Sol, though. There was a time way back when I could’ve, before I realised the best friend he mentioned every ten minutes was his entire fucking world. Did I ever feel like this around him? Did my heart ever scrape my ribs when he came close? Didmy blood heat so much it was hard to remember what the fuck I was supposed to be doing?
Water overflows the basin.
I shut off the tap, tipping the excess away.
Mal returns to the table, but he’s back what feels like seconds later. “Leave them. I’ll do it.”
“It’s all right.”
“Suit yourself.”
He’s gone from the kitchen so fast he has me reeling and he’s not even here anymore. I shake my head again and clean up the kitchen, drinking protein to make up for whatever I’m bound to leave in the cellar gym before I can sleep.
It’s the trade-off. The more I eat, the more I burn. But it’s better than the twisted thrill of an empty stomach and I accepted the terms a long time ago.
I retreat to my room and strip my shirt—it’s a hot night, even with the sea breeze cooling the air, and ignore the stone that’s still on my bedside table. Then I head down two sets of stairs and take up residence in the cellar gym, a room Sol would happily burn if the punch bags and free weights didn’t help Jack so much when his frustration gets the better of him.
It’s dark and airless, the only oxygen flowing from the narrow window close to the ceiling. I flick the light on, a single naked bulb hanging at an awkward angle from an ancient pendant, and reach for the jump ropes.
Start slow.
Amp it up until I’m sweating, my blood pumping faster with every whip of the rope, and it’s a struggle to stop. But my full stomach keeps it civilised—it has to if I don’t want to lose it.
I move on to punishing my body in other ways, muscles screaming at me tostop, long before I eventually do.
Panting, I lie on the mat, at one with the ceiling and the endorphins I only feel when I’m fucking someone truly special, and that hasn’t happened since I broke Bhodi’s heart.
My ex.
Regret threatens the high I’ve ground out in the depths of this ancient building.
I close my eyes, picturing the only thing I’ve found recently to pull me away from my worst thoughts.
Mal.
Annoyance replaces physical satisfaction, but it’s better than suffocating guilt. I sit up, the recollection of his bare torso razor sharp in my mind. Golden skin, dark body hair, his long, lean frame screaming strength in every sinew more subtle than Jack’s brawnier build.
The look in his eye.
I’m willing to bet Mal Gallagher is as proficient at concealing his emotions as I am, but the heat in his gaze as it locked on mine?
Yeah.
There was no hiding that, and?—
You’re never going to fuck.
The rambling thought, and the brick wall it slams against, has irritation rippling through me again. I know we’re not going to fuck. That ship sailed the second I realised who he was and the damage any kind of fallout from that could do to Jack. So why has my imagination not got the memo? I don’t fixate on people—onmen—like this. What’s the fucking point? No one is ever who they say they are, and it doesn’t matter, because I’m already gone.
It doesn’t matternow.
Because we’re not fucking.
Ever.
And it’sMalwho’s going to leave.
A rough exhale leaves my lungs and I rise to my feet, enjoying the slight tremor in my legs. My life is a never-ending game of using one unhealthy thought pattern to derail another.