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’sdramatic. 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 wetalkedabout that?”