Page 86 of Burn the Script

I’m here.

I’ve been passing the time in Tatum’s home gym, waiting for Miguel. If I were at my house, alone, my overactive imagination would drive me bananas, and I’d gnaw my thumbs off.

Her gym setup is top of the line with free weights, a padded wrestling mat, a punching mannequin, and fancy cardio machines. I doubt she’s ever stepped foot in here, unlike the two muscular, sweaty men without shirts hovering on either side of me.

Marcus crosses his bulky arms over his pecs and jerks his chin toward Judge. “Let him body slam you.”

I slice a hand through the air. “No way. The last time I volunteered to be your training dummy, I got a bruise on my shin.”

“We told you to lose the shoes, but you wanted the takedown to be realistic. Kicked yourself in the leg.”

With thinned, disapproving lips and an exaggerated nod, Judge confirms the retelling of events.

Before they can convince me to sacrifice my limbs, I check the clock on my phone for the tenth time. “Miguel will be at my house soon.”

Judge pouts and returns to his weight bench. He’s competitive, and any challenge denied, like a chance to slam me to the ground, is a challenge lost.

Marcus sighs, watching Judge switch out the plates on a barbell. “He’ll be insufferable for the rest of the night.” Squatting, he picks up the dumbbells at his feet. “Thanks again for the assist in San Antonio.”

“I may ask you to return the favor one day since you took me away from Miguel.”

He faces the mirrored wall, admiring the veiny muscles flexing with each arm curl. “How’s that going?”

“Like you don’t already know.”

The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. Tatum fills him in on group gossip, whether he wants to hear it or not. And as an information hoarder, Marcus retains the smallest details, even when he pretends not to listen.

“I should go,” I say, trudging toward the door.

“Kingston.” Spinning toward Marcus, I raise my eyebrows. His expression turns solemn when he nods once and says, “Good luck.”

Judge offers a salute. I return it while backing out of the room.

Miguel’s car rounds the driveway as I slip through the gap in the fence. His headlights sweep the property but miss me, thanks to a tree. I slow my steps and stick to the shadows, observing.

He exits the car, hands balled into fists and head tipped back while staring at the house. Not even a ghost of a smile touches his lips, and the breath he heaves looks fortifying. I don’t like it.

When his foot lands on the first step, I move into the glow of the porch light. “Hey.”

“Stalker!” he screeches.

His hand whips through the air. Car keys hit my neck. I grab my throat, coughing and wheezing.

He gasps and rushes to my side. “Oh my god! I’m so sorry, baby. I was aiming for your face!”

Peeling my hands away, he prods at my Adam’s apple. The sweet scent of his hair gel fills my nose, and I’ll never complain about having him close. Fussing over me. Calling me baby outside of sex.

“You might have a bruise, but you’ll live. Why the hell were you creeping in the dark?”

My eyes water, and my voice is raspy despite clearing my throat several times. “I came from next door.”

“Should’ve put a bell around your neck instead of a pendant,” he mutters, snatching his keys off the ground. When he shoves them in his pea coat, the neutral color catches my notice. Beige means he’s lying low, blending in…guarded. “Can we talk out here?”

I lift a shoulder. “Sure.”

We sit on the front steps, and the sliver of space he leaves between us taunts me like a line I’m forbidden from crossing. He tightens the coat around his chest and hugs his knees, another blockade.

Clearing my throat again, I ask, “Are you⁠—”