Protein Shake

by Alexis Angel

  My BFF, Holly-Anne, looks up at me from the couch.

  “Aww, babe!” she coos, grinning at me from ear to ear. “Proud of you! Come sit down—I’ve already got pizza to celebrate!”

  Holly-Anne holds up a slice of pepperoni dripping with orange grease and ooey-gooey cheese. I can smell the garlic on it from all the way across the room.

  There’s beer on the coffee table, too—not the light stuff that I’ve become accustomed to, but a full-bodied amber ale from the brewery down the street.

  In fact, that’s not the only thing from the brewery down the street in my apartment right now.

  “Hey,” says a ruggedly handsome bearded dude, popping his head up from where he kneels on the floor.

  “…Hey,” I say back.

  “Mmmm,” Holly-Anne moans. “Yeah, baby. That’s the spot.”

  I approach with caution. Like, I love Holly-Anne, but she’s been crashing at my place for several months now. This isn’t the first time I walked in on a guy going down on her while she lounges on my couch.

  “Oh, thank god,” I breathe as I come as near to the pizza and the bearded dude. His face is on the beer labels, I realize—and he has Holly-Anne’s bare, chubby foot cradled in his hand.

  Satisfied that I haven’t walked in on anything dirtier than a foot massage, I head to the door to check my mail. The pizza smell follows me all the way over. Even I have to admit: it’s pretty fucking tempting.

  Pizza. I haven’t had pizza in two fucking years.

  If I’ve ever deserved a slice, it’s now.

  When I look at my mail, my resolve is weaker than ever. Bills, bills, bills…and a letter with the Gilded Lily Modeling Agency’s logo on the envelope. I don’t need to look at the return address to know who it’s from, and I don’t need to open it to know what’s inside.

  Evian Sprague might have fired me for being too fat, but that doesn’t mean I’m ever going to be rid of her.

  I guess it would help if I hadn’t gone right from being a Gilded Lily model to being a recruiter for her competitor…but still.

  When I open the letter, I’m once again faced with the same fucking picture staring back at me. It’s a photo of me from 100 pounds ago, wearing a tube top so tight it might as well be a sausage casing and leggings that are giving me serious camel-crotch.

  This is what I looked like the day Evian fired my ass: overweight, uncomfortable, out of focus, and completely miserable.

  The bitch has signed it, too, in her signature venom-pink pen:

  This is who you’ll always be…didn’t want you to forget! Xoxo, Evian

  That’s when I feel it. That hungry-hungry-hippo that lives in my stomach—the one who hates spinach with a passion and loves cheese more than life itself. The smell of that pizza is just too fucking tempting—and of all the days for Evian to mail me such a low blow, she chose her moment perfectly.

  But what the hell, right? It’s just one day. One piece of pizza. One itty-bitty slice.

  …only, it’s like, never just one slice.

  I’m about to bite the bullet—and the pepperoni—when I look down at my last piece of mail. It’s obviously something that Evian had sent over to compliment her nasty little letter—or maybe it’s just part of some marketing campaign.

  Power Plus Gym, the flyer reads. Be the best You you can be!

  It’s printed on fancy paper and looks so high-end, it’s a little intimidating. Still, it’s offering a one-month free trial…

  And fuck Evian, right? Giving in right now would tickle that wicked witch as pink as her shitty fucking ink pens.

  “Kara? Pizza!” Holly-Anne calls from the couch.

  I give her an apologetic grin instead.

  “Gotta run, sorry!” I say, grabbing one of my gross detox smoothies out of the fridge and heading out the door.

  “Love you!” Holly-Anne calls out.

  “Love you, too!”

  I really do love Holly-Anne—she’s an awesome friend. But even I know that Holly-Anne’s eating habits are probably kiiiiinda how I ended up gaining so much weight in the first place. It was fun being big, beautiful women together with my best girl—right up until it wasn’t.

  There’s no denying that Holly-Anne still bangs some of the hottest dudes in all of Los Angeles…but this isn’t about looking attractive to men for me. It’s not about looking hot for Evian either. And it’s not even about looking hot for myself.

  Losing this weight has been about proving to myself that I could do it. It’s about getting healthy. It’s about not being fucking winded when I run up all the stairs to Evian Sprague’s favorite cafe in Beverly Park…just in time to swipe her latest talent right out from under her awful, smug little nose.

  “Better gigs,” I announce, slamming my own contract down on the table so hard, the little foam hearts in Evian’s soy latte tremble. “More visibility—access to indie designers on top of all the big names—and Wild Rose can guarantee that you’ll be walking New York, Milan, and Paris fashion weeks by this time next year.”

  “Holy fuck, dude,” the model says, lifting his pen from Evian’s contract and immediately shifting it to mine. He smiles up at me with one green eye, one blue, and even I have to admit that it’s pretty fucking cool—even if he’s a little too pretty to be my type. “You’re serious?”

  “Oh, I’m sure she’s serious.” Evian Sprague slides her rose-colored sunglasses down the bridge of her nose and glares at me over them while smoke billows around her from her clove-scented cigarette. “A serious cunt. Run along, Kara Gilmore. The whale show at SeaWorld starts any minute now—it would be so sad to disappoint all of those eager tourists, don’t you think?”

  “Man, whatever,” the model says, scrawling his name onto my contract instead.

  I get the pleasure of watching the sneer on Evian’s thin, over-lined lips as she pays her check and saunters away. I’m sure she’s got a long day of organizing asshole bleachings and drinking the souls of the innocent with her diet soda ahead of her. I’m happy to see her go.

  “So, uh…” the male model says, staring up at me with those mesmerizing blue-green eyes. “What’s the policy on inter-company relationships? Want to bang one out in the bathroom to celebrate?”

  He smiles all cocky and shit, like I’m already some kind of sure thing.

  “Aw,” I coo. “Look at you. Bet women don’t turn down that grin very often.”

  “They don’t,” he flirts. His voice is all breathy and heavy with lust already. “Especially not when it’s coming from between their legs.”

  I consider it for a second. Don’t judge me, babe! You would, too.

  Like, okay. He’s undeniably hot. If he weren’t, I wouldn’t be signing him.

  But real talk for a second? I don’t fuck my clients. Plus, he’s got that slender beach-boy surfer thing going on—not my type.

  “You’re going to hear the word no a lot in this industry,” I tell him, reaching for the contract. “Might as well start getting used to it now.”

  He catches my wrist as my fingers curl around the document.

  “I could tear this up and sign with that Evian bitch, you know,” he says. I can see the bead of sweat dripping down from his perfect hairline—this dude is flustered right now. “I think I might like a little more one-on-one time with you written into my contract.”

  I snort and yank my wrist away from him with one sharp tug.

  “You want to try it? Be my guest. If you like the idea of fucking your agent so much…”

  We both watch as, in the distance, Evian smacks a camera-wielding tourist with her handbag. Poor fucker probably mistook her for Cruella de Vil.

  “Tapping that rusty old snatch will be a mandatory part of your package if you want her offer back,” I assure him.

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down in his throat.

  A second bead of sweat dribbles down his brow.

  “I think Wild Rose might be the place for me,” he admits.

  �
�Thought so,” I say, already clicking my kitten heels away…grinning with the satisfaction of a job well fucking done.

  Chapter 3

  Chase

  Look, I’m not gonna fuck around about this. There’s no fucking point in being modest when my rippling biceps and rock-hard six-pack are anything but. I’m the toughest bastard in this gym, and any asshole who says otherwise is going home with a broken face.

  And a broken face is exactly what the dude watching me bench press ends up with.

  Yeah, I see that fucker gawking at me while I lift three times his body weight over my body, as if the bar was hung with fluffy pillows instead of solid fucking steel. I see his cock get hard beneath his gym shorts at the sight of sweat pouring down my pectorals—which, I’m flattered, but that’s not my thing.

  I even see the way his jaw hits the floor when I wink at him as I hit the apex of my lift.

  What can I say? If they’re gonna gawk, they’re gonna get a fucking show.

  But I don’t see the poor asshole walk into the wall in front of him as he stares at me. I only hear it: the sick crunch of his nose crumpling up like a balled up piece of notebook paper.

  As blood pours down his face, the dude whimpers like a fucking pussy. I roll my eyes and catch the gaze of one of our personal trainers, who rolls his eyes right back.

  “Fuck’s sake, Chase,” Brett swears as he jogs past me to help our injured customer. “That’s the third time this week.”

  I just shrug. “His mamma should’ve told him it ain’t polite to stare.”

  I’m not fucking phased—not by the attention and certainly not by the blood. I saw my fair share of that shit with my battalion in the Middle East. Saw a lot more working as muscle for the Cox crime family—and even more still when I wound up in jail for it.

  But the army rangers, the mob, and the U.S penal system are all behind me now. I’ve got a good fucking gig going here with Eric at Power Plus—and for once, it doesn’t involve killing anybody.

  They say crime never pays—but you can fucking bet that the corporate life does. Eric’s the mastermind of the operation. I’m just the hard body with the bad reputation that lends us some credibility.

  We’ve made fucking billions opening gyms across the country, and we’re good enough at it that gyms are just the beginning. Fucking Eric has some kind of fifty-year plan for our brand, I have no goddamn doubt—I’m just here to punch him in his pretty mouth and put him in a headlock if he starts waving his dick too wide.

  We’re a good fucking team, Eric and me.

  And when you sow seed as well as Eric Hale and I do, you’d better fucking bet it won’t be too long until you’re gathering all the sweet, ripe fruit.

  Which, speaking of fruit—you wouldn’t fucking believe the juicy-ass peach that just walked through Power Plus’ front doors.

  She’s got long, wavy, bimbo blonde hair piled up on top of her head in a messy bun. And a cute little workout outfit that she obviously just fucking bought.

  As she talks with Jackson at the front desk to set up her membership, I can already see him losing himself in her pretty blue eyes and sizing up her glossy blowjob lips. When he puts his dirty hands on her slender shoulders to position her for her membership photo, I imagine ripping his fingers off and making him eat them.

  Don’t get me wrong—I like Jackson. But I’m a territorial bastard, and I’ve already decided that this girl is mine.

  I raise my eyes to Eric’s office, which is a couple stories up and overlooks the gym floor. Sure as fuck, there he is, eyeing this sexy piece of ass just like I am. Eric lords over his domain from above like some kind of god, but I fancy myself as more of a Jesus-among-the-people type.

  When his eyes meet mine, I’m fucking smirking.

  He can run down the stairs as fast as he likes—but I already know I’m going to get to this girl first.

  Power Plus isn’t a cheap fucking gym—most of our clients are celebrities, billionaires and, worse—so as she signs our membership agreement, I check her finger for a ring.

  Not wearing one—which is to my benefit. I don’t mind fucking the hell out of the bored wives of Hollywood fat cats, but if this woman did have a husband, she wouldn’t have one for long.

  And if it’s her boyfriend paying for her membership…well. I don’t like the idea of going back to jail, but maybe she could be convinced to suck cock for gym time instead.

  My gaze slides down to her wrists as she hands over her credit card to finalize her membership payment. They’re bone-thin and delicate. The kind of wrists that, if I wrapped my fingers around them too hard, I’d be afraid they’d break.

  This girl is thin—too thin, in my opinion. I like my women with a little more meat on their bones, and this hot little slice looks like she’s been living for a little too long off of nothing more than diet coke and cheeseburger dreams.

  If she’s looking for a workout, I’ve got a workout for her that she won’t forget.

  As she struts her stuff across the gym floor, I figure she must be single after all. She’s got a model walk, for one thing—and the way those hips move, they’re looking for trouble in all the right places.

  I figure she’ll go straight for the cardio area. Most women do.

  They think if they lift anything that’s not bright pink or weighs more than five pounds, their muscles are going to balloon up like fucking She-Hulk or some shit. How else could some jackass have been able to make such a fortune off of fucking Shakeweights?

  But to my surprise, she doesn’t hop on a treadmill or start putting in her rounds on a stationary bike. No, this little cutie tucks her gym bag into a locker and makes her way over to the weights—my domain of choice.

  I won’t lie. I’m impressed. I like a woman who’s not afraid to pump a little iron, if you know what I mean.

  But as quickly as she wins my respect, she wins my concern as well. Dumb little cunt jumps beneath a squat bar that’s still heavy with some other asshole’s weights. I can take one look at her slender model thighs and tell that there’s no way in hell she’s going to be able to lift that—especially not with that form.

  But oh, she sure fucking tries.

  I see Eric come to the base of the stairs clad in sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt. He spots the danger just as quickly as I do. We don’t even need words to form a battle plan—we just jump into action.

  “Oh…shit,” the blonde whimpers, a half-second away from crumpling beneath the weight.

  Just as the hot little blonde begins to slump, I catch one side of the bar and Eric catches the other. We ease it back up onto the rack while the blonde’s knees threaten to give out.

  “Silly bitch,” I chuckle to myself.

  “What the fuck did you just call me?”

  I raise my eyes to meet her baby blues.

  “I called you a silly bitch, sweetheart,” I level with her. “You damn near just hurt yourself—you’re lucky that all that’s bruised is your ego.”

  “My ego is not bruised,” she says. She puts her hands on her hips like she’s Wonder Woman or some shit, which only make me laugh again.

  And oh, boy. She doesn’t like it when I laugh at her.

  “Happens to the best of us, honey,” Eric says, picking up where I left off. “Unfortunately, you don’t get any stronger just carrying around that chip on your shoulder. No shame in biting off more than you can chew.”

  It’s then that it clicks for her. I’ve seen the same thing happen a million fucking times, and I never get tired of it.

  It’s the moment when a woman shifts from angry to horny. Whatever bitchy attitude she’s fronting suddenly becomes overwhelmed by some little ping from her inner cavewoman as she realizes she’s in the presence of two hot, sweaty men that would make for prime mating material.

  I watch her gaze shift down our bodies, until she’s blatantly focusing on our dicks.

  When she meets our eyes again, there’s a little fire in her stare that tells me she did it de
liberately, too. She let us watch her look.

  Fuck, man. Now that’s my kind of woman—this girl is as hot as they come.

  “Wouldn’t be the first time,” she says with a saucy little smirk.

  At that point, she tries to leave. Tries to pass between us and walk away with not even a thank you—as if we didn’t just fucking save her life.

  But nah—fuck that.

  Eric and I close ranks, standing shoulder to shoulder before she can pass.

  “I think a thank you is in order. Don’t you, Chase?”

  I smirk over at Eric, shifting my shoulders back like the cocky asshole I am.

  “I don’t know, Eric. I think we might need two thank yous, actually.”

  The blonde’s eyes narrow. “Or, you handsome gentlemen could kindly get the fuck out of my way before you wind up hurt.”

  Christ. I know she’s trying to be all bad-ass and shit, but that’s just fucking amusing. Even Eric’s lips are twitching while he fights back his desire to laugh.

  I’m not so fucking composed. This little tart? Hurting us?

  Oh god, that fucking slays me.

  Plus, she called us handsome.

  I’m a sucker for compliments, what can I say.

  “Sweetheart, the only thing you’re going to hurt if we let you loose in this gym is yourself,” I chuckle, shaking my head.

  “Why don’t you let us teach you some proper form?” Eric offers. “Might be useful if you don’t want to end up in the hospital.”

  Oh, boy. She doesn’t like that either.

  I can see the nostrils flare on her delicate little nose. Her chest heaves beneath her sports bra. I can practically see her heart rate increase as she takes a deep breath, ready to let us have it.

  But here’s the problem with women trying to breathe around us: pheromones make it fucking hard for a girl to keep her head straight, and since we’re constantly hitting the gym so hard we’re almost always dripping with sweat…

  This little bitch’s temper is quelled with just one whiff.

  “Fine,” she snaps. “Let’s see what you jackasses know, then.”

  I look at Eric with the biggest fucking smile on my face. Like, are you seeing this shit?