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Dylan
Hetuckedmythonginto the corner of my purse again.
Damn him and his hatred for the floss between my ass. I really wish he'd focus on his own laundry and stop trying to do mine. I spent a lot of money on this particular item of clothing, yet here it sits, crinkled up in a tightly wound ball of thread, shoved into the dark corners of my bag.
Is this a prelude to the irreverent song of my sex life? Dark, wrinkled, shriveled up in a corner, non-existent. After the chaos that was Eric two months ago, probably.
Eric couldn't handle my life. He made that well known in the text message break-up. Fucking tool. Couldn't even call? Let me just text you that my life is too much for you to handle as I sit back in the bed my mommy bought me, the flat sheets tucked in like a hotel. Who even uses flat sheets?! Just goes to show that my life doesn't pair well with dating. Like love and logical thinking.
Quickly clutching my purse to hide my red lace panties, I mentally curse out my reason for being late again before throwing my keys to the bottom and heading into work.
The gym smells extra sour today, meaning only one thing.
Cedric Fantigo is here.
I could kill Greg for choosing me to be his physical therapist. He knows how difficult it is for me to rest between Cedric's mammoth thighs, holding his legs for stretches while he groans so loudly the other gym members stare suggestively. He's not even an athlete anymore, just an old friend my boss called in a favor for after his hip replacement surgery. He doesn't shower either, that much is clear. His hair is always stuck together in thick grey clumps, suggesting that his hair product of choice is grease from a hard day's work.
God, I sound like a total bitch, but it was the hard-on that sent me over the edge. At least, I'm pretty sure he had a hard-on last week, sprouting from those dingy blue sweats as he breathed hard down my neck, leaning a tad too close as I adjusted his weights. Not that I took the time to continue looking, but the assumption is where I draw the line.
Walking as fast as I can past him on the StairMaster, he gives me a sweaty head nod. I offer a quick thumbs up paired with a forced grin that doesn't even attempt to reach my eyes and head into the office.
“Dylan, there you are. I—”
“Greg, you're crazier than I thought if you think I'm going back to helping Cedric after he practically came in his pants while I was spotting him last Tuesday,” I say, interrupting his sentence, needing to vent.
His face contorts at my vulgar verbiage, but he drops it and places some documents on the desk before me.
“Well, I'm glad you told me that...now. A whole week later.” He twists his face in disgust. “But no, I've got some great news for you.”
I groan, slumping into the worn leather armchair across from him. “Please tell me you aren't trying to sell me Pampered Chef again.”
He shoots me a glare. “You loved that apple peeler! I think you called it revolutionary.”
“You!” I declare, my finger tracing his entire frame. “You called it revolutionary!”
He sighs, placing his hands on the desk before him. “It’s a well-known fact. Anyway, getting to the point. I'm taking you off Cedric and giving him to Jaden.”
“Really?!” I gasp, immediately sitting upright in the chair. So much so that Greg tilts his head. “Don't get me wrong, I love what I do, and I'm happy to help patients with therapy, it's just Cedric and I...we don't...I don't…” I stall, not knowing how to say this nicely. There is no nice way to say I'm disgusted by the strange sexual sounds he makes in a peculiar attempt towoo me.
“Lake Decker.” Greg leans back in his seat, folding his hands across his broad abdomen and crossing one knee over the other, excitement dancing behind his eyes.
My lips part, and my eyes open wide in terror. The name alone makes me shudder.No, please no.
“I'm assigning you to our newest client, Mr. Lake Decker,” he reiterates with a huge, money-hungry grin.
While Greg's eyes light up, growing as large as Pampered Chef pizza stones, I'm stuck, horrified at the thought of working with such a brute.
As soon as I heard about his injury that wrecked this season of the NFL for fans and gamblers everywhere, I thought to myself how horrible it would be for the unfortunate therapist who would have to work with him. Pretty sure I heard he dented the entire Chicago Bears locker room with his fists when they confirmed the news. Talk about anger issues.
But why here? Why would he ever choose this place? It's not like he doesn't have access to the many amazing staff catering to that team. He could have a girl for massages, one for stretching, and one to feed him grapes while another one sucks him off beneath the table. He's an entitled prick, that one.
I can only assume the reason he's decided to come here isn't because he heard the staff suck great dick under the table. No, it's for one reason and one reason alone. Me.
“Greg, listen,” I begin, “Cedric really isn't all that bad. I can find a way to work with him. Maybe, if I just—”
“What's done is done, Dylan.” He stands with his hands raised before him, insinuating that I won’t talk my way out of this one. “Besides, you really think I'd let you work with him again after hearing he practically assaulted you? Say the word and I'll send him packing for good.”
