Nick finally speaks up. “Managing a business isn’t fun. Even though we run a gym, it’s work. Hard work. That requires you to show up every day on time and do your job. Is that something you think you can do here at Wrecked?”
I school my face and my overactive tongue, aiming instead for a neutral tone. “If you are asking me if I can greet people at the door, ensure accessibility for everyone, wipe down sweaty machines, replenish the various supplies, sign up new memberships, and make sure people are happy, then yeah, I can do this job. And I would enjoy it.”
Based on his expression, he did not like my answer. “Honestly, I’m not sure you’re up to the rigors of this job, or that you would take it seriously.”
Objectively, he’s smoking hot, which is only heightened by the fact that he’s wearing a T-shirt that is clinging to his muscles like a jealous lover, and thin workout shorts that, again, I won’t let my eyes go anywhere near. He’s sitting there like a notched arrow, waiting to take aim at me. And not in a fun way. I’d bet my first paycheck, which I will likely draw from someplace else, that he likes things done his way and is about as inflexible as he appears. I bet he hates me as much as he hates carbs.
Just as I’m scrambling to figure out what I could possibly do to convince this superhot jackass to hire me, the guy who is definitely basketball god Jean-Pierre Sehene walks into the tiny area and crowds out all of the oxygen. “Guys, that old man, the mean one, is back. Can one of you take him? Please?”
Holy muscled, rumbly French hotness. He could whisper in my ear all damn day.
Roly and Nick look at each other and smile. “Elijah, let’s have you meet Christopher Morris. He’s a longtime client of ours, and he needs help with spotting. We’d like to review how you’d work with some of our more challenging clients.” In other words, here’s an asshole; good luck with that.
“So, we’re not going to discuss that this,” I say, pointing up to the tall drink of sexy, “is Jean-Pierre Sehene. Recently retired forward of the San Antonio Spurs.”
“Jean-Pierre, Elijah. Elijah, Jean-Pierre,” Roly says, keeping it brief. “Let’s not keep Morris waiting.”
Jean-Pierre Sehene shakes my hand like he’s a normal person, or whatever. “He’s right. You don’t want to keep that man waiting. He’s like a piranha.”
Fucking surreal.
We bump into each other as we all try to exit that closet of a kitchen and walk to the main workout area. Standing in the middle of the bright and airy space is an ancient man using forearm crutches. I doubt that he’s actually all that mean, and if they want me to jump through a few hoops to get this job, I’ll do it.
Time to be all I can be.
I walk up to the gentleman, who has to be at least 150 years old, and paint on my brightest smile, the one that pops my dimples just so. “Mr. Morris! What can I help you to accomplish today?”
“Oh, hell no,” he says, giving Nick the hairy eyeball. “I can’t stand chirpy, happy people. Get this kid away from me.”
Nick, who’s standing there with his arms crossed, raises his eyebrow in challenge. It’s as if that one arched eyebrow is taunting me. Fine. Fuck him and his doubting eyebrow.
Figuring I’ve got nothing to lose, I step a little closer to the old coot and lean in. “Look, you ancient fart, this is my interview. I need this job in the worst way. I swear, if you cooperate, I’ll mow your damn yard for a month. I just need a shot, so don’t muck this up for me.”
His milky blue eyes pop open in surprise, and he glances at Nick to see if he’d heard. Nick and his eyebrow seem confused, and I wait to see if the decrepit jerk calls me out. He looks up at me again and shrugs. “Fine. It’s leg day, and I can’t ever get that confounded machine set up by myself. I’d like 250 pounds on the machine, young man. You can count to 250, can’t you?”
I smirk, not wanting to agitate him with my blinding smile, and shove my blazer into Nick’s hands, then lead the way over to one of the many leg press machines. To be honest, I’m surprised and impressed at the amount the old dude is wanting to press, given his age. My surprise lessens when he shoves his sticks at me and takes off his Mister Rogers sweater, revealing lean, grizzled muscle and the hairiest armpits I’ve ever seen on a living human. I tend toward a beanpole physique, complete with bird chest, so, arm bush aside, I find myself jealous of this lizard-vampire man. It’s unsettling.
I find a free machine and load up the weights, then spot him as he gets into place. This nets a nasty reply. “Kid, you think I can’t sit on a padded bench by myself?”
I purse my lips and put my hands on my hips. “Whatever, Lestat. I’ve got your number. Tell me, how many virgins are you taking down to stay in this kind of shape?”
“Never did like virgins, kiddo. Give me a woman with a past anytime. Take my Maggie—she’s thirty years younger than I am, and she sucks a mean cock,” he says, grabbing his dusty, knee-knocking junk. “Go find you a well-traveled, cock-sucking woman, young man. It’ll keep you spry and put hair on that bony chest of yours.”
Meh. “I prefer men, but the advice, I think, carries.” Nick’s head snaps in my direction, but I ignore him. My Spidey sense is telling me that impressing this old man is more important than trying to wring even a neutral endorsement out of Nick.
“One of those cock-suckers, are you?” Morris says, raising an eyebrow with at least a pound and a half of silvery, wiry hair on it.
Refocusing on him, I pinch out my T-shirt. “With pride.”
He sits back and looks at me with something approaching disdain and amusement. “But you served your country, right? They don’t hire regular folk around here.”
“Corporal Elijah Temple, PT specialist, at your service, sir. Army, four years active duty, three tours in the sandbox.”
He bows his head to think, I think, but stays in that position for an incredibly long time. Just as I’m wondering if I shouldn’t be checking his pulse, he wakes up and continues with our conversation. “Well, if you’re willing to stand on a line and sacrifice yourself, I guess it don’t matter much that you’re queer.”
“Aww, thanks,” I say, patting the top of his head. “And hey, if you can still get laid despite having witnessed the signing of our constitution, then more power to you.”
His expression settles into a smirk. “You know who was a real son of a bitch? John Hancock.”
We both laugh, and something like respect is exchanged between us. We go back and forth at each other while he goes through the rest of his routine, and before I know it, our time is up.
After he pulls on the Mister Rogers sweater and arranges his forearm crutches, he stops to clamp his withered old claw onto Nick’s shoulder. “You should hire this one. He’s way better than that asshole who insisted on calling me Mr. Christopher, like he was my butler or something.” He makes his way over to the door and turns back to Nick. “I’ve always wondered… why can’t you buy a T-shirt in the right size? Is the price of cotton really that high?”
I turn away and snort into my clenched fist, barely holding back the wild laughter trapped in my chest.
“Thanks, Mr. Morris, I’ll keep that in mind.”