KING: Las Vegas Bad Boys(91)

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.