King:Las Vegas Bad Boys(46)

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.

She looks me up and down, not cracking. "I have all kinds of fun. In fact, I'm going out tonight."

"Why wait until tonight? I'll show you some moves in the ring, give you an idea of the fun we can have this afternoon."

She gives me a tight smile. "I'll pass."

"Pass on McQueen?" I shake my head, hiding my disappointment with a joke. "No one passes on McQueen."

"I don't like it when guys talk in third person."

I laugh. This girl doesn't put up with any bullshit. Which might be a problem. I'm 88% bullshit. "That was a one-time thing."

"Well, I also don't date strippers. I know you work at Stripped."

I'm not fazed. "Aww, so you know where I work?" I smile like a cocky  fool, but I like that she knew something about me. I cross my arms over  my chest and tease her. "Who said anything about a date? I just wanted  to fuck."

She doesn't flinch.

"I'm not playing hard to get, McQueen. I'm just not into what you're offering. It's not my style."

"What is your style then?"

She pauses. And in that pause I see the truth. She doesn't know. She  doesn't know what she wants, what she needs. She doesn't realize that  what she needs is me to loosen her up.

Her eyes narrow in on me. "My style is catch wrestling."

"What's that?" I step toward her, tightening the space between our  bodies. Her breath is heavy, and she may be talking about wrestling, but  it's clear this woman needs to get laid.

"My preference when it comes to MMA."

"And what makes catch wrestling so special?" I ask.

She smiles for the first time all day, but she pulls it back right away  and answers deadpan. "It's a style of wrestling that uses a lot of  submission holds." She tosses her bright red hair over her shoulder and  starts to walk away.

I stop her, grab her hand before she can leave. The moment our skin  touches I feel my cock twitch, my body stiffen. This girl is fucking  impossible to win over, but I know she has a hot streak ready to burn.  Her innuendo tells me plenty. Tells me everything she doesn't have the  guts to say.







That she wants me bad.

"After this session with Kit, it's you and me, JoJo. You can teach me a submission hold or two."

I think she's going to pull away ... or slap my fucking face. But she  doesn't. Instead, she bites her bottom lip, her ample chest heaving as  she steadies her breath.

"I'll be sweaty."

"Good," I tell her. And then I let go of her hand and let her walk away.





JoJo


For the rest of the workout, I'm a mess.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing. Over my head is the understatement of the century.

Submission hold? Where the hell did that come from?

I'm a twenty-three-year-old virgin who has no business doing anything with anyone from the gym.

Let alone the male stripper who works out here.

My brothers would literally kill McQueen if they knew his intentions with me.

And I don't even want to know what my dad would do to me if he knew what I wanted.

Probably lock me in my bedroom and arrange to send me to a nunnery.

Which would actually be better than marrying Grotto.

"That's great," Kit hollers to us as we grapple on the padded floor.  "Ease up, McQueen, loosen your hold. And Jo, push down. Yes, just like  that." He claps, letting us know we can release, then calls it a day.

"Tomorrow, JoJo-same time, same place," Kit tells me. "You were off today. Come back tomorrow with your head on straight."

"Okay, coach." I take a deep breath, my legs shaky as I stand from the  floor. Kit just put me through a workout that kicked my ass.