This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me (mattpecman@gmail.com) any feedback. Enjoy!
All characters are entirely fictional besides Byron, whom has given me his express permission to include later in the book. Please follow him on Instagram (@byronrosekelly)!
The Officer
Troy Calloway didn't have time for bullshit. That was the first thing anyone would learn about him if they spent more than a minute in his presence. He was a man of action, built for control, built for order. His presence alone was enough to silence a room. Thick, square-jawed, with the kind of physique that made people second-guess messing with him—not the aesthetic mass of a bodybuilder but the functional power of someone who trained for purpose rather than appearance.
There wasn't an ounce of softness on him, just raw, utilitarian muscle—every inch of his body carved from dedication, years of pushing iron, years of forcing his body to be the absolute strongest, the most powerful it could be. His chest was a solid wall of muscle, his shoulders square and imposing, his arms thick with dense fibers that moved like industrial machinery beneath his skin. When he entered a room, people instinctively straightened their posture, as if his very presence demanded greater discipline from those around him.
He didn't train for aesthetics. He trained for dominance. And yet, despite his best efforts, he knew there were men in this town who outshined him in pure physical development. That irritated him more than he cared to admit, even to himself.
Troy had been a cop since his early twenties, climbing the ranks with sheer force of will and uncompromising dedication. He didn't waste time with social media or pointless conversations. He did his job, hit the gym, went home. Rinse and repeat. The only time he let loose was in the bedroom, where his girlfriend—a woman who practically worshipped his body—made damn sure he got the admiration he deserved. She had a submissive streak, loved to run her hands over his pecs, squeeze his arms, call him a beast. That was all well and good, but it stayed behind closed doors. That kind of shit didn't belong in public.
Not like them.
Harry Schett.
The name alone made Troy's grip tighten on the barbell as he finished his final set of bench presses. That kid—the town's golden boy, the local Adonis—was impossible to avoid. Everywhere Troy went, there he was, standing out like a damn neon sign.
Troy didn't hate Harry. That would be ridiculous. But he couldn't deny the raw irritation every time he saw him. It wasn't just that Harry was built—plenty of guys in this gym were muscular. It was the way he carried himself. Effortless. Every movement of his body radiated confidence. He knew how good he looked. Knew how much people admired him. Troy had caught women—hell, even some men—staring at Harry in open awe, their gazes full of hunger and admiration. It was like he walked through life on a different plane, untouchable, a god among mere mortals.
Troy had spent years chiseling his body into the perfect machine. He was thicker than Harry, built like a battering ram, not a statue. But next to Harry, it was like standing in the shadow of something unnatural. Where Troy's chest was impressive, Harry's pecs were monuments, jutting forward with such extraordinary volume they altered his silhouette completely. Troy's thighs were powerful and functional, but Harry's quads were so massively developed they forced his stance naturally wide, the separate heads of muscle visible through whatever fabric he chose to cover them with. Even Harry's posture annoyed Troy—the casual confidence, the complete comfort in his own skin, the way he displayed his physique without seeming to try.
Troy noticed him now, across the gym, doing some ridiculous single-arm shoulder press. Shirtless, of course. Why wouldn't he be? Sweat glistened over those ridiculous pecs, catching the light with each controlled movement, highlighting striations so deep and defined they looked like they'd been carved with precision tools. His bright magenta gym shorts clung to him like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination—the fabric stretched across his thighs and glutes with such tension it seemed perpetually on the verge of surrender. And worse—worse—was the way people gravitated toward him. The PTs, the regulars, even the damn staff, all sneaking glances, waiting for any excuse to talk to him.
Troy scoffed and rolled his shoulders, racking his weights with controlled precision that prevented unnecessary noise. He wasn't about to waste any more time thinking about Harry Schett. He had real work to do.
An hour later, Troy was in uniform, patrolling his usual beat. His police t-shirt stretched tight over his thick chest and biceps, the navy fabric clinging to him like a second skin. His black trousers, crisp with a slight sheen, hugged the deep, powerful mass of his thighs—rugby-player thick, built from years of heavy squats and relentless training. When he walked, people noticed. He wasn't someone you could ignore, and he liked it that way. Authority was more than a badge; it was a presence, and Troy had cultivated his meticulously.
His radio crackled, breaking the rhythm of his patrol.
"Unit 14, we've had a report of suspicious behavior at the Schett Sportswear shop. Can you check it out?"
Troy frowned. Max Schett's place? He knew Max in passing—had bought gear from him before. The guy was a decent salesman, built like a tank, and ridiculously good-looking in that same unnatural way as his son, but didn't seem the type to get involved in anything shady.
He pressed the radio to his mouth. "Copy that. I'm en route."
It was only a few minutes' walk. As he approached, he spotted the shop's familiar signage, the glass windows gleaming under the midday sun. But something was off. The door was unlocked, but the "Closed" sign still hung in place.
Troy pushed inside, his senses immediately heightening to potential threat.
The shop was empty. At least, at first glance.
Then he heard it—footsteps, movement toward the back.
His jaw tightened. "Police." His voice was firm, commanding, filling the space with authority. "Anyone here?"
There was a moment of silence. Then—shuffling.
Troy moved toward the sound, his hand instinctively resting near his belt, just in case.
And then—Max Schett stepped out from the back room.
Troy's brow furrowed. Max looked... different. The man was a walking billboard for indecency.
Clad in what appeared to be some kind of uniform—a pair of skintight, electric blue Lycra shorts that left nothing to the imagination and a matching polo shirt stretched over his enormous pecs—Max was an almost comical display of raw masculinity. The shorts clung to his massive thighs with desperate determination, outlining every ridge and curve of muscle beneath. The fabric was pulled so tight across his glutes that it created a sheen where it stretched most severely, the material practically transparent under the strain. The polo wasn't much better, fighting a losing battle to contain the shelf-like protrusion of his chest, the fabric stretched to its molecular limits.
But it wasn't just the outrageous size of his muscles or the way his body strained against every inch of fabric that caught Troy's attention.
It was what was underneath.
The cop's sharp eyes had instantly picked up on the fact that Max's boxer briefs were showing through the fabric. Bright as day, the outline was right there, fully visible through the translucent Lycra.
This wasn't just tight clothing.
This was a deliberate display.
Troy took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose before stepping forward, exuding the authority that had made him one of the most respected officers in town.
"Maxwell Schett," he said, keeping his voice firm but level. "We've had a complaint about public indecency."
Max's lips twitched—just slightly—but he said nothing. He didn't need to.
Instead, he shifted his weight ever so subtly, pushing his lower half out further, making sure the obscene way the Lycra clung to him was even more pronounced. It was so slight, so expertly controlled, that it could almost be dismissed as coincidence.
But Troy wasn't an idiot.
He knew a display when he saw one.
Advertisement - Please visit our sponsor!
Before Troy could say anything more, a voice cut through the tension—smooth, cocky, and completely unfazed.
"Oh, come on, officer," Ethan purred, stepping between them like a chess master making his next move. His hand slid down Max's colossal thigh, over his crotch, then gripped the mass of his glutes like he was checking for ripeness. "This isn't anything you wouldn't see on a beach."
The casual way he handled Max—this mountain of muscle, this imposing physical specimen—was jarring. Even more jarring was Max's reaction: nothing. No resistance, no objection. Just silent acceptance of being touched, positioned, displayed like property.
Troy's jaw clenched.
"This isn't a beach," he shot back, his voice even despite the tension building in his chest.
Ethan tilted his head, smirking like he had already won the argument.
"So what? Is the law different here?" His hands never left Max's body, continuing their slow, taunting exploration. "Or is it just that Max here looks so damn good in his uniform that someone got a little jealous?"
Max still hadn't said a word, standing there silent, obedient, on display.
Troy let out a slow breath. He wasn't going to win this one. Not here. Not now. He could feel it—the smug amusement in Ethan's stance, the overwhelming presence of Max's physique, the silent agreement from every eye in the shop.
This wasn't a legal battle.
This was a power struggle.
And right now?
Troy wasn't the one in control.
He cleared his throat, adjusting his stance. "Alright," he muttered, stepping back toward the door. "Just... make sure you don't give people a reason to complain again."
Ethan grinned as Troy turned and walked out.
"Will do, officer."
Troy's footsteps were heavy as he walked down the street, his mind still buzzing with frustration.
He wasn't offended by what he had just seen—hell, he wasn't some prudish old man clutching his pearls—but there was something about the whole exchange that rubbed him the wrong way.
Max hadn't said a single word.
Not one.
Troy had dealt with Max before—he knew the guy. Knew his overconfident, smooth-talking, charming ways. Max wasn't the kind of guy to stand there silent while someone else spoke for him.
Something was off.
But he couldn't put his finger on it.
He turned a corner, heading toward his flat above Bean & Brew. He had a short break before his next patrol, and right now, he needed food and a little time to clear his head.
His building was a modern complex, only a few years old, with large glass windows and a balcony overlooking the street. He'd bought the place after his divorce, needing something central, easy, and—most importantly—close to the gym.
Troy unlocked the door and stepped inside, heading straight for the kitchen. His routine was simple: high-protein meal prep, a quick break, then back to work. Within minutes, he was sitting at his small dining table, staring down at a classic bodybuilder's lunch—chicken breast, rice, broccoli—his mind still half-occupied with the scene at the shop.
From his balcony, he had a perfect view of the town below.
And from there?
He could see Max's sportswear shop.
He wasn't watching it on purpose—or at least, that's what he told himself. It was just there, in his line of sight, part of the town he'd patrolled for years.
But as he ate, he found his gaze flickering back toward the shop window.
Max was there, of course. On display. Always.
The man was a walking advertisement for his own store, standing behind the counter in those ridiculous skintight shorts, his pecs pushing against the polo shirt like they were fighting for space, his massive thighs straining the Lycra with every small movement. Even from this distance, Troy could see the way the fabric pulled and shifted across his glutes when he moved, the material so tight it looked painful.
Troy exhaled, his fork pausing halfway to his mouth.
Something wasn't right.
He didn't know what.
Not yet.
But he was going to find out.
