Delilah
“Fine,” I say. “Just make sure Chip over there stays off the bags while I punch something before I start improvising blunt weapons out of yoga mats.”
“Chad,” the man grumbles.
“Sure thing, Garth. Take a lap,” I say.
I jab at the punching bag. Again. Harder. Still nothing.
It bounces back like it knows my heart’s not in it. Just like every man I’ve ever sexted. It’s not the same without Jett. His big hands correcting my form, all that brooding menace breathing down my neck all threat and a promise. Kevin’s trying, but it’s like expecting a golden retriever to guard a mafia vault. Sweet, but not gonna get the job done.
“You gotta turn your wrist like I showed you, Miss Darling,” Kevin says, stepping in to gently nudge my elbow.
“Who was that guy, anyway?” I ask between hits. My wrist already stings.
“Chad?” Kevin blinks like I just asked about a new vending machine. “Oh, Chad Petergrind. He’s, uh, around sometimes. Member since before Jett.”
“Petergrind?” I echo, mid-punch. “That sounds like a fake name you’d use on a porn site where you pretend to be a dad’s friend who offers college girls ‘free rent.’”
Kevin winces. “I think his parents own a dealership.”
“Figures. That man screamed ‘boat shoes in winter.’ I’d like to file a formal complaint with gym corporate, but I assume you don’t have an HR department for emotionally deranged girlies with vendettas.”
Kevin offers a kind of helpless smile, then blurts, “You maybe wanna get a drink later? There’s this dive with live music and nachos the size of your head.”
Oh, Kevin.
“Oh no, sweetheart,” I say, gently patting his arm like he’s my little cousin in a Christmas play. “I’m already dickmatized by three men and legally entrenched with a fourth. If I add you, I’ll need a project manager and a Google calendar just to keep the orgasms sorted.”
He blinks, blushes, looks at the ground.
“It’s not you, Kev. It’s my whole… everything. I’m like a haunted house. Sexy from a distance but probably filled with black mold and daddy issues.”
I tap the bag like it insulted me in a dream. Pointlessly.
Yeah. Not the same without Jett watching. Not the same at all.
After a few more awkward attempts, it’s time to go.
I zip my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and throw one last hate-filled look at Chad. He’s sweating through his shirt and breathing heavy like being detestable takes cardiovascular effort.
If hatred were a superpower, I’d melt the flesh from his bones.
I walk out without slamming the door, which feels more insulting.
And there he is.
Jett.
Leaning on my car like he’s been waiting since the dawn of time. All muscle and scowl, tattooed forearms crossed over his chest like the arms of a very pissed-off god.
I don’t say a word.
Just drop my bag by the bumper, walk over to his bike, climb on backwards, and drape myself across the handlebars, posing for the cover of Motorcycle Slut Monthly.
He stares at me like he wants to bite something.
Then he stalks over, controlled in the way of a man who’s barely holding the leash. He hauls himself up onto the seat behind me, hands on my waist, grip bruising, and yanks me. My ass lands hard against his thighs.
