Shopping for a CEO's Baby (Shopping for a Billionaire Series Book 16), стр. 22

“Says the guy who isn't married and doesn't have kids.”

“Haven't found the right person yet.”

I smirk. “You mean you haven't found the guts to ask Gina out yet.”

A silence descends, slow and humid, like a tornado rolling in over a prairie.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me. It's obvious you two like each over. Ask her out.”

“My love life is none of your business. You guys might talk about what your dicks do or do not do all the time, but I sure don't.”

Old Jorg walks by and says, “That's Vince Code for not gettin’ any.”

Declan's in the middle of guzzling his water and sprays half of it over the bench he's on. Gerald smothers a grin, wiping his scarred face with a hand towel that looks like it's seen better days. Bleach spots all over it at least attest to being washed.

I hope.

Note to self: Have Gina assess gym cleanliness and up the sanitation protocols for the chain.

“JORG!” Vince bellows, face rippling with a wave of emotion that makes me see the fifteen-year-old punk in him.

“Ask the girl out. Bet she's waiting for you to do it, ya dumbass.”

Watching Vince get ribbed is the best.

“What're you looking at?” Vince growls at me, ignoring old Jorg. “Get your ass over to the sandbags and tires.”

I eye that section of the gym. It looks like a reality show set for people too naive to realize their pain is being exploited.

Hey. Wait a minute...

“And you, too,” Vince adds, pointing to Dec. “Tug of war.”

“There's no rope over there.”

“Not with rope. With the tire.” He points to one with a five-foot radius.

Even Gerald balks. “You want these two to play tug of war with a monster-truck tire?”

“You make fun of me, you pay.”

“I already pay you, Vince,” I point out.

“And you and your brother can show us who's stronger.”

“We know the answer to that,” Declan says smugly.

Instantly, I'm on alert. Did he just say–

“Me,” my brother adds.

Yep. He did.

I snort. “You wish. Sleep deprivation has you hallucinating, bro.” I flex my arms as I curl a sixty, holding back the internal scream.

“Snooze, you lose,” he shoots back, eyeing my biceps with a mocking expression that sends red rage through me.

Competitive red rage.

“Deal.” I drop the sixty on the ground and leave it, pumped and ready for this battle. “Get over here,” I call over my shoulder, “and prepare to get your ass whupped.”

A small crowd begins to form, starting with Jorg, Vince, and Gerald, followed by two teens, a guy who is either their father or a coach of some kind, and two jacked-up dudes with muscles that look like they glued apple fritters to their arms and thighs.

Dec and I get into squat position. Tire tug of war isn't new, but I've never done it myself. Watched Vince and Gerald go at it here and there, but it's not the most efficient way to spend time working out. It's more about using your body to manage the unexpected, which is great for a bodyguard like Gerald, or for firefighters or ninja warrior freaks, but when you're the CEO of a fast-paced multinational conglomerate, you focus on other workouts.

But this? Now it's a grudge match. Vince took his own pissed-off state and turned Dec and me against each other.

And I'm going to win.

“Before we start, let's set some rules,” Dec begins.

“The only rule is, you're about to lose,” I shoot back.

“Talk is cheap, Andrew.”

“So'm I!” Old Jorg shouts. He gets a sprinkling of laughter.

“We hold the inside of the tire. Top or bottom?”

“Which one are you?” one of the muscle-bound dudes shouts.

We ignore him.

“Vince and Gerald stand at the midpoint. First time one of our feet crosses, the other wins.”

Vince and Gerald nod.

“That works,” I agree.

“This is all about drag,” Vince clarifies.

The steroid-poppers look at each other as if they hadn't heard that quite right.

Or as if they interpreted it very differently.

“On the count of three,” Vince shouts. “One, two–three!”

I'll give my brother credit: He's stronger than I expected. Those soccer legs of his dig in like tree trunks and don't budge. But where he has me on leg power, I've got him on shoulders and arms. We're equally matched.

Which means this comes down to strategy and sheer perseverance.

So I'll win.

The tire's edge is hard to gain purchase on, my fingers curled in on the thin lip of the ring, the bottom of the tire resting on my forearms, which are on top of my thighs. Declan has chosen a different hold, hands on top, those tree-trunk legs of his giving him more power.

If we were wrestling, I could flip the damn tire and take him by surprise, burying him.

But we're not. This is tug of war, so I need to drag him across that imaginary midline.

Which means I need a better grip.

Veins bulge in Declan's neck as his green eyes, so much like Mom’s, taunt me. Sweat blooms on his forehead, pit stains already wide from the earlier workout. He's pulling hard and as I think, I lose my footing, shoe moving an inch forward before I can tighten my core and use it to extend muscle strength to my shoulders, the network of my body communicating to do one job.

Just one.

Don't move.

“Hey, little bro, getting tired?” he taunts. The slip was a show of weakness he is eating up. Thirty-three years of frustration turn my mind to nothing but rage and I do it.

I flip the tire.

Because I'm already in a slight crouch, I have the advantage, Declan's mouth going to an O of surprise that I will cackle at until my last breath on Earth. The heave-ho I give the two-hundred-and-fifty-pound piece of rubber sends him on his ass, his reflexes good enough to move his arms and catch it before it flattens him.

I hold my place.

The crowd goes nuts.

“This is like free WWF!” one of the muscleheads shouts, and the two teens start cheering.

“CHEAT!” Dec calls out.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I'm still here.