None were Mickey.
Benito found the stairs and jogged to the second-floor weight rooms. They were quiet, save a grunting bodybuilder on the leg press, and Benito’s heart sank, eclipsing the nerves he’d carried all night. I’m too late. Then an instinct he couldn’t pinpoint drew him to the back of the room. A lone figure sat on a weight bench, head down, a set of heavy dumbbells in front of him. He was dressed in sweats and a muscle tee that gifted Benito the outline of his strong shoulders, but his deep frown was hard to miss.
It was the same frown Benito had become acquainted with on the grimy landing outside Rosetta’s flat, and he hated it.
Benito crossed the room, reaching the weight bench as Mickey happened to glance up. Their gazes locked and sank into each other, drawing Mickey to his feet as Benito took a final step.
They were almost nose to nose. “You’re late,” Mickey said, quieter than he usually spoke.
Benito winced. “Sorry. I was working all night. Last job took me too far in the wrong direction.”
“Your Uber job?”
“My only job.”
The lie tasted bitter, contrasting with the faint ray of dawn sunshine that broke through the grey drizzle outside. A prism lightened the room, casting warmth over Mickey’s handsome face. His eyes sparkled, hard to read. Then he smiled—a soft rise of his full lips—and Benito’s lungs expelled his caged breath. “I thought you’d left.”
Mickey shook his head. “Even if you didn’t show, I still need the workout. Keeps me calm, you know?”
“I know the theory. I’ve never seen you not calm, though. Except maybe when—”
Mickey placed his hand over Benito’s mouth, sealing it shut. “Don’t say it. That’s not why we’re here.”
Benito waited, resisting the urge to lick Mickey’s palm. Six thudding heartbeats passed between them, loaded and raw. It felt like a dream, the kind Benito had on the rare occasions he smoked weed. Dark, and yet so crammed with vivid colour he wasn’t afraid.
Mickey let his hand fall.
Benito took in the dark smudges beneath his smoky blue eyes and the way his sandy hair stuck up in ten different directions. This wasn’t the same man who’d sat on the landing with him twenty-four hours ago. Something had changed. For both of them, but most of all, for Mickey. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
Benito raised a brow. “Liar. You’re fucking vibrating.”
“Am I?”
Benito placed a tentative hand on Mickey’s shoulder. Mickey didn’t stop him. Benito slid his palm lower, to Mickey’s chest, and pressed deeper. Beneath his touch, Mickey’s muscles twitched and jumped with nervous energy that no workout was ever going to ease. “You feel like you banged six grams of coke before you came here.”
Mickey laughed. It was sudden and harsh and lacked enough humour that Benito flinched.
“What?” he said. “Did I guess right, or are you so offended right now you want to deck me?”
“All of it.”
“That makes no sense.”
Mickey backed up, removing himself from Benito’s touch. “I know. I’m sorry, man. Just didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“Because you were . . . ?”
Benito let the question hang, no judgement. How could there be? The hypocrisy would kill him.
Mickey sank down on the weight bench again.
Benito stared, then dropped to a crouch. His hands itched to find a home on Mickey’s knees, but he kept them to himself. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “We can just workout and forget everything else.”
Mickey regarded him through reddened eyes. “Everything?”
“Yeah. Sex clubs, family drama, and whatever’s making you look like you wanna die right now.”
Mickey laughed again, softer this time, and it reached his eyes. “That’s dramatic. No one’s gonna die.”
“I might if I don’t get some water and warm up. Where are you at with your circuit?”
“Back and shoulders. I did five miles on the bike while I was waiting for you.”
“Wow. Okay. Give me ten minutes to catch up and I’ll find you?”
Mickey nodded. “Sounds good.”
Reluctantly, Benito left Mickey alone and retreated downstairs to buy water from the vending machine and churn out a couple of miles on the treadmill. Running indoors usually made him antsy, but with Mickey waiting for him upstairs, dying of boredom seemed a long way off.
What if he left already?
Benito climbed off the treadmill and wiped it down, gaze flitting between the stairs and the exit. Fear made his warmed-up heart thud louder, but . . . no. He’d had his back to both while he’d been running, but his senses still tingled with Mickey’s presence.
He’s still here. And, as it turned out, was exactly where Benito had left him, though he was bent over the bench now, doing dumbbell rows. “Thought you might’ve legged it,” he said.
Benito claimed the spare dumbbell at Mickey’s feet. “You’re not that lucky.”
Mickey made a sound that could’ve been a laugh, but it was hard to tell. Benito eyed him as he mirrored his pose and began working his lats. After a night spent behind the wheel, death-glaring any Saturday-night mofo who looked like they might throw up in his car, it felt good to move his body.
It felt even better to be with Mickey. Not talking. Not fucking. Not staring each other down. Just making a loop around the weight room, working the equipment in companionable silence.
Mickey was in amazing shape. And he looked good flushed and covered in a layer of fresh sweat. Better than good. Benito watched him own the pull-up bar and tried to forget how complicated their acquaintance had abruptly become.
“Stop staring.” Mickey dropped to the floor. “You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“Unfounded. You’ve got nothing to be self-conscious about.” Benito spoke without thought but didn’t regret it. Life was weird right now. Straight-talking this shit was all he had.
Mickey reached for his water bottle and took a long, slow gulp while Benito took his turn on the bar. On a normal day, Benito could smash out twenty with ease, but watching Mickey’s throat work was distracting. He caved after fifteen and joined Mickey on the floor.
They sat side by side for a moment, both spent and sweaty. Benito’s pulse drummed in his ears, and he itched to put his hands on Mickey again for many reasons, but mostly to see if the shudder in his broad shoulders had gone.
“How are you doing?” Mickey asked suddenly. “I know everything’s fucked up, but I should’ve asked you that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s important.”
Benito side-eyed Mickey, then wished he hadn’t. Despite the hour they’d spent together, he wasn’t prepared for Mickey’s piercing gaze. “To who?”
“You. Me. Your sister.”
“Why is it important to you?”
Mickey rolled his eyes. “If you don’t want to talk, just say so. You don’t have to deflect, bro.”
“Bro. Fucking hell.” Benito rose and searched their surroundings for the hooded sweatshirt he’d discarded. “I thought we talked about that?”