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McQUEEN:Las Vegas Bad Boys(2)

By:Frankie Love


I don’t own a bikini. I prefer shorts and tank tops, a pair of gloves. I come to the gym to condition. To prepare. I come to the gym to fight.

But Dad doesn’t need to know that. No one in the family does.

“Hey, JoJo,” my coach, Kit, greets me as I pass his office, headed to the locker room. “You ready, girl? Today’s gonna be a beast.”

It’s Wednesday. Wednesdays are always my hardest, longest day. Kit always lines me up a grappling partner mid-week, and I both love it and hate it. Up until a month ago, I was just here helping as a personal trainer and fighting in amateur bouts. But Kit thinks I can do this—really do this. So I’ve stepped away from doing anything besides training for my first professional fight.

I don’t know if his belief in me is warranted ... but I’ll take it.

And I figure that if he takes me seriously as a fighter, I can take myself seriously, too.

Which is why I consider myself distraction-free. I have only two priorities: my gym and my family. Anything else is in the way.

In the locker room I take off my white jeans and sandals, and change into my workout gear. Before locking my stuff up, I check my phone and see I have some texts.

My best friend from college, Lucy.

Lucy: Hey chica, I’m so bored. Let’s do lunch. Pleaseeee.

Lucy: Don’t ignore me. I know you’re at the gym. I’ll come there if you don’t say yes.

Me: I’ve gotta work out till two.

My thumbs hover, knowing I’m a lame friend. Not wanting to be that person. I can make an effort.

Me: Maybe tonight?

Lucy: Will you go out, out? Like heels and a dress?

Me: How about Netflix?

Lucy: No. You are so boring. I mean a for real night out.

Lucy thinks I’m crazy. Thinks I am totally missing the opportunity to enjoy my twenties, in Vegas. But the truth is, I haven’t been out since a few months ago, when she convinced me to go out with her and a group of her work friends.

That night was a disaster. I thought I was brave enough, rebellious enough, to go to an all-male strip show at the Spades Royalle ... but I started blushing one routine in. I left to enjoy Lemon Drops in the bar until my friends finished watching the men get down to their tighty-whiteys or whatever it is they wear on stage.

Truth is, I’ve never seen a man naked and didn’t particularly want my first time to be at the show Stripped. Even if that hottie McQueen, who works out here at Kit’s Gym, danced in the show.

I swear, every time I walk into the gym I’m overwhelmed with half-naked men around me. Ripped arms, chiseled abs. It’s impossible not to feel at least a little bit of longing when I show up here among all these guys—guys who look at me with as much desire as I look at them.

But I always resist the temptation. It would be so easy to give into one of my fantasies. Sex in the shower after getting all sweaty from a workout. Sex in the boxing ring after a man has pinned me to the ground. Hand wraps binding me up, tied to chair....

Whew. I’m getting all hot just thinking about it—which isn’t new. I’m the only person who’s ever in the women’s locker room, and I’ve pleasured myself plenty of times in the shower stall, alone, after a workout.

Endorphins are for real.

My phone buzzes. Oops. I was so caught up in my fantasies I forgot about Lucy. And, momentarily, about the conversation with my dad. God, maybe I need more distractions, because the idea of marrying a creeper like Grotto makes me want to die. Being able to forget about it for a few minutes was a gift.

Lucy: So tonight?!?!?

Me: Fine. But I choose the place.

She responds with a string on nonsensical emojis and I smile despite myself, then toss the phone in the locker and slam the door shut.

I may have agreed to heels tonight, but right now I need to go throw some punches to get my mind out of the gutter, and off the threat of an arranged marriage.





Chapter Two





McQUEEN


Kit’s Gym is my second home. I come here most evenings, around five or so—mostly because I wake up around noon and my evening show isn’t until nine p.m.

But I have tonight off, which is why I’m here early—eleven a.m.—and as soon as I walk through the door of the gym I’m reminded there’s a different crew here earlier in the day.

None of the regular guys are around. It’s quiet, which makes sense. I guess most people in Vegas are sleeping all day, playing all night.

“Hey, McQueen, what’re you doing here so early, son?” Kit asks, setting down his phone as I pass his office. He’s an old guy—grey hair and a thick mustache—but he knows his shit. He’s run this place for three decades, and anyone worth their salt knows Kit’s the fucking man. He’s a hidden Vegas gem; I met him when I moved here five years ago.

“It’s my day off, so I thought I’d come early.”

“Good, son. I need a partner for one of my fighters. My guy just cancelled.”

“I don’t know, man. I can’t spar. My manager gets pissed if I show up with any bruises for a show.”

Just thinking about the show last night makes me smile. After I left the dressing rooms where I took Jen, and planned on taking Stef, I went out onstage and nailed it. My night ended with a set of twins. I’m living the fucking dream.

“Oh, I know your rules, pretty boy. But we’re grappling today. No cuts or scrapes, guaranteed.”

“All right. I’m in.”

“Good, we’re just starting warm-ups.”

I shrug, figuring a private session with Kit and one of his fighters will be a better workout than the cross-fit shit I planned on doing.

“Who are you working with today?” I ask as we walk to the center of the gym. I’m ready to get my ass kicked.

There’s only one person waiting by the ring. Everyone else is working out on the sidelines, doing their own thing.

But this can’t be the fighter.

This is JoJo.

“Here’s my fighter,” Kit says, eyeing the 5’4” redhead, who is more resistant to flirting than any girl I’ve ever met.

“I thought you helped with training?” I ask, looking JoJo up and down.

She’s in tiny shorts that show off her toned legs and a cropped tank top that reveals a taut stomach I wouldn’t mind running my hands across. But what I really want is something lower. A woman as tough as JoJo has gotta be insane in bed.

“I used to,” she says. “Up until a month or so ago. Kit wants me to train exclusively now. For him.”

Her voice is as sexy as I remembered. She’s all rough and smoky, but her heart-shaped face and dimpled cheeks tell me she’s got layers. Layers I want to fucking pull back. Starting with her top, ending with her panties.

“No shit?” I run my hand over my jaw, impressed. Honestly, I thought she was just some gym eye-candy, and a smart hire on Kit’s part. Get a hottie to run the workouts, and the men won’t complain.

But JoJo is apparently more than meets the eye.

“So you’re a fighter?” I ask.

She twists her pouty lips, shrugs modestly.

Kit answers for her. “She’s something else, McQueen. JoJo has spunk. Fire. She’s unassuming, but when she gets in the ring she’s a cannon.”

“High praise,” I say meeting JoJo’s chocolate-brown eyes.

“Kit’s crazy. I’ve only had two amateur fights. Hardly worth getting excited about.”

“Enough talk,” Kit scoffs. “Let’s get to work.”

We go to the weights, and Kit starts running us through all kinds of insanity.

Barbell Deadlifts. One Arm Kettle Ball Cleans. Front Barbell Squats. Kettle Ball Push Presses. Freehand Jump Squats.

Basically, Kick My Asses.

JoJo is fucking distracting. Every time she bends, my eyes follow her tight ass. Every time she leans over, I can’t help but notice the way her perfect breasts squeeze tightly together in her tank top.

God, I want her.

And I find myself upping my game to impress her. And it’s not just me. I see random assholes in the gym walking around, complimenting her on her squats and her lifts, offering to fucking spot her like her own goddamn coach isn’t two feet away. It’s like there’s some inner-Alpha-need to lift and lunge like animals, and prove to her we know how to work our fucking cocks, that emerges the moment she enters the gym.

I’m not above that, not when it comes to a piece of ass like JoJo.

And the thing about JoJo—which is different than 99% of the women I’m ever around—is that she doesn’t seem to know how fucking hot she is. Her mind isn’t on the ripped guys walking around her; she’s totally focused on her training.

When we pause to get water, and Kit goes to make a call in his office, I notice the gym has cleared out. Kit closes for a few hours every afternoon.

I look at JoJo, who hasn’t once complained, hasn’t once fussed. Hasn’t once wavered. She’s a fucking machine.

“You ever have fun when you do this?” I ask, wondering if I can get her to break a smile.

“McQueen, this is the world to me. It’s not a joke.”

“I get that,” I tell her. But I don’t really. Why the hell should we take life so fucking serious? There’s little point to any of it if we aren’t enjoying ourselves along the way. “Well, you ever have fun after you work out?” I ask her, giving her my classic McQueen smile.