Page 42 of Gym With Benefits

The heat on my left cheek was a localized wildfire, throbbing with every heartbeat.

The woman was a lunatic. A small, unstable nightmare who ran like a chicken and reacted to a basic safety maneuver with physical assault. It’s not like I’d been plotting to have my arms wrapped around her. Or get a face full of her tangled hair. But the alternative was watching her split her chin on a steel treadmill deck.

And this is what human decency got me. A five-finger map stamped into my skin.

“Maniac.” I threw my shirt back on, and marched after her. “She needs a reality check, and fast. Going around slapping people and storming off.”

“Dane,” Hunter called the second I reached the lobby. When I slowed my stride long enough for him to get a look at me, his face scrunched up in confusion. “What the hell happened to your face?”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Whatever he said next was lost in the static buzz of my anger as I crossed the floor to the Muscle Mansion.

The weight room was a cavern of concrete and iron, dominated by the constant thud of plates hitting rubber mats. The gym's true disciples hung out here, people who didn't talk during a set and didn't appreciate a scene.

I spotted her in the far corner, near the heavy dumbbell racks.

Her small frame looked even smaller against the background of steel cages. And wouldn’t you know it, she wasn’t alone. Surprise, surprise. Brock was right there with her. His broad shoulders inclined toward her until his face was inches from hers, his posture full of an intimate, protective gravity. I slowed my charge, watching as he raised a hand, his thumb catching a strand of her hair that had stuck to her wet cheek. He tucked it behind her ear with a softness that looked completely foreign on a man of his size.

My stomach took a violent turn as a surge of heat hit my chest. First she ratted me out to Hunter, and now she was sniveling to Brock. What the fuck was this, kindergarten?

The manipulation was sickening. She’d gone straight to the biggest guy in the room to spin her little story, establish herself as the delicate victim of my monstrous assault. It was a calculated move, a classic play to turn my own friend against me before I could even present the facts. By the looks of it, he was falling for her bullshit. Brock was nodding, his expression dark and stony as he listened to whatever garbage she was whispering into his chest.

I crossed the black flooring in four long strides, my sneakers squeaking against the clean rubber. “Hey! Yeah, you.”

Her head snapped up, eyes widening as she saw me closing the distance. Brock reacted a fraction of a second later, his frame moving to block her from view. He stepped forward, a solid wallof meat and black cotton, his chest expanding as he tried to dictate the boundaries of the encounter.

“Back off, man,” he said, his arm extending flat against my chest to stop my momentum. "She’s done for the day. Walk away."

“Get out of my way,” I said, my voice rising above the clatter of the lat pulldown behind us. I planted my palm against his shoulder and shoved him sideways, putting my full weight into the movement to break his leverage. “This has nothing to do with you, so butt out.”

Brock stumbled back a step, his foot catching on the edge of a mat, but his balance restored itself almost instantly. His face went from defensive to murderous in the span of a heartbeat. He lunged back into my space, his chest slamming hard into mine, his chin dropping down until we were nose-to-nose.

“Make me,” he said, the challenge hovering between us like an iron bar.

“Brock, don't. It's fine,” her voice cut through the high pressure system building between us. She stepped around his flank, her chest still rising and falling in shallow, rapid bursts. But she kept her head up. Stubborn, as usual. “I want to hear what kind of logic he’s using to justify his existence today.”

Brock didn't back down easily. He kept his stance rooted, his gaze remaining locked onto my eyes for a beat longer before he glanced around the gym floor. A couple of powerlifters by the platform had stopped mid-session, their plates dangling from their hands as they watched us.

“This isn’t the time or place,” he said, his voice a tight, disciplined whisper. “We have people trying to work out. Nobody needs a scene on the floor.”

“Then in here,” I said, gesturing with my head toward one of his private training rooms.

I walked without waiting for their agreement. She’d follow. No way would she back down now. Something told me she wasn't the type to drop the argument when she thought she held some kind of moral high ground.

But this was my gym before it was hers, and I’d be damned if a mouthy little bitch was going to make it unbearable for me.

The training room was small but clinically clean. Organized just how Brock liked to keep his shit. The proximity made the space feel instantly crowded, the heat from our bodies bouncing off the drywall.

“You have about sixty seconds,” she said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Before I find a manager and have you banned for harassment.”

“Harassment?” I let out a dry, incredulous laugh, my left cheek pulsing where her hand had left its mark. “You slapped me. In front of a few witnesses, actually. All because I kept you from cracking your skull open.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she fired back, taking a step toward me until the toes of her sneakers touched mine. “Just like I didn’t ask you to steal my parking space.”

“I was saving your life, you ungrateful lunatic!”

“Hey, watch your tone,” Brock interjected, sticking close to her shoulder. “And you know the rules about respecting clients’ personal space.”