any other. There’s even less chance that I would go with her. Ever.
“Sorry,” I reply politely, “but I’m putting in all my time here.”
“It shows.” She drops her eyes from the top of m
y head to my crotch, and I fight the urge to cover up. Besides, my dick’s already gone into hiding to get away from her. She settles with patting the logo on my chest affectionately. “Maybe another time. See you around.”
She struts off, hips swaying like she’s about to rip off her shorts and toss them at me, but I have to shiver. Ross, who’s been ignored like last week’s leftover tuna salad this entire time, gives me a raised eyebrow. “Who the hell is that?”
“Missy. A girl who thinks that membership benefits are a little more than what’s covered in the brochure.”
Ross’s eyebrows climb. “And?”
“Definitely not my type.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Didn’t know you had a ‘type’, other than available. And that one is a Waffle House for the K-Dawg . . . open twenty-four seven, three sixty-five.”
“Gross, asshole. You kiss your wife with that mouth?”
Ross grins, not offended in the least. Before he can give me the details I don’t want on exactly where he’s kissed her, I jump back in to cut him off. “I think I need a shower,” I mutter, rubbing at my chest where Missy touched me. “Seriously feel dirty.”
Ross snorts. “Yeah, well, hit the showers and I’ll see you this afternoon to talk final details for the Sanders presentation. If we do this right, it’ll all be worth it. With Sanders, we can clone this success and go national.”
I give Ross a grin. I’m feeling the excitement in the air too. “I know, dumbass. I’m the one who put the presentation together. We’re going to nail it.”
One Life Gym is my business baby, and I’ll do anything to protect it, grow it, make it into everything it deserves to be. And it’s already paying me back, maybe not in dollars but in pride and feeling. “One-Two, Ross. One-Two.”
We fist bump, and he corrects our decades-old saying. “One-One, Kaede. You and me, man.”
My Big Fat Fake Engagement Page 2