Down and Out(7)

I nod again, placated by his response, when it dawns on me what this means. I’ll have the entire gym to myself, conceivably for hours every night after closing. I can take showers. Wash clothes. You know, things most people don’t think twice about.
Declan reaches into his pocket, pulling out and handing to me a set of keys. “I won’t make you close tonight, but you think you’ll be ready tomorrow?”
“Absolutely.” I told Declan he wouldn’t regret hiring me and I want to keep my word. I also want to keep this job, ’cause it turns out it’s got some pretty sweet perks.
A guy dripping with sweat walks by on his way to the locker room. He nods to Declan in that signature, silent way guys say “hi” and wipes his face with a hand towel, then tosses it into the nearby laundry bin.
Declan rolls it over to me, and I stare at the growing pile of white terrycloth. I can smell it from here, all stale man-sweat, and my lip curls.
“Looks like you’re up,” he says, giving me a pat on the back.
I watch him walk away, his big, inked arms swinging by his sides. The white cotton of his plain t-shirt hugs his back like a second skin, stretching over those impossibly broad shoulders. His gait’s surprisingly graceful for someone so huge.
I push the thoughts from my head and turn to the cart. Groaning, I grab a handful of towels and shove them into the gigantic front-load washing machine. Ugh, they’re damp.
“Gross,” I mutter under my breath.
It’s a small price to pay, though, considering the benefits. So yeah, I can totally handle some stank-ass towels now if that means I won’t have stank-ass body parts later.
I finish loading the towels into the machine. Since it’s only half-full, I push the cart back into the gym to collect more.
My steps come to a halt when I see Declan back in the ring, sparring with the guy from yesterday. His black shorts hang low on his hips, sitting below that tantalizing “V” all super-cut guys seem to have. My gaze goes up to his washboard abs and hard pecs as he throws a quick one-two punch, the muscles bunching and relaxing under his skin. He leans back when the guy takes a swing, narrowly dodging his punch, and then left hooks the guy in the gut, dropping him to the floor.
This all happens within what seems like a split-second.
My mouth’s agape, and for the life of me, I can’t look away. The way his muscles flex with every movement, the rivulets of sweat clinging to his skin, his confidence—it’s all so virile.
He turns and locks eyes with me. Chest heaving, sweat dots his brow as green embers sear into me, pinning me in place. I should be embarrassed I’m openly staring at him, but I’m not. At least not right now. Later I probably will be.
Okay, that’s a lie. Later I’ll be searching for a rock to crawl under, because I’ll be mortified.
But right now I don’t care, because right now I swear he’s got the same look on his face that I’ve got to be wearing on mine. It starts with “want” and ends with “you,” but there’s a whole lot of mental undressing in the middle.
He holds my gaze until his head’s wrenched away by a flying fist, which makes him stumble back. Surprise flits across his face as he touches his bloody lip. It’s replaced with a scowl just as quickly and he comes out swinging, his fist connecting to his opponent’s nose.
I blink, the spell broken as I drop my eyes to the huge black and gray tattoo on his back. It’s a pair of hands clutching a rosary, clasped together like they’re praying. The detail and shading are amazing. It looks more like a photo than anything that could’ve been drawn by hand. Someone had obviously spent hours etching that into his flawless skin. Each pass and stroke of the needle had to have been meticulous and reverent, and the artist’s passion for their work is apparent.
Beneath the hands, in elegant script, is Mickey the Great, and there are two dates—a date of birth, and a date of death.
The name seems familiar, and it takes me a second to realize where I know it from. It’s the boxer from the newspapers in the lobby.





“You’re distracted today.”
It feels like my heart’s declared war on my chest with the way it’s slamming into my ribcage right now. I can’t tell if it’s from the workout Marcus is giving me, or the proximity of the gorgeous chick I was dumb enough to hire.
I wipe sweat from my face and mumble, “I know.” Crossing the ring, I take out my mouth guard and grab the bottle of water sitting off to the side. I take a long swig, feeling Savannah’s eyes on me the whole time. 
She’s been indifferent to me all day, and that’s fine, that’s grand. She’s my employee after all, so the last thing I need is her batting those big, gray eyes at me because it’ll probably make me do something stupid. Like drag her back to my office, bend her over my desk, and f*ck her till I’m dehydrated of semen depletion.
I should try and retain at least a modicum of professionalism, right?
But then she had to go and ruin it. Then I had to catch her staring at me while I sparred with my trainer, Marcus. Those gunmetal gray eyes? which had seemed kind of cold yesterday, were alight with heat and desire, and damn it if the yearning on her face wasn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. Then Marcus sucker punched me while I was distracted and by the time I looked back at her, it was gone and replaced with the guarded look she wears so well.
It almost seems like she doesn’t want me to know she finds me attractive, and I can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s because she wants things to remain professional too, or maybe she just has a boyfriend. I don’t know.