This is my first full length story, so I hope you enjoy it! Please email me ([email protected]) 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 Observer
The Chapel hummed with the lazy energy of a weekday evening, the familiar blend of conversation, clinking glasses, and occasional bursts of laughter creating a comforting backdrop for Troy Calloway's surveillance mission. He'd deliberately chosen a corner table with clear sightlines to the bar, positioning himself where he could observe while remaining relatively inconspicuous. His casual attire—worn jeans and a plain white T-shirt that strained against his substantial development—was a calculated attempt at blending in, though his imposing physique made true anonymity impossible.
Unlike the Schett men or that Dylan kid, Troy didn't deliberately emphasize his impressive build. His substantial mass had been developed through years of practical training rather than aesthetic pursuit—thick, functional muscle built for purpose rather than display. Nevertheless, the white cotton stretched across his chest with obvious tension, the material pulled taut over pecs that resembled small continental plates shifting beneath the fabric with each breath. The short sleeves gripped his biceps without mercy, the seams visibly strained against a development that came from hauling equipment and subduing suspects rather than posing in front of mirrors.
His thighs—products of rugby days and tactical training—filled his jeans completely, the denim stretched across their substantial girth with no room to spare. With each subtle shift of his position, the fabric pulled and strained, creating a quiet whisper of material under stress. His wide stance wasn't deliberate showmanship like Harry Schett's; it was the inevitable consequence of quads so thick they physically prevented his legs from resting parallel.
Troy's eyes narrowed as he spotted his target moving through the crowd—Ethan Thomas, the self-proclaimed "Muscle Stud Owner." The young man was shorter than Troy had expected, barely reaching 5'5" to Troy's imposing 6'2" frame. Ethan's slight build—probably no more than 150 pounds soaking wet—seemed completely at odds with the power he apparently wielded over men of extraordinary physical development. Troy could have easily wrapped one substantial arm around Ethan's entire torso, could have lifted him with minimal effort. There was nothing immediately impressive about him, nothing physically intimidating, nothing that would suggest his ability to command men like Max and Harry Schett—men whose sheer physical presence altered the atmosphere of any room they entered.
Each time Ethan passed through Troy's field of vision, Troy noticed those eyes on him—assessing, evaluating, almost dissecting his physique with a gaze that felt unnervingly familiar. It was the same look Troy had seen countless men and women direct toward the Schett men, that mixture of fascination and desire, as if mentally removing the inadequate clothing that struggled to contain such extraordinary development.
The sensation made Troy's skin prickle with discomfort. He wasn't used to being looked at this way—wasn't accustomed to being the object rather than the observer. As an officer, he commanded respect through authority and presence, not through being visually consumed as a physical specimen.
With deliberate casualness, Troy pulled out his phone, taking the opportunity to confirm that this was indeed the man he'd been tracking. The Facebook profile he'd discovered earlier filled his screen—Ethan Thomas, smiling with that same confident smirk Troy had observed moments ago. The confirmation sent a ripple of satisfaction through his substantial frame, the thrill of the hunt intensifying as he confirmed his prey's identity.
Deciding to use the wait for his drink productively, Troy navigated back to Harry Schett's profile. The recent post about Max being used as human furniture still dominated his feed, its visual impact no less jarring despite Troy's repeated viewing. Those neon green compression shorts stretched across glutes of such extraordinary development they seemed to belong to a different species of human altogether. The fabric strained so desperately across the twin hemispheres that it appeared translucent in places, revealing hints of the perfectly smooth skin beneath.
As Troy scrolled through the comments, something new caught his attention—a name he recognized from his earlier research: Declan Kavanagh. The message read with casual familiarity:
"Can't wait to hear what this is all about over a drink this weekend. Looking forward to seeing you and Max!"
Harry's reply appeared directly below:
"Defo man, see you at The Chapel on Saturday! Me and the old man will be there from about 2pm. It'll be good to see you and Uncle Huggo x"
Troy's heart rate increased with sudden anticipation. The universe had just handed him a perfect opportunity—all the players in one location, likely to speak freely among themselves. This was better than confronting Ethan directly, which might only result in denials or evasions. Instead, he could observe them in their natural habitat, gather valuable intelligence, and prepare a more coordinated approach.
His lips curled into a satisfied smile as he pocketed his phone. Sometimes patience yielded better results than direct action. Saturday wasn't far away—he could wait.
The floorboards creaked slightly, announcing someone's approach before Troy registered the presence visually. He looked up to find Ethan standing before him, a pint of beer balanced in one hand, those assessing eyes focused directly on him with unsettling intensity. From Troy's seated position, the size difference between them was even more pronounced—Troy's broad shoulders nearly spanning the width of the chair's back, his substantial chest creating a shelf that extended several inches beyond Ethan's comparatively narrow frame. Even seated, Troy's eye level reached Ethan's collarbone, a physical reminder of the disparity between them.
"Your drink, sir," Ethan said, placing the glass on the table with practiced precision. He lingered a moment longer than necessary, head tilted slightly to one side. "You're Officer Calloway, aren't you?"
The question landed with unexpected impact, catching Troy off-guard. His shoulders tensed visibly beneath the stretched white fabric of his T-shirt, creating new ridges of muscle that pushed against the straining material. He'd been careful to maintain a low profile, had deliberately worn civilian clothes to avoid drawing attention, had selected a corner table specifically to observe rather than be observed.
"What makes you ask that?" Troy countered, his voice carrying the natural authority that came from years of uniform service.
Ethan's lips curled into a knowing smirk that sent an involuntary shiver of discomfort down Troy's spine. "No reason," he replied, the casual shrug belying the calculating assessment in his eyes. "It's just that everyone knows 'Officer Big Boy Troy.'" The emphasis he placed on the word "big" carried an unmistakable echo of Max's mockery in the sports shop earlier that week—the same inflection, the same subtle undertone of something that bordered on insubordination.
Troy leaned forward, the movement causing his substantial chest to press against the table's edge, his sheer mass making the wooden furniture shift slightly across the floor. He used his size deliberately now, straightening his spine to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders, which dwarfed Ethan's slender frame completely. One of Troy's thighs alone appeared thicker than both of Ethan's combined, the denim stretched taut across rugby-developed muscle that spoke of raw power.
"You'd do well to remember you're talking to a police officer, son," Troy warned, his voice dropping to a register that carried warning without raising its volume. "I could snap you like a twig with one hand."
Rather than appearing intimidated, Ethan's smirk widened. With an audacity that belied his diminutive stature, he leaned closer, invading Troy's personal space with unexpected boldness. Despite his slim build barely casting a shadow over Troy's massive frame, Ethan showed no sign of intimidation whatsoever. He had to bend down slightly to reach Troy's ear, a position that should have made him vulnerable but somehow didn't diminish his apparent confidence.
"An off-duty officer, you mean," he whispered, his breath warm against Troy's skin, raising goosebumps despite the controlled temperature of the pub. "Size doesn't always equal power, Officer Big Boy. You of all people should understand that by now."
Troy's fists clenched automatically, the knuckles whitening with pressure, veins rising beneath the skin of his substantial forearms like rivers viewed from space. The familiar heat of frustration spread through his chest, a burning sensation that typically preceded action in his line of work. But here, in civilian clothes, in a public establishment, with no official investigation to justify his presence, his options were limited.
Before Troy could formulate a suitable response, Ethan straightened, his hand landing on Troy's shoulder with casual familiarity that felt both presumptuous and invasive. His fingers pressed into the dense muscle with appreciative pressure that lingered a heartbeat too long for comfort. The physical contact emphasized their differences—Ethan's slim fingers barely covered a fraction of Troy's development, like a child attempting to grip a boulder, yet there was something unnervingly authoritative in the touch that made Troy's substantial frame tense beneath the contact.
"Max told me about your little visits," Ethan said, his voice carrying just enough volume for Troy alone to hear. "Don't worry, Sir," the honorific emerged with subtle mockery rather than respect, "I'm sure you'll get to the butt—" he paused, eyes twinkling with mischief, "sorry, I mean bottom of it all."
With a final pat to Troy's substantial shoulder, Ethan stepped back, the picture of professional service once more. "Enjoy your drink," he added, punctuating the sentiment with a wink that carried volumes of unspoken meaning.
As Ethan walked away, Troy sat motionless, processing what had just transpired. Not only was his cover blown, but Ethan seemed completely unintimidated by his position or his physical presence. Worse still, Max had apparently discussed their encounters, painting Troy as the subject of amusement rather than authority.
Troy grasped his pint, the glass seeming almost delicate in his large hand, and downed half the contents in one continuous swallow. The bitter liquid did nothing to wash away the unsettled feeling that had taken root in his gut. He was used to commanding respect, to maintaining control of interactions, to being the one who determined the course of conversations, especially when conducting investigations.
This wasn't going according to plan.
With quick, decisive movements, Troy finished his beer, placed enough cash on the table to cover his drink plus a minimal tip, and stood. His thighs strained against the denim as he shifted his substantial weight, the seams creaking in quiet protest. He moved toward the exit with measured strides, conscious of Ethan's eyes following his progress, the weight of that gaze creating an unusual sensation of being observed rather than being the observer.
Outside, the evening air felt refreshingly cool against his heated skin. Troy took a deep breath, rolling his substantial shoulders to release some of the tension that had accumulated there, his mind already shifting focus to Saturday's opportunity.
The brief encounter with Ethan had been unsettling, but it hadn't derailed his primary objective. If anything, it had strengthened his resolve to get to the bottom of whatever was happening with the Schett men and this self-proclaimed "Muscle Stud Owner."
Like the muscle group planning their reunion, Troy found himself thinking that Saturday couldn't come soon enough.
