Page 16 of Jacked (Gymbos #1)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AJ

Dre booked a remote campsite at a state park in Wisconsin, so the drive takes about four hours.

It was just enough time for most of my nerves about hanging out with these guys outside of work to melt away.

Just because we all get along when we’re talking lifting technique doesn’t mean there’s real friendship potential here, right?

If Slater hadn’t been on board, I probably would have begged off from the start.

But it turns out I didn’t have anything to worry about.

These guys listen to the same music I do, make the same dumb jokes, and root for the same sports teams. The only thing I’m going to have to get used to is how often Butch and Fender joke about sucking dick.

We pile out of the car in the quiet, heavily wooded area. When we drove in, the guy at the gate told us the nearest campsite to ours would be about two miles away, so it’s just us and the sounds of birds and cicadas. There’s a decent sized clearing with a dented metal firepit right in the middle.

“I need to take a piss,” Silas declares before heading for the woods.

“Really? You’re not even going to give me a run for my money this time?” Callan calls after him. “Where’s the fun in setting up a tent if I’m not trying to do it faster than someone else?”

“I can take a piss, go for a walk, tie one hand behind my back, and still have my tent up before you do,” Silas says before disappearing into the trees.

“What’s the challenge? Who can pitch the fastest tent?” Fender’s voice is so deadpan that it takes me a second to get the joke. Sadly, it only clicks when he grabs his dick and Ezra blushes.

Dre opens the back of the van and has to jump back as all of our shit spills out into the dirt. The one-person tent I lent Slater for the weekend ends up right on top of the pile. He scoops it up and then backs out of the way so everyone else can start grabbing their shit.

“So, tent pitching race starts now, right?” He smirks.

The rest of us descend on the pile and Callan curses.

“Bunch of fucking cheaters around here.”

“Don’t be a sore loser, baby,” Fender coos, finding his own tent and scampering away with it to start setting up.

My competitive drive kicks in and I throw a few playful elbows, nailing Butch in the chest with one and Callan in the gut with another. Dre, Ezra, and Xeno seem content to hang back and let us beat each other up.

I finally find my tent in the pile and haul ass over to the empty spot next to Slater.

He’s already got his tent nearly finished by the time I dump mine out of its bag.

The look of intense concentration on his face distracts me for a few seconds.

His eyebrows are furrowed, his hat is askew on his head like he’s been doing that on and off thing he does with it just in more of a hurry than usual, and the tip of his tongue is sticking out between his front teeth.

You’d think he was trying to perform open heart surgery instead of assembling a small tent.

I bite back a laugh at the triumphant expression that lights up his face as he slides the last pole into place and shoves it roughly into the ground.

“Done!” he shouts, holding both arms up triumphantly.

“Shit,” I mutter, remembering we’re in a race. Obviously, I can’t win, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to come in last place.

I scramble to assemble my tent, and in the end, Fender manages to beat me, but I finish before Callan, Butch, and Silas. I would rather have won, but I can live with third place.

“All hail the tent pitching champ,” Butch calls, giving Slater a high five once he’s finished with his own tent.

With our tents all up, we organize the rest of the shit we brought, and then Xeno whips off his shirt and uses it to wipe the sweat off his face.

“It’s hot as balls, man. I’m going swimming.” He tosses his shirt through the open flap of his tent, then kicks off his sandals and steps out of his shorts.

Annnnnnnd speaking of balls.

I tilt my head back so fast I think I manage to give myself whiplash. Those are some damn ominous gray clouds in the sky though. Extremely interesting. Definitely more interesting than anybody’s bare ass or swinging dick. The warm, firm grasp of Slater’s familiar hand on my shoulder startles me.

“It’s just a naked dude, man. Breathe.” He chuckles and squeezes my shoulder.

“I know.” I shrug him off and scoff. Just a naked dude, no big deal. It’s no different from being in a locker room. I let out a breath and adjust my gaze to its normal level.

Xeno isn’t the only one casually shedding his clothes. The mention of swimming was some kind of call to action for everyone to drop trou, apparently.

“What’s the problem, Ajax?” Butch asks. There isn’t any teasing in his tone. He sounds genuinely open and curious.

“Are you worried that the sight of your naked body is going to send us into a gay frenzy?” Fender asks, straddling the line between deadpan and mocking with just the slightest air of challenge.

“No,” I scoff.

Genuinely, that hadn’t even crossed my mind. Honestly, I can’t say what exactly has my stomach twisting itself into knots. All I know is I feel like I’ve chugged several energy drinks in a row—jittery and a little nauseous.

“You coming, Slatester?” Butch asks.

Slater squeezes my shoulder one more time before dropping his hand and nodding.

“Sure, why the hell not? You’ve gotta come up with a better nickname than that though.

Slatester? Really?” He shoves his shorts down just like everyone else and kicks them off.

He strides over to his tent to toss them inside and my attention snags on the way his jockstrap frames his peachy ass cheeks.

I’ve seen his dick about a dozen times now, but this is the first time seeing this angle.

I swallow hard and look away again.

“Hey.” A softer voice comes from my other side.

I look over to see Ezra standing there in a pair of lacy red underwear, his glasses, and nothing else.

“If you’re worried about… anything… the water is usually pretty cold, so stuff, uh, like that shouldn’t be a problem.

” He says it so quietly that I don’t think anyone else hears him.

My heart beats faster and I don’t know if I’m following exactly what he’s getting at, but it calms some deeper, subconscious part of my brain anyway.

I nod and let out a breath.

Just dudes going swimming. No big deal.

SLATER

“Holy shit,” I yelp, wading waist deep into the chilly water. “My balls are officially inside of my body.”

Fender cackles and splashes me.

“Dick.” I splash him right back.

“What? The fastest way to adjust to the cold water is full immersion,” he says, before launching himself at me and dunking me under the water.

I sputter and laugh, returning the favor by shoving him under as soon as I get the chance.

There was a half second when everyone was getting naked that I thought it might feel a little weird to go skinny dipping with a bunch of guys—gay or not—but once you’re in the water, there’s really no difference anyway.

The sound of a cracking twig draws my attention and I turn to see AJ coming through the trees as naked as the day he was born.

I’ve seen each individual part of him bare, but there’s something about him standing totally, completely ass naked in broad daylight that I just can’t tear my eyes away from.

Maybe it’s the fact that this absolute beefcake with his glorious pecs and skull-crushing thighs, hair in all the right places, just a hint of a golden tan on every one of his bulging muscles, stands on the edge of the lake looking shy . Jesus, why is that fucking adorable?

“Oh lawd, someone stop me before I catcall that poor straight man and send him into a proper gay panic,” Fender mutters.

Butch helps him out by shoving Fender’s head under the water again. He’s lucky Butch beat me to it because some weird protective urge might have convinced me to hold him down there an extra few seconds just to teach him a lesson about ogling AJ.

“Cannonball,” Callan shouts in encouragement.

The nervousness on AJ’s face settles and he jogs down the short dock, his cock slapping between his thighs and his balls bouncing—and here I was just a few seconds ago wanting to drown Fender for ogling him. Hi, it’s me, I’m the hypocrite—and cannonballs into the water.

“Shit, that’s cold,” he gasps when he surfaces.

“This is where we separate the men from the boys.” Xeno lets out an evil laugh.

“Oh my god, I think something just touched my leg,” Ez gasps.

“Relax, it’s probably just a fish,” Dre assures him.

“Or a snake.” Fender shrugs.

Ezra shrieks and scrambles for the shore.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Dre shakes his head, and Fender grins unapologetically.

Xeno and Dre catch up with Ezra on the shore and try to talk him into getting back in the water.

Everyone else has already moved on to more splashing and shit-talking, but I’m kind of mesmerized by the tender, familiar way the three of them touch each other.

Dre and Ezra end up in a lip-lock that’s completely different from the way he kissed Xeno earlier.

It’s soft and slow and sweet as hell. My heart thunders and my mouth feels dry.

Does it feel different to kiss a guy? Lips are just lips, so it shouldn’t be all that different from kissing a woman, right? Somehow, that thought only confuses me more. Like, maybe I should be more fixated on how weird and different and foreign it would be to have a dude’s tongue in my mouth.

A wave of water hits me in the face, dragging my attention away from the throuple and back to these overgrown dumbasses. But the whole kissing thing stays stuck in the back of my head, just lurking there, sinking its claws in deeper and deeper.

We swim and goof around until our stomachs all start growling, then we haul ass back to camp, get dressed, and start a fire. The afternoon is chill as hell and exactly what I was hoping for. Just a bunch of dudes being dudes in the woods.

Night starts to fall earlier than it should thanks to the heavy clouds overhead, but the fire keeps it well lit for us. Silas passes out beers from a cooler and conversation comes and goes, the silent lulls perfectly comfortable as we all just watch the dancing flames and enjoy the warm night.

“Ah, shit,” AJ mutters.

“What?” As soon as the question leaves my lips, a fat raindrop splatters on my cheek. “Shit.” I laugh.

“Maybe it’ll just drizzle,” Butch says.

Right on cue, as if the sky is just out to spite him, the clouds open up and the rain starts to fall harder. It patters against the dirt and splatters on my skin. The fire hisses and more smoke rises from the pit as the rain does its best to douse the flames.

“Or not.” Fender laughs, standing up and picking up his folding chair to hold over his head for cover.

“Alright, catch you assholes in the morning.” Dre finishes his beer and drags his men off to their tent.

We all scramble to get out of the rain, laughing as we abandon our chairs and empty cans to be dealt with in the morning and dive for shelter from the building downpour.

I scramble into my tent, pulling off my hat and tossing it on top of my sleeping bag.

Raindrops tap loudly at the outside of the tent, but luckily my fear about leaks seems to be put to rest.

“Motherfucker,” AJ shouts.

“What? What’s wrong?” I haven’t even zipped my tent yet, but before I can stick my head back out to see if he’s okay, his large, bulky frame crowds inside.

“My tent has a leak.” He’s dripping wet, his broad shoulders testing the limits of my tent all on their own, his body filling up the space and then some. My heart beats a little harder, the rain on his skin somehow making him smell even more like himself, like man and spice and… sex .

Fuck.

I swallow hard and try to laugh it off.

“Dude, there’s barely enough room for me in here.” I chuckle, hoping it doesn’t sound as tight with nerves and excitement as I feel. I have no intention of sending him back out into the rain with nowhere else to sleep. I’m definitely not sending him out there to crawl into anyone else’s tent.

That same greedy, defensive feeling I had earlier when Fender was checking AJ out rears up again, and I grit my teeth against the batshit insane urge to growl or put my hands all over AJ before anyone else can. I clench my fists and drag in more AJ-scented air through my nose.

“Tough shit. It’s my tent.” He laughs back, not even hesitating before he strips his sopping shirt over his head and drops it right near the entrance to the tent.

He zips it closed and then turns back to face me, his huge chest only inches away, completely bare and slick with the rain that soaked through his shirt.

My cock is already hard as fuck, throbbing in my shorts as it slowly dawns on me just how small this tent really is. It’s barely more than a sleeping bag with a roof over it. We’re going to be practically on top of each other all night long.

With our combined body heat and all the moisture, it’s humid inside the nylon confines in a matter of seconds.

Rainwater and sweat mix on my skin, making me feel slick and raising goose bumps in spite of the heat as the downpour outside beats against the tent.

I try to keep my breathing under control.

If I start panting like a dog in heat, it’s going to raise questions I don’t think I’m ready to answer.

And it might just be weird enough to send AJ scrambling for someone else’s tent after all.

Fuck that. He’s staying right here. My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for him, to drag over the dampness of his skin and dig into the familiar firmness of his muscles.

“Scoot,” AJ says, crowding up next to me, his body rubbing against mine as he crawls the rest of the way in, completely oblivious to the feral, confusing direction of my thoughts.

So… I guess it’s only one sleeping bag after all?

Oh. I just got what Fender meant by that.