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My prayers were answered. A distraction.
I looked down as he readjusted the plates for my preferred weight. A network of scar tissue spider-webbed away from my right knee, extending down to my calf and high up my thigh. My legs, while not as furry as my chest, looked somewhat lopsided given that half the right leg was shiny white scar lines. Most of my health and muscle magazine shoots saw the photographer politely angling my body so that the wreckage didn’t distract the viewer. The same went for the sex scenesCode of Justiceloved to drop me into.
Bennett slid a plate into the bar holder on the Smith machine. “Shoot. Sorry. That’s rude to point out.”
Because you never called me when I was suffering through recovery?“That’s right, you haven’t seen this.” I reached down and rubbed my knee. It looked something awful, but I never had problems with the joint since leaving Afghanistan. “It looks worse than it is.”
“I don’t doubt it. You’re squatting two-eighty-five no problem.”
I snorted. “Says mister three-ten.”
He smiled. Big and bright. All teeth and dimples. Another snapshot for the memory book of nostalgia. The gym lights seemed to fade, a tunnel forming so that all I could see was Bennett.
He lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe his face. I caught a flash of pale skin and an abdomen of solid, fatless muscle. A blond happy trail coiled around his belly button before traveling south, plunging beneath the waistband of his shorts and leggings.
Once again, I noticed the contrast between our builds. I spent a decade honing my body for photo shoots and shirtless scenes for the small and big screens. Bennett’s body was raw and natural, a man who spent his life as an athlete. Hell, he had been on track to compete in the USA Gymnastics Championship before the accident that brought him to Massachusetts. My fingertips itched to trace the bulk of him, to appreciate the hard work he put into looking so effortlessly fit. I wanted to feel the power in those thighs as he rode me like a cowboy and—
I moved as fast as I could to the bar without being awkward. I needed to refocus before I succumbed to baser instincts.
When I finished, per our unspoken rules, I added more plates for Mr. Three-Ten. My phone buzzed as I slammed the last plate home. I politely excused myself on account of Rachel or my mother, and pulled out my phone.
HARRY DEACON.
I frowned and opened the text.
Deacon:I am sorry to share this, my friend.
He had sent another article, which I clicked on. Again, the lede giving me everything I needed. “Popular fitness instructor to the stars Ryan Rivera found dead from apparent overdose.”
The hell? Another of my exes dying from an overdose? Ryan was the definition of clean. He even hated NSAIDs. He was also the last man I slept with, eleven months ago. We kept our time together quiet. He wanted to be more public. I didn’t. Things ended. He also taught classes at the Achilles Center and I had mentally changed the name to Awkward Center for the weeks after the separation.
“Everything okay? Something wrong with your mom?” Bennett asked.
I looked up and blinked. Bennett’s brow curled, lips pursed. Genuine concern. The exuded sentiment partially lifted the worry that had settled on me. “It’s just Deacon.”
“Who’s Deacon?”
I looked back down at the article on my phone. Disbelief in Ryan’s death had me playing catch-up to the way Bennett asked his question. I snapped my gaze back up. “My neighbor back in Sherman Oaks. A mutual friend of ours just died. One of the instructors at the martial arts center we all teach at.”
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry.”
I clicked off the screen and dropped the phone into my pocket. “It’s crazy. Apparent overdose. I had never seen the man touch so much as an aspirin. There’s no way he was using.Anything.”
Bennett nodded slowly as he slipped under the bar. “That’s how it happens. People keep things hidden like that. Eats them alive and no one knows it. They never share their private little hell. I’ve seen it tear families apart.”
“Yeah…”
Ryan was a great lay, one of the better of my secret trysts out there. But more than that, he was genuine. Arealperson. He volunteered incessantly. Taught free classes for underprivileged youths at the center. I was enamored with how he selflessly gave his time and money to anything worthy of a cause.
Bennett made to squat but stopped himself. “Do you want to stop? You can call your neighbor. I don’t mind.”
I could melt into him for his kind words. Such a departure from the coldness over the past forty-eight hours. Somehow, I had cracked that icy exterior. “That’s sweet of you to say.” I gestured to the Smith machine. “I’m okay, though. We should keep going. Besides, I feel like kicking your ass at the next station. As long as it’s not arms.”
Bennett readjusted his shoulders under the bar. “Chest, then. And I’ll kick your butt there, too.” He glanced sideways at me as a coy smirk played across his face. “All Hollywood and no reality.”
“Oh, ho, ho,” I said and wagged my finger. “If you want reality, let me throw you down on a sparring mat.”
The words came out a little more suggestive than I had wanted, but I thought we could up the flirting game a smidge after his careful ribbing.
