I glare at him. His whole body is rigid, his fingers twitching on the console. “I just got distracted.”
“You could have gotten killed.”
I pull a towel off the rack and wipe at my sweaty face. My skin feels all hot and icky from exertion. “You’re exaggerating.”
“Well, you could have gotten a concussion, at least.”
“I’m fine,” I insist, done with overbearing men for today, or maybe a lifetime. “It was just a little slip, hardly anything to worry about.”
“Because I was here to stop the damn machine.” His clenched fist pounds against the treadmill. “What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that I needed a place where I can come and get rid of all this pent-up energy,” I hiss quietly. “That’s what I’ve been thinking. Not that it’s any of your business.”
My breathing is hard, breaths coming out in ragged pants.
Nixon watches me for a moment in silence. That’s when I notice people staring at us from all sides. We might have been keeping our voices low, but I can still feel people’s curious glances on my back. Trying to hear what’s going on. I hate their attention, but I try my best to ignore them.
Fuck them and their curiosity.
Can’t a girl just get some peace so she can run her anger into submission? Is that really too much to ask?
“Come with me,” Nixon finally says, breaking the silence.
“I’m not going anywhere with you. I came here to run, so I’m going to run.”
There is no way I’ll let him bully me into leaving.
“I have something better in mind than running.” His head tips to the side. “Now, will you get that stick out of your ass and come with me?”
I lift my chin in the air, huffing out a breath. I’m not sure what he thinks he’s doing or why he’s doing this, but I don’t have to jump just because he said so.
I’m about to tell him just that when a smirk appears on his lips.
“Or do I have to throw you over my shoulder?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but it only makes his smile widen. “Fine,” I mutter, throwing my towel at his head.
Hopping off the treadmill, I grab my stuff and start toward the exit. I keep my chin high as we pass people, making a point not to look at anybody on our way out. I’m not sure where Nixon’s going with this but it better be good, or I might just find something harder to throw at his head.
Nixon jogs after me, catching up in no time, the towel I threw at him thrown over his shoulder. He pulls open the door for me and nods at the changing rooms. “Grab your things.”
I do as he says, not asking any questions. Hastily I pull on my jacket over my workout gear and throw my things into a duffle bag that I always have in my car just in case before getting out.
Nixon is already there, leaning against the door and waiting for me.
Without a word he starts walking, and I follow.
The cold air hits me in the face as soon as we get outside. I pull my zipper higher, and when I turn around, Nixon’s already gone to the right.
“My car is in the other direction,” I call after him.
Nixon looks at me over his shoulder contemplatively, making me wonder what he’s thinking. I’m waiting for a snarky comment of sorts so I can give him a piece of my mind, but instead, he just nods. “I’ll wait for you to get out so you can follow me. Sounds good?”
All the fight leaves me. “Okay.”
I go to where I parked, throwing the duffle on the backseat. The car starts immediately, something that never happened before Nixon took care of it.
When I get out of my parking space, Nixon is already waiting for me. He sees me coming, so he starts driving, and I follow behind him.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out where we’re going. Nixon takes his BMW straight into the garage and I park my car by the curb a few houses down. When I get to his house, he’s waiting for me.
“Your house? Really? When I said I needed to let go of some steam, I didn’t mean it like that.”
Nixon rolls his eyes at me. “Get your head out of the gutter, Hernandez. You only wish.” He waves me toward the house. “C’mon, let’s get inside.”
The light is on downstairs, but the house is unusually quiet. Or maybe it’s usually like that, but I’m just used to there being a lot of people mingling around. The only times I’ve been here was when there was a gathering of some sort, even if it’s just the guys and their close group of friends.
Nixon stops only long enough to take off his jacket, and then he’s going down the hallway.
He opens a door that I haven’t noticed before and waits for me to come. Taking off my jacket, I hang it next to his and start toward him. He flicks on the light, so I carefully look inside, not sure what to expect.
“You leading me to your den, Cole?” I ask as I see a narrow staircase leading into a basement of some kind.
“I’ll have to give the guys suggestions if they ever decide to redecorate.” He turns to me, raising his brow in challenge. “You coming or what?”
“Fine.” The steps creak under our footsteps as we descend into the darkness below, making me wonder if they’ll fall any second now. “Seriously, if this is some kind of joke to you I’m going to…”
A switch flicks in the distance. Light illuminates the room, blinding me temporarily. Cursing silently, I blink a few times but it takes me a moment to regain my vision.
The space comes into focus slowly, and I turn in a circle to take it all in. “What is all of this?”
It’s not big or fancy, if anything the decor is minimalistic. Linoleum covers the floor, the walls are bare and it’s freezing inside. There is a treadmill and a stationary bike, a couple of benches and racks with different weights, and one lone punching bag hanging in the far corner of the room.
“Our private gym.”
“We were already in the gym,” I point out, letting my bag slide off my shoulder. I push it into the corner with my leg, moving closer to inspect the equipment.
“We were, and you almost died. Eaten by the belt.”
“It was just a small slip.”
Nixon is moving around the room. He’s behind me, so I can’t see his face or what he’s doing, but I can hear him clearly.
“A small slip that could have ended terribly. Besides, we aren’t here for the treadmill.”
I turn around to look at him. “What are we doing here?”
He grabs something from the hook on the wall and throws it at me. I almost drop it in surprise, but manage to catch it at the last moment.
Gloves.
I lift them in the air, looking at them warily. I’ve never been interested in boxing or anything that required any level of violence like that. I’m a peacemaker, not a fighter. Well, verbal lashing out not included.
They’re bigger and heavier than you’d imagine, their weight reminding me of the weight in my heart. Large and overwhelming. Like a wave ready to come down and crash over me.
How many punches can one take before being knocked down to the ground? Because that’s how I’m feeling right now. Like I’ve been punched repeatedly, over and over again, and no matter how hard I try to get back to my feet, it feels pretty pointless.