I nod and take the first new clothing I’ve had in a couple of years.
“What’s your shoe size? Ten?”
“Nine.”
He grabs a pair of Sehenes and shoves a couple of pairs of socks in them, then stacks them on top of the clothing in my hands. If there’s a word that encompasses both extreme gratitude and humiliation, I am that word right now. I know my face is red, but I bite the inside of my lip until I taste blood. Good, because in this moment I’d rather drop blood than tears.
Nick clamps his jaw shut, the muscles straining under the pressure. “Fine. Get changed and let’s get ready for early-morning crew.”
I change as quickly as I can and allow for exactly thirty seconds of emotion before sucking it up and walking out to face them again. Reviewing the prep list, I grab the towels and stack them on the counter, then set up the yoga area with freshly cleaned mats and balance balls.
Nick doesn’t say anything during this process, and I notice that, once again, he is wearing a pair of shorts that do insanely hot things to his ass, and another ironed Wrecked T-shirt, this one a forest green that brings out the slightest hint of hazel in his rich brown eyes. I kind of hate him right now for making me feel so grubby, but I’m not blind. His muscular, veiny forearms are hard to miss as he stacks weights neatly by the leg machine. It’s hard to say whether or not his ass in those gym shorts or his stern look of concentration are sexier, but at least he’s quiet so as not to ruin the effect.
Once the early-morning crowd passes through—every single one of them later than usual and complaining because of the chemical spill—and we are well set up for the rest of the day, Roly takes his leave. “Okay, well, Catherine called in sick, so I need to go help out Scout and Evie over at the pizza shop. Let me know if you’ll need anything.” Roly’d started working for Scout when her pizza shop was struggling and had been part of the team that helped turn it all around. So, when Keto Spice wanted to open a gym for combat vets, Roly knew that Scout and Jean-Pierre would pony up the dough.
“Will do,” says Nick, breaking his silence. “Roly-man—don’t overdo it. Last time you stayed till closing and still got here at five the next morning.”
Roly sends him a sweet smile and puts his hand on his hip. “Don’t you worry about me, peg leg. I’ve got energy to burn. And besides, Thane and I have a date tonight.”
He punctuates this with a waggle of his eyebrows, and I laugh. Nick shoots a severe look in my direction that makes my dick pulse. Don’t judge me—his dark eyes are chocolate hazel sex orbs, and I’m only human.
“Don’t encourage him. He’s not going on a date; he’s going to go ride that beast of a man and then hand him a pink slip. Bear killer, twelve o’clock,” he says, pointing at Roly.
Roly pretends to pull out the hem of a skirt and curtsies toward his cousin, winking at me. “Don’t let grumpy pants get to you. His last lay was a little substandard, and now he’s doubting his prowess with the boys.”
I snort into my hand and try very hard not to laugh, which means my whole body is vibrating with it. “Okay, Roly. Have a good day.”
He waggles his fingers at me and legit flounces out the door. Shit, I wish he didn’t have to go. Thankfully Jean-Pierre Sehene and Scout Martinez should be here by ten. Yeah, that sentence won't ever get old. I can hang with Keto Spice for an hour if I absolutely have to.
I’m still laughing when Nick finishes up his routine and comes over to the counter, grabbing one of the stacked printouts by the credit card machine. “While we have a break in clients, let’s go over the weekly schedule. The gym is open from 5:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m. every day, and you’re working the early shift. We have different classes and therapy programs on different days, and each require their own setup, which you will be responsible for.”
“Got it, hoss,” I say, taking the printed schedule from him. I notice that almost all of the classes have either a red or blue asterisk next to them. “What do these mean?”
He checks the spreadsheet over my shoulder. “Those are amputee-friendly classes, meaning people can generally do them wearing their prosthetics. The blue asterisks mean that they are meant to remove their prosthetics.”
“Okay, during those classes should I be concerned about the logistics of where the prosthetics go? Or does everybody just sort of leave them in a big pile by the door?” The thought galls me.
“We usually have people place them neatly up against the wall. Though the last time there was some confusion between two guys who were about the same height, so if you think of a better arrangement, feel free to implement it.”
“If you don’t mind, maybe give me the number to the office you got your prosthetic from, and I can see what they use to sort out the different limbs.”
“All right, yeah. That might work. What’s your number?”
Shit. I don’t even know if my number is good anymore; it’s been forever since I’ve had enough cash laying around to add minutes. I hate that every conversation is a tap dance around the fact that I’m broke dick and starting at nothing.
Seeing my hesitation, he continues. “Never mind, I’ve actually got the card in my wallet. You can call them from here.”
He walks behind the counter, grabs his wallet, finds the card, and silently hands it to me. He stares for an awkward moment, but it’s not the judgmental up-down he’d given me before. This is curiosity; this is him trying to figure me out. I’m not sure that I like it, but I don’t hate it.
Thankfully, the weird moment is interrupted when Jean-Pierre Fucking Sehene walks into the door, sunshine in human form, and right behind him, Scout Martinez and a woman with gorgeous lavender hair.
“Elijah! So glad you’re here, and I can’t wait to talk through the services we provide our veterans.” The giant man-boy punctuates this with a rib-crushing hug that takes my breath away. It’s not just the lack of oxygen, you see; it’s that I haven’t been touched in a long time. Bit of a shock to the system to be enveloped by nearly seven foot of man all at once. I look to Nick, not sure how to act, and that assessing expression returns to his face.
“Jean-Pierre, maybe put the nice employee down before you break him,” Scout Martinez says, ever so coolly. That’s me—I’m the nice employee she’s talking about. Scout Martinez is talking about me and knows who I am. And so does Jean-Pierre Sehene. And whoever this woman with purple hair is.
Seemingly reading my mind, she sticks out her hand, which I shake. “Hi, I’m Evie. Scout’s wife. These two cannot be relied upon to be socially appropriate, and for that I’m sorry. There really is no excuse,” she says with a smile on her painted red lips. I like her immediately.
Scout Fucking Martinez slaps her hand to her forehead and offers the other for me to shake, which I do. “Oh yeah, sorry about that. I’m Sophia Martinez, but most people call me Scout. And I’m this one’s sister.” She gives Nick a hug and a noogie, which I find endearing and hilarious in equal measure. He’s less amused, which I find even funnier.
Standing next to each other, the family resemblance is striking. Both have beautiful, medium olive skin and shiny black hair. While Scout has a cool undercut, Nick’s hair has a nice fade at the sides and thick, slightly longer hair on top. They both have killer cheekbones along with those full, expressive eyebrows, and as they stand there, I realize Scout is almost an inch taller than her brother. He tries to look annoyed at her lack of propriety, but something approaching affection crosses the man’s face, which makes me think maybe he has an emotion chip after all. Either way, it moves one tick mark from the dislike, avoid-at-all-cost column over into the hot-as-fuck, avoid-at-all-cost column. While both columns lead to the same road, one has a distinct masturbatory advantage over the other.