I’m conflicted, one of those old-fashioned spinning tops that wobbles back and forth, teetering between sorrow and guilt and lust. Even as I drop into the car and pull away, a sibilant, murky thought slides through my mind.
I’ll come back here.
I don’t know if I can stay away.
Chapter Five
Knox
Don’t stop.
I’m sorry.
Don’t stop.
I’m sorry.
Eden’s plea and apology from the night before loop through my brain like a scratched vinyl record. This album has been playing all night, and even now, as I bully this workout into submission, it’s still going. And going. And going.
Clenching my jaw, I cross the floor of Jake’s, the Bridgeport gym where I first started boxing and later trained from when I was fifteen years old. There are many gyms between this old building on Halstead Street and my place in Ukrainian Village. More stylish, modern ones that don’t smell of stale sweat and bleach, have updated the decor since 1990, and sit in better neighborhoods. But the forty-minute drive doesn’t matter. Other than the shop, this is home. It was once my refuge, my salvation. Hell, who am I shittin’? It still is.
At six a.m., only a couple of other guys occupy the place. Jake’s isn’t your sleek, watch-the-news-and-listen-to-your-self-help-audiobooks-while-you-exercise kind of place. No desk jockeys or nine-to-fivers here. Yeah, there are treadmills and stationary bikes, but also punching bags patched up with gray electrical tape, assorted exercise equipment, including free weights, huge, scuffed-to-hell-and-back tires, a ring set up in the middle of the cavernous area… It’s a place for fighters. Which is probably what drew me to it as a raging teen on the verge of spinning out of control in the first place.
Stopping in front of a punching bag, I settle into a stance that’s as familiar and natural as breathing. Fists up and aligned, I inhale. Exhale. And begin assaulting the bag with varying punch and kick combos. Usually, all my focus is centered on the burning in my muscles, the control of my body. But there’s nothing usual about today.
I made Eden come. Made her scream. I deliver a vicious blow to the bag, sending it swinging, as if punishing my fingers for still feeling the tight, hot grip of her pussy. Fuck. Dropping my arms to my side, I bend my head, staring at the scratched floor, chest heaving.
I’d seen it, the moment Connor first invaded her thoughts. But instead of backing off, I’d pushed her, soaking my hand in the cream damn near coating her sex. Stroking that perfect little clit that quivered and pulsed against my fingertips. Circling the small, fluttering entrance to her body. Yeah, selfish bastard that I am, I’d made her focus on the pleasure I was giving her. Made her focus onme. And she did. I watched those gorgeous eyes darken, glaze as the orgasm took her hard. Obsessively studied every taut line of her face, every tremble of her soft lips, memorizing what lust looked like stamped on her delicate, beautiful features.
And then the past intruded again.
No, not the past. Her husband.
As I slid my finger from her, reality kneed me in the balls, wearing a Joker’s smile and baring razor-sharp teeth. Reminding me, it’s not me she wants…loves.
That man will always be my brother.
I’ve had a rib busted, my nose broken, my body bruised and battered, and countless jammed fingers over the years. Climbing your way up the BFC ranks to become a mixed martial arts heavyweight champion wasn’t for wimps.
Yet, those injuries felt like love taps compared to how I felt standing there as she went rigid, the color leaching from her skin. Her anguish—her regret—reached out like ghostly, bony hands, dragging their ragged nails down my chest.
I’d done that to her. If I’d called a stop earlier instead of pushing, she wouldn’t have been there, drowning in remorse. I’d walked away, but not before touching her one more time…the last time. Because even then, I couldn’t help myself.
Mom was right. I had no business with her.
I would break her as surely as I’m breaking my promise.
Sucking in a breath, I throw a hook punch, the impact of the bag singing up my arm into my shoulder. I welcome it. Shoving down everything but the sweet relief of working my body, I move onto plank jacks and fat-bar pullups, losing myself in the routine.
“Knox.” The hoarse, rode-hard-and-put-up-wet voice that was the result of a jab to the larynx years ago comes from behind me. I rise from my bench dip, turning to face Jake Reece, gym owner and my first and former trainer. My best friend and father figure. “You’re here early. Can’t sleep again?”
That’s Jake. No fucking around. Other people who were close to me either tried to subtly prod about my insomnia and the nightmares and ask if I was okay, or they said nothing at all. But not him. Blunt. To the point. His favorite saying? “Do I look like a fucking gardener? I don’t cover shit with flowers.”
I shrug, but unlike Simon, who asked me about it last night but let it go, Jake doesn’t. “How many nights is it now?”
“Two,” I grunt. I might as well answer; like a stubborn, mean pit bull with lockjaw, he’s not going to relent.
“Shit, Knox,” he growls, glaring at me. With his crossed arms, dark eyebrows and eyes, and gleaming shaved head, he resembles Mr. Clean. But not the mop-wielding, smiling domestic god of the porcelain. No, he looks like the Mr. Clean who will toss your ass out in a back alley and skull-drag you for missing a spot on the toilet. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You know better than to be here if you’ve gone so long without sleep. That’s a dumb-shit foolish move.”
