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Sweat drips from our overheated skin, the movements between us like a dance—skilled, fluid, powerful. Each thrust finds purchase, creating a game of stamina, strength, dominance. In sync, heavy breathing echoes through the room.
I need this release, this outlet. We lost an officer today—killed in the line of duty. My head clears with each beat of my racing heart. It’s just the two of us. I give, he takes. I pound, pushing my body forward in powerful strokes.
“That’s good,” he tells me. “More.”
I give him more—bam, bam, bam. He falters, feet stumbling backward. I drop my hands, gulping down some air. Bruises blossom on my partner’s cheek, just as I know they are on my jaw. Sparring has become a tradition of sorts for us. Whenever the job gets bad, we come to the gym to beat the shit outta each other until we bleed out the ugly.
“You done?” I pull my gloves off and pat his back.
He answers by swiping at his lip and nodding.
“Drinks?” I ask, hoping he says no. I want to find myself a nice ass to sink into.
“Nah, Jess is cooking. You’re welcome to come to dinner.”
“Pass. I’ve had your wife’s cooking before. Spent two days married to the toilet.”
“I’ll tell her you said that.” He chuckles.
Showering and changing, I check the mirror for cuts, sealing one on my brow with some tape before heading out.
The bar is hopping. Fridays nights are always busy. I like the noise that fills my head.
I flag down the bartender and order a couple chasers and a beer, checking my phone while I wait. I fire off a text to Ronan, and his brother, Ren, to ask if they are coming in tonight. This place is owned by Ronan’s girl, and she likes to make appearances to keep the crowds piling in. Sofina is a famous name these days, after Ronan, my best friend and label owner, launched her career. I get fast replies from them both. Ronan’s working, and Ren sends a pic from inside Hush, a sex club our friend owns.
Ren: Got plans ;)
“What are you smiling about?” a masculine voice croons, the owner of said voice sidling up to me and tipping his beer to my phone.
I recognize him from here. He’s looked my way on more than one occasion, but never dared to approach me. I usually like to do the hunting, but tonight, I just want to fuck and sleep, so I drink the chasers the bartender places down and lift my chin to him.
“I was smiling at the thoughts running through my head of the ways I could destroy you,” I challenge, a smirk playing at my lips.
He gulps, his eyes never leaving mine. He’s tall and has a sturdy frame with toned muscles. Smooth features, a sweet, appealing face with shaggy brown hair—the surfer type. If I had to guess, I’d say early twenties. I like them young.
“Is that a promise or a challenge?” he asks, licking his lips.
“It was a warning.” I grin. “Grab your coat.”
We’ve been back at my place for five fucking minutes, and he’s already irritating me by trying to top from the damn bottom.
“You wanna suck my dick?” he asks, rubbing his hand down the bulge in his jeans.
I narrow my eyes. “Have you earned my lips on your cock? Get fucking naked,” I bark.
He’s just about to drop his jeans when music blasts from his pocket. Familiar fucking music. I groan.
“Please tell me that’s not your ringtone,” I grunt.
He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, looking sheepish, his cheeks flushed. “Berlin Scandal. I fucking love them. You know them? Their shit is pretty catchy.” He grins, shoving his hand into his pocket to pull out his phone.
I fucking know them all right. Their lead singer is stalking my thoughts, haunting my fucking dreams. Xavi Jacobs—a mouthy, little shit who needs a firm hand to reign him in.
The boy in front of me taps over the screen, then Berlin Scandal’s latest song starts over. Xavi’s gravelly voice croons from the device, heating the air and making my dick grow.
“I have their album on Spotify,” he tells me, waving his phone. “I like to fuck to music, but I can turn it off if you want.”
Rolling my shoulders, I drop my jeans and yank my T-shirt over my head. My veins pump all the blood in my body to my dick. “No, leave it on and bend the fuck over.”
Heroin.
I won’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole. I owe that much to Lex. It stole him from my bandmate, Owen, and me. Owen’s little brother and my best friend overdosed. He left us shredded and raw. Exposed to the public, our wounds bleeding for all to see.
Scrubbing my palm over my face, I try desperately to keep the pain locked tight in the cavernous hollow of my heart. When I’m here—with them—I don’t want them to see I die a little every fucking day without him.
