Page 11 of Own the Eights
Jordan Marks, the guy who had it all.
He thought of the top drawer of his childhood dresser, and the muscles in his chest tightened.
Jordan Marks hadn’t always been a perfect ten. Not even close—but that was his secret, his past, and he wasn’t about to broadcast it to the world. The Marks Perfect Ten Mindset wasn’t just his creation. It was also his shield, the barrier that stood between himself and a life best left forgotten.
He set the water bottle on a bench, brushed off the memories, and went back into badass trainer mode. “In the end, the Perfect Ten Mindset is a choice you have to make. I lay it out, but you have to do the work.”
“Amen, brother!” Craig said, pride radiating off the guy in waves.
Jordan checked his watch. “That’s it for today. Great work! Now, hit the shower.”
Jordan grabbed his iPad to log in the training session when a sugary sweet voice, dripping with awe, cut through the hum of the treadmills, and the clang of free weights hitting the ground.
“Jordan, that was amazing!”
He didn’t even turn around. He knew the buttered-up, baby doll sound of a gym bunny’s coo and was well versed in the body language that said, this tiny scrap of a sports bra would look great on the floor of your bedroom, and so would I, buck naked, with your cock down my throat.
He’d had his share of gym pussy, one hell of a slice of it, especially when he was younger. But just shy of twenty-nine, he had bigger things on his mind than bending the gym’s front desk receptionist over the leg press machine and fucking her hard and fast. He’d worked his ass off these past two years, training clients, opening new locations, and building his blog. And he didn’t writeDear Diarybullshit posts either. Literal blood, sweat, and tears went into his articles. Hours of research went into deciding which protein powders to recommend. He spent his nights paging through sports medicine journals and his early mornings recording downloadable coached runs to share with his followers. He didn’t have time for screwing around or screwing the cotton candy brained chicks who threw themselves at him in droves.
Sure, he could have his pick of women. But his sights were set on the Marks Perfect Ten Mindset becoming a household name, and himself, a leader in healthy life transformations.
He’d show all those fuckers from his past that he’d won. That he was better than them in every single aspect that mattered, appearance and success.
“That’s why we keep him around.”
A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Now, this was a voice worth acknowledging.
Jordan glanced up from his iPad to find the sturdy frame of Deacon Perry, the founder of the Deacon CrossFit chain, striding toward him. Gray flecks threaded through the man’s dark hair as he surveyed the gym.
Jordan shook the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Deacon.”
“The place looks great. Any hiccups?”
“This is the fifth location I’ve opened for you, Deac. I’ve got it covered.”
The man gave him an approving nod. “Only open three months and already running like a well-oiled machine.”
“Jordan’s the bomb. We’ve even had professional athletes calling to schedule sessions with him,” came the syrupy voice of the desk receptionist, Shelly.
He turned to the young woman. She fit the bill for the look Deacon wanted for his CrossFit front desk staff. Young, perky, and trim, Shelly was the first thing clients saw when they entered. And she wasn’t just a pretty face. She’d already worked the desk at a few rec centers in the city, and more importantly, he’d never hire an idiot. But she was still a woman, and it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t help falling all over herself around him.
Most women did.
Jordan hardened his features and met the woman’s gaze. He was all for praise and admiration. He lived for the likes he received on his posts and loved seeing his subscriber numbers rise, but he needed to talk to Deacon and didn’t have time for Shelly and her effusive adoration.
“Some boxes got delivered this morning, Shelly. Can you go through them? It should be the promotional giveaway prizes for our new clients.”
“Anything for you, Jordan,” she answered with a swish of her ponytail.
“Are you tapping that?” Deacon asked under his breath as Shelly jogged to the front.
Jordan shook his head. “No, man. You know I keep it professional.”
Deacon’s gaze hovered over Shelly’s Lycra covered ass. “I may need to stop in here more often.”
“She’s twenty-two, Deac.”
“My favorite number,” the man answered without missing a beat.
