McQUEEN: Las Vegas Bad Boys (2 page)

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.

K
it’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.

* * *

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.

“Hey, kids,” Kit says to McQueen and me. “I’m going out to grab some food, and run home before I reopen the gym at five. You okay locking up after you clean up?”

“Of course,” I tell him.

This isn’t anything new. Kit trusts me explicitly, which makes me feel more than mildly bad about the fact that I’m keeping him and this gym a secret from my family. They have no clue how much his trust in me means. They have no clue about him at all.

If I get a bigger fight lined up I’m going to have to tell them what I’m up to. There are only so many ways I can lie about bruises on my body, cuts on my lip—only so many times I can exaggerate about why I’m so ridiculously tired after a week of working out under Kit’s regime.

Besides, a big-ticket fight would get publicity. And I don’t really want my name on a poster announcing my career choice before I tell them myself.

Although my logic is kinda messed up. Surely they’ll kill me once they find out, and maybe I ought to get killed in the ring first if I’m going down either way.

With Kit gone, I look over at McQueen, who’s taken off his sweaty tee-shirt and tossed it in the gym bag sitting on a bench. His back faces me; his broad shoulders are stretched, smooth, and tan. His large, well-defined muscles are evenly distributed on his frame and, with the waistband of his shorts slung low, my eyes linger on his ass.

I know I’m over my head ... but, just this once, I wonder if maybe that’s okay? I want to forget about the things my dad told me this morning.

The things that will literally ruin my life. No way in hell can I be a fighter if I’m Grotto’s wife. Probably if I’m anybody’s wife.

Right now, I just want to be JoJo. Because I might not be able to be her for that much longer.

And frick. Now
I’m
talking in third person.

Gah.

I never put myself in situations like this, where I can even consider giving in to what I want. My mind is focused on the gym and on playing my part in the family. Namely, smile and look pretty and do as I am told.

Any time a guy hits on me, I pretend I don’t hear them, brush them off without any attention. I know my family is complicated, which is why I’ve never dated anyone seriously. Never even told Lucy about all my connections. It would be messy.

The few times a guy has persisted, I played the part of a prude.

But I don’t want to be a prude right now.

Right now, I want McQueen.

“JoJo, you ready to show me that submission hold?” McQueen turns to face me, bringing me back to reality. Or maybe not reality. Maybe my absolute fantasy.

His baby blue eyes and short cropped blonde hair, his full lips and perfectly proportioned nose–everything about McQueen is perfection. A performance. Which I get, that’s his profession. But it’s like he’s almost too good. Like ... he knows exactly what he is doing.

Me? Not so much.

But I’ve held onto the V-card long enough, and I sure as hell don’t want to throw it away on Grotto.

Grotto could be out of prison in a month. Then what? I’ll lose my virginity anyway, by consummating a marriage on someone else’s terms.

Right now I have a chance.

I’m going to take it.

On my terms.