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“Because I know you ain’t been fucked seven ways from Sunday since—”
“Heeyyy! Let’s head on into the man cave for poker. Bugs are startin’ to bite,” Carter cuts in, knowing Maverick was just about to stick his foot in his damn mouth. Belle’s mom is a topic that is still too raw for me. That chick mind fucked me, but she did give me Belle, and that little girl is the reason I breathe.
The closer we get to the house, the louder the raucous becomes. “Didn’t know Laney was home tonight. As quiet as it’s been, I assumed she was out with the girls.”
“Shit, Laney is on house arrest for the foreseeable future.” Carter laughs, pulling beers from the fridge and setting them in a bucket. I laugh thinking about the DJ incident at the club. Who would have ever thought those women could get that out of control? I mean, I know Lan can let loose, but I would have never thought that of the others.
As we pass through the hall toward Carter’s man cave, I steal a glance into the living room and stop dead in my tracks, causing Carter to slam into my back. “Damn it, Madden!” He bitches until he realizes what pulled me up short. What the fuck? Are those dildos covering the coffee table? I know that shit didn’t come from no Pottery Barn. Wait, what the?
“Well fuck, Lan, if I’d known there was a dick-sucking show
, me and the guys would’ve watched instead of playing poker; right, Madden?”
This … is awkward. I don’t know what kind of kinky shit Laney is into, hell—to each their own, but I’m not sure if I should be aroused or confused.
Actually, scratch that. Obviously I’m already confused, but…
Fuck it. I’m aroused too. How the hell could I not be? Four women deep throating … is that a banana? Okay, that’s definitely a banana and shit, there is zucchini too—impressive. And then, just as my dick is resuscitated after years of celibacy, it deflates rapidly. Shrivels up like a damn turtle crawling back in its shell. Jordan’s head snaps toward mine, although she can’t see me through the blindfold. What kinda fuckery… She chokes around the banana as she attempts to unblock her airway, then she shoves the blindfold off her face in a hurry, glaring around the room until her eyes fall on mine. Judging by the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders, embarrassed doesn’t even begin to describe what she’s feeling. She takes a deep inhale of air before she stands and mumbles something in Bryn’s direction before she rushes outside. Fuck, I will never be able to work out again without the image of her deep throating a banana on repeat in my head. Although, in my mind it may be something other than a banana she’s choking on.
Andddd that is completely inappropriate. I can’t think that way about my trainer. She sure as shit wouldn’t think of me that way. Friends, Madden. I repeat this to myself over and over in my head—we’re just friends.
*~*
I keep repeating just friends so much in my head over the next couple days that I accidentally answered my work phone on Wednesday morning that way. I’ve seen Jo three times since the incident with the bananas, and my mind is staying in the fucking gutter. I’ve thought about it so much that my morning showers have all had self-serviced happy endings with my imagination solely focused on my kickass trainer and not my usual go to of Jennifer Aniston. Wonder if she bought any of the flavored lube? Fuck, no … just friends. Keep saying it, Madden.
My internal battle has reached an all-time high on Thursday when I get to go to the gym. I’m stressed, I’m tired, and my mind is all over the place. I’m waiting by her office to start our workout and vow to not be a douche-canoe today. Jordan has been able to sense that something is off. Even after the joke I made on Monday to ease her embarrassment after seeing her deep throating bananas, she still looks at me like she’s studying, like she knows that I’m distracted. I hope to God she can’t read minds, but who knows; women know all kinds of voodoo shit. The sound of her voice alerts me that she is near, so I look up just as I see her walking away from her last client.
No, no, no, no—this is fucking bad. Jordan’s dressed in tight Nike pants like always, but she has chosen today of all fucking days to forgo the tank top and is only wearing a sports bra. I hadn’t seen an ab muscle in years, and I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re supposed to look like. I’m such a dirty, filthy, bad man. I scan her body up and down multiple times as she walks toward me. Friends, just friends I repeat and then once out loud looking down at my crotch because obviously he didn’t get the memo.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JORDAN
“So, Jo,” Nash Walters huffs out in between ab reps, “you have plans tonight?” Nash is the catcher for the Savannah Sailors, a single A farm team for the Atlanta Braves. He’s been my client since Bryn introduced me to her baseball-playing cousin a year ago, and we’ve become pretty good friends.
“Nash…” I give him my best wink and the right amount of sass. “Baby, are you trying to make me your plans tonight?” He flashes his signature smirk. This banter, this flirtation is a norm for us. Nash is one of the best guys I know. We clicked right away when I met he and Bryn one night for drinks and bonded over March Madness. I’m not sure who was screaming at the TV louder—him or me. We are both total sports junkies, so we always have tons to talk about. And, ladies, let me tell ya—on the days he works out, I get paid to watch his perfect physique sweat and contract. Yes, be jealous, bitches. Nash is freaking off the charts hot, and anyone with a vagina is attracted to him—except me. I know him, we’re friends, and we settled that very early on. Not that he’s never hit on me before because he has. And not that I don’t enjoy the flirty banter because I do. I know he’s out of my league; regardless if Bryn tells me otherwise. Nash is the less crass version of Maverick.
“Sweetheart, you know I always want to make plans with you.”
See, he gives just as good as he gets with me.
“I have a couple tickets to the game tonight. It is kid’s night, and I thought you might want to bring Ken-man.”
I smile because Nash may be a male whore, but he is always thoughtful.
“A couple as in three?” I ask, knowing Bryn will want to go. She’s always down for anything that involves athletes in baseball pants who she can openly gawk at.
“You think I’d offer, if I didn’t have enough for you, Ken-man, and Bryn?” he scoffs, “I’m taking hot yoga next. My cousin is already a drill sergeant in those classes, and I don’t need to give her any more ammunition.”
For the next thirty minutes I put Nash through a core workout and opt to do a lot of the exercises with him. The definition in his chest is one of the things I’m most proud of. He was already cut when he started coming to Dumb Belles, but now he’s more defined. His teammates and coaches have all noticed it, and thanks to his word of mouth I’ve picked up a couple more semi-pro baseball players on my service who will start next week.
My eyes go to my watch and then back to Nash on his last set; Madden should be here any minute. I hope next week will be better, and I can prevent any self-mortification where Madden is concerned. It seems I’m always making a fool of myself around him, and well, I’d rather spare myself the humiliation and potential loss of a client. Madden was really sweet on Monday, trying to make jokes so I wouldn’t feel so awkward about deep throating a banana in front of him, but things between us have still felt strained this week. Awkward even. And not just on my part, but from him too. I think something may be bothering him, but I can’t overstep my bounds. We can’t be all nosing in his business.
Nash and I are walking toward the front of the gym when I see Madden coming out of the locker room ready for his workout. Madden Davenport looks nothing like the same man. I’m not just referring to the weight he’s lost—yes, it makes a difference—but I’m referring to his overall look. He looks healthy, he looks alive, and not like the shell of a man who freaked out because his trainer was a girl. I smile in his direction and give him a wave, indicating to come on and we’ll get started. He acknowledges me with a nod and starts in my direction.
“See ya later, Jo,” Nash says as he bends down to kiss my cheek, and I playfully slap his abs. This is us; this is what we do.
“Good luck tonight,” I say to his back as he walks toward the yoga studio.
