Where There's A Will: Part 12

The second of today's triple drop

Chapter Twelve

Eddie’s voice carried with the smooth confidence of a man who knew his worth, the rich baritone of a body sculpted by sweat and discipline.

“Then yeah, I usually do my chest on Tuesdays,” he said, his deep, lazy drawl rolling over the words like silk, “but I like to get my triceps in on that day too. Gotta keep the balance, you know?”

He barely glanced at Gibson, who trailed behind him like an overfed pet, the older man’s corpulent frame jostling with each hurried, uneven step. Gibson’s breath came out in wet, labored huffs, the sound of excess, of indulgence, of a life lived too greedily. But despite his discomfort, he kept his eyes locked onto the powerful sway of Eddie’s backside, utterly mesmerized.

The young personal trainer moved with ease, every motion calculated yet effortless, his movements infused with an intoxicating confidence. His glutes, golden-hued from years spent basking in the sun, were squeezed tight into a pair of black gym shorts that did little to conceal their sheer mass and definition. Each stride made the fabric strain against his raw power, threatening at any moment to split from the sheer force of his musculature. The shorts themselves clung obscenely high, practically painted onto his thick, sculpted thighs, their corded muscle twitching and flexing with every calculated step.

Above, his torso was encased in a sky-blue athletic tank top, its fabric stretched to the very limits of endurance across the expanse of his broad chest and rounded shoulders. The deep cut of the tank revealed his massive, veined delts and traps, a spectacle of raw masculinity. The contrast between the golden hue of his flawless skin and the cool blue of the fabric made him look almost otherworldly—something between a god and a statue, carved from flesh but built to be worshipped.

And those calves. Gibson swallowed hard as his eyes trailed downward. The meaty, football-sized slabs of muscle sat high and proud, wrapped in pristine white Nike sport socks that accentuated their sheer volume. Every movement Eddie made was an exhibition, every stretch of his perfect body a silent declaration of power.

He was, in every sense of the word, a specimen. A purebred. A creature sculpted from obsession, discipline, and pure testosterone. Six-foot-one and 265 pounds of controlled, devastating muscle. And despite his intimidating size, there was an unmistakable grace to him—something sharp, something intelligent, something that never stopped calculating.

His jet-black hair, kept cropped short in a tasteful, slightly tousled manner, framed a face that could have belonged to a 1950s matinee idol. Strong jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing blue eyes that could unnerve and seduce in equal measure. There was no softness to him—no indulgence, no waste. Eddie was the pinnacle of manhood, and he knew it.

Then, suddenly, he stopped. A shift in his stride, the powerful muscles in his legs flexing as he came to a dead halt in the middle of the foyer. Gibson, too lost in his lecherous study, nearly collided with him, a pitiful gasp escaping his lips as he stumbled to a graceless stop.

“What’s that?” Eddie’s voice was curious, yet detached, as though already suspecting the answer.

Gibson, flustered, looked past him to see the object of interest—a large rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper, sitting on an ornate side table. It was surrounded by an assortment of envelopes, clearly part of some recently delivered mail drop.

“What’s what?” Gibson snapped, trying to mask his embarrassment with irritation. His eyes flicked to the package, his lips curling into a sneer. “Hell if I know,” he grumbled. “Beckman should’ve thrown all of that in the garbage where it belongs.” His fingers twitched at his sides, his agitation evident. “Why don’t we just get to the bedroom?”

But Eddie wasn’t listening. His interest had been piqued, and that meant everything else took a back seat. He strode toward the package, his thick fingers wrapping around the edges as he hoisted it effortlessly into his arms. It was heavier than expected, but weight was never an issue for him.

He turned the package, peering down at the label. And then, his lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

“Well, well,” he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. “Looks like Arnold missed a delivery before he kicked the bucket.” His fingers traced over the label, his smirk widening as recognition dawned. “The Suffer Stuffer—fuck, I’ve heard of this brand.”

He turned, locking eyes with Gibson, his gaze playful, teasing. “You know these guys make the most insane dildos, huh?”

Gibson, caught between embarrassment and intrigue, raised a brow. “That so?” he mused, his voice dropping an octave, his eyes once again flickering downward to Eddie’s barely-contained backside. “Maybe you need to show me how insane it can get.”

Eddie chuckled, a deep, rich sound, his smirk never faltering. He was used to this. Used to the way people looked at him, desired him, wanted to own him. But no one ever truly did.

Arnold came close, though.

As his personal trainer—and occasional plaything—Eddie was on a lucrative retainer. His usual domain was BodyShred Muscle and Fitness, a warehouse-style gym where titanic men sculpted themselves into living monuments of testosterone and aggression. There, among the sweat-drenched titans, Eddie carved out his empire.

Despite what most assumed, his clientele tended to be wealthy, older women—cougars hungry for the kind of attention their suburban husbands could no longer provide. And Eddie was happy to oblige. Not out of romance, but out of sheer indulgence. His physique alone made them desperate. His sheer, obscene endowment turned that desperation into worship.

Still, Eddie had long since discovered that he was flexible. A particularly ruthless dominatrix had taught him that much years ago, had unlocked a truth in him that no amount of posturing could deny: pleasuring his prostate didn’t discriminate. Whether it was another musclebound bro in the showers, a high-powered executive’s neglected wife with a strap-on, or even the lecherous billionaire who had taken such a keen interest in him—it didn’t matter. As long as they knew how to hit that perfect, sacred spot in his ass, Eddie was game.

And Arnold? Well, Arnold had a knack for turning games into something much more profitable.

Their relationship was transactional, but mutual. Eddie was more than just a sculpted piece of meat—he was a facilitator. A recruiter. A contractor. He knew how to spot the right kind of man, the ones who could be lured into Arnold’s perverse orbit with the right incentive. Ryley, Julian, Cody—each of them had been plucked straight from the weight racks of BodyShred, seduced by Eddie’s easy charm, his casual promises of wealth, pleasure, and power. 

Whatever happened between them and Arnold after that? Not his problem.

As for his own arrangements with the billionaire, Eddie played the game well. He would spend long weekends at the manor, sometimes leading Arnold through the motions of a lazy, half-hearted workout, but more often than not, the real work took place elsewhere. In the bedroom. In the private chambers Arnold had crafted specifically for his most prized acquisitions. A space built to showcase Eddie’s strength, his discipline, his sheer masculine supremacy.

And Eddie? He let it happen.

Because at the end of the day, power was power. And no one knew how to wield it better than him.

Eddie pushed open the heavy doors to his private chamber, stepping inside with the kind of easy authority that only a man utterly assured of his own dominance could possess. The room was a shrine to masculinity, an altar to excess and indulgence, where power, sex, and raw, unchecked testosterone had been allowed to thrive.

The polished concrete floors gleamed under the cool, recessed lighting, each step of Eddie’s heavy, muscle-laden frame sending faint echoes through the cavernous space. In the center of the room, perched on a raised square platform, was his massive bed—an imposing, modern structure with a thick, dark bedspread of Egyptian cotton, the color of gunmetal. The sheets had the smooth, cool texture of wealth, tailored for bodies that ran hot, for men who knew the value of luxury but still demanded a space that could withstand the storm of their appetites.

The walls were painted a deep navy blue, their borders lined with chrome metal accents that reflected the dim light, giving the room an industrial edge. Framed along the walls were a curated selection of vintage Playboy and Penthouse centerfolds, the pin-ups immortalized in gleaming steel frames. Their sultry eyes gazed down, their curves a constant reminder of what true indulgence looked like. Between them, mixed among the images of glossy-lipped women in provocative poses, were carefully selected portraits of NFL titans in moments of sheer, primal athleticism—football heroes frozen in time, muscles coiled, bodies in flight. It was a room of appetite and ambition, of dominance in all its forms.

A scent lingered in the air, subtle but unmistakable—an intoxicating mixture of cologne and rubber. It was the kind of space that absorbed the energy of the man who had passed through it, that held onto the ghosts of their pleasure, their desire, their ruin.

In the far corner, gleaming under the dim light, sat Eddie’s prize possession: a fully restored 1940 Indian Chief motorcycle, the deep red paint shining like blood. A gift from Arnold, of course. A reward for Eddie’s work in bringing Julian into the fold. The hunky Latino had even been the one to restore it, his skilled hands carefully bringing it back to life under Arnold’s amused watch. Every inch of that machine was a reminder of the old man’s influence—his power, his reach.

As Eddie stepped further inside, Gibson followed, his movements more sluggish, more deliberate. The doors shut behind him with a muted click, and he reached up to latch them with a practiced flick of his thick fingers, the finality of the gesture sending a quiet ripple of tension through the air.

Eddie barely acknowledged him. Instead, he strode toward the bed, the heavy mail package landing on the mattress with a dull thud, the brown paper crinkling under its weight. His sharp eyes flickered across the room, scanning, reading, and then, something caught his attention—a small, unassuming device perched atop one of his black satin pillows.

A recorder.

“Well, well,” Eddie murmured, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. His pearly-white teeth glinted under the cool lighting, the expression one of pure amusement, though a faint flicker of something darker flashed behind his eyes. He reached for the recorder, his fingers wrapping around the cool plastic as he turned toward Gibson. “You know anything about this?”

Gibson, still trying to catch his breath, blinked at him, his jowls quivering with the movement. “Not a damn thing,” he muttered, though the slight sheen of sweat on his bald head suggested otherwise.

Eddie smirked, clicking the play button.

Static filled the room, a brief hiss of white noise before a voice cut through—the unmistakable, velvety-smooth British timbre of Arnold Mortimer himself.

"Gracious and devoted Eddie," the old man cooed, his tone dripping with indulgence. "I hold you in the highest regard. These few years you’ve been at my side have been delightful. It’s certainly been quite interesting having you put me through my paces while… I watched you put yourself through mine."

There it was. That smirk in his voice. That smug, knowing drawl that always held more meaning than what was being said.

Eddie’s grin remained in place, but his grip on the recorder tightened slightly.

"The value you’ve brought me has been immense indeed. Beyond your physical prowess, your astuteness, cunning, and verbal acuity are unmatched. Why, tonight wouldn’t have been possible without you. If the others only truly knew the extent of your meddling."

His smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second. That word. Meddling.

"I know I have been consistently surprised by it. I’m sure Gibson might be, too… depending."

A beat of silence. Gibson shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Eddie turned his head slightly, glancing at him with an easy shrug, his posture still loose, still controlled. 

"Nevertheless, a reward is in order. To you, my most capable personal trainer, I leave the entirety of Mortimer Industries, including all its operating subsidiaries and sub-companies. Paul will hand you the official paperwork tomorrow morning, should you make it until then."

Eddie felt something cold run up his spine. He should have felt elated, triumphant. Instead, a whisper of unease curled around him, unseen but felt, like a shadow brushing against his shoulder.

"All you need to do to make until then, Eddie, is learn the art of restraint—something that is quite valuable in business, and in life. You were never one to restrain yourself, either in the bedroom or with what was on your mind." Arnold took a dramatic pause before continuing. "It would be wise to remember, Eddie, that when you’re dealing with trash, only the rats will show up to the table."

A warning. A veiled threat.

"Finally, know this: Before I am laid to my final rest, side-by-side with my ancestors, I will be watching you, Eddie, like I always have. These walls have eyes. Choose wisely. Act accordingly." 

The recording clicked off.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Eddie exhaled through his nose, staring at the recorder before tossing it aside onto the bed with a careless flick of his wrist.

“Well thanks Arnie, I really appreciate it,” Eddie said. “Though you could’ve just gotten straight to the point.” He said, his voice carrying an air of practiced indifference, as if he’d just received free compensation for a bad meal. But Gibson didn’t miss the slight tension in his jaw, the way his muscles seemed just a bit tighter than before.

The old man licked his lips, his eyes darting toward Eddie, as if trying to gauge just how rattled he really was. Eddie didn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, he rolled his shoulders, ridding himself of whatever unwelcome thoughts the recording had stirred, and took a step back toward the bed.

“Now,” he said, his voice smooth once more, laced with that same effortless charm, “let’s get down to business.” He grinned.