10
Time crawled. Then it evaporated. Benito drove until dawn, counting the minutes. Then it was 5.30 in the morning and he was an hour away from where he needed to be.
Goddamnit.
He burned up the A5 as fast as he dared, keeping a sharp eye out for transport police and speed cameras the in-car sat nav didn’t flag. The roads were deserted, but even with his foot to the floor, it still took forty-five minutes to reach the unfamiliar gym.
The bargain membership he’d bought a few months back gave him access to every premises in the branded chain. He swiped through the barriers with his fob and scanned the ground floor of the warehouse-style building. Cardio machines were crammed into the open space, a couple occupied by diehard runners and cyclists who couldn’t face the damp gloom outside.
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 hehatedit.
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...?”