Chapter One
Nick
“Turn around.”
I don’t even bother looking up. I’m in no mood for Adrian’s shit this morning, and I told Roly that Adrian was gone if he showed up late one more time. My cousin owes me five bucks.
“Why?”
“You’re late. Again.”
“Dude, it’s just a few minutes! What the hell does it matter? It’s five o’clock in the morning!”
I check my timepiece, an original Navy SEAL watch, water-resistant to two hundred meters and accurate as fuck. “It is not five o’clock in the morning. It’s 5:06 in the morning. And it matters because we are running a business, not some hippie commune.”
“It’s just six minutes, dude.”
I physically turn Adrian around and march him across the warehouse-like workout space, past the inspirational sayings and toward the front entrance. “This is the second time you’ve been late this week, the fifth time you’ve been late this month, and the tenth time you’ve been late overall. It’s disrespectful to me and Roly, and it’s disrespectful to our clientele. So, no more chances. You’re fired.”
There are only three people in the gym at this time: Thane, our CrossFit coach, and the Bash brothers, twin Viking-looking motherfuckers with tattoos and muscles for days. This is not the first time they’ve seen me fire someone, but it’s not the brand I’d like to cultivate at Wrecked. You’d think that a gym run for and by combat vets would have fewer personnel problems, but you’d be wrong. No one does fucked-up better than an asshole with grenade launchers on their resume.
Adrian huffs and glares at me. “You know, micromanaging every second of every day isn’t going to make you whole again. You’re still just a peg-legged asshole with no soul.”
Oh, amputee humor. The agony.
I’m tired of having to use words with this one, so I point to the exit and raise my eyebrow. Hell-bent on making a scene, Adrian throws me the finger and storms out the door. Thane, the six-foot-three monster who’s been fucking Roly, mimes the jack-off motion and goes back to working the tires with the twins. We have a corner of the gym dedicated to moving, flipping, and lifting heavy objects, and Thane is its master. Right now, he’s showing the twins how to flip a five-hundred-pound tire, and he’s moving it across the space like it’s nothing. Dude is ripped from stem to stern and has a big, hairy chest, which for Roly is a prerequisite. Not my type, but I can appreciate the aesthetic.
And sure, it’s bad policy for Roly to get his jollies from the help or our clients, but Thane volunteers his time and I’m human enough to admit that some gotdamn fine men walk through that door. Plenty of them are happy for a quick fuck and suck. Combat vets aren’t exactly the clingy type, especially those of us who cut our teeth on war before the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, so I don’t give Roly too much shit for it. I, however, avoid it at all costs. I don’t personally need to troll my gym for zipless fucks; that’s what Grindr is for.
I watch Adrian to make sure he gets into his car and leaves the parking lot. It’s not the way I wanted to start my morning, but I run a tight ship, and I don’t understand how people can be late to their job. It’s literally the thing that pays for everything else you do. Makes no sense to me.
“So… that went well,” Roly says, handing me a crisp five-dollar bill. “That’s what, the fifth employee you fired in the six months we’ve been open?” My cousin Rolando, nicknamed Roly—as in roly-poly—is five foot six, maybe five foot seven in his trainers, and weighs about a buck thirty-five of solid, lean muscle. Our family says that we look so much alike that Roly is my mini-me, and… they’re not wrong. I’m sitting down and we’re practically eye to eye, wearing the same frustrated expression.
“Primo, last I checked, we’re trying to accomplish something here. And that’s not going to happen if all we hire and keep are deadbeat assholes whose crowning achievement is that they managed not to get themselves dead.”
“Training new employees takes a lot of our time and our energy, two things we already don’t have enough of. So, yes, we would prefer for everybody to be exactly on time, but there are a shit ton of qualities that can make a few minutes not that big a deal.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t have any of those qualities, either.”
Roly grabs my shoulder, forcing eye contact. “I’m just saying you might be asking a little too much for twelve dollars an hour.”
I throw my hands up in frustration. “It’s the principle of the thing, Roly. Surely it’s not too much to ask people to show up on time.”
“That’s hardly a living wage in Austin, and you know it. But hey, if on time is the hill you’re willing to die on, go for it.”
Our argument, a familiar one, is tabled when the door swings open and a long shadow falls across the gym. Jean-Pierre Sehene, recently retired NBA star, enters the space. Fuck, he practically rearranges the molecules. It’s not uncommon to see big dudes in the gym environment, but the six-foot-eleven, 280-pound athlete built of solid muscle would be impressive to anyone. He’s wearing his own brand of gym wear, including a trim-fitting long-sleeve shirt and compression tights, both of which are black slashed with red camo. His black-and-red sneakers have his head in profile on the tongue, just in case you didn’t know who you were dealing with.
“Roly! Good to see you, buddy!” he says in his Afro French rumble while picking up Roly for a hug.
I will admit that, in addition to being a notorious clothes horse, Jean-Pierre is an incredibly good-looking man. His skin is a deep rich mahogany, his features are handsome, and his beautifully maintained locs fall to just past his shoulders.
Roly, who is about half the size of Jean-Pierre, is still in his massive grip. He manages to squeak out, “Pete! How are you settling into your new place?”
“Oh, my new place won’t be ready for a while. The team is putting me up in a hotel on Rainey Street. It’s quite nice, and I like the area. Lots of good restaurants to go to,” he says, rubbing his belly.
Realizing that I’ve just been standing here like a lump, I stick out my hand to him. “Jean-Pierre, it’s nice to see you again.”
Jean-Pierre looks from my hand to me, then laughs as he brings me in for a hug. “Any brother of my buddy Scout is a brother of mine. And in this family we don’t shake hands.”
I wish family didn’t crush all of the oxygen out of one’s body, but I don’t think many people tell Jean-Pierre what to do. I’m a little over six feet tall and strongly built, so at least I didn’t sustain the damage Roly did.
“You know, when Scout said that you had this great idea for a gym, I hadn’t realized that you and Roly were both Navy SEALs. That’s impressive—thank you for your service.”
It’s funny, when people thank me for my service. I appreciate it, of course, but… I’m never thanked for sacrificing my leg, and no one ever shows appreciation for the fact that the majority of my career was spent shoved into a closet not of my own making. Roly and I were in that same closet together, and having my cousin in there with me helped more than he knows.