Page 8 of Craving the Edge

A steady rhythm cut through the gym’s quiet. Thwack. Thwack-thwack. Pause. Thwack. The heavy bag. My gaze drifted from the columns of red on the screen towards the archway. From my seat, I had a clean line of sight to the back corner of the main floor.

Declan Walsh was pounding the bag. He’d shed his hoodie, his back already beginning to dot with sweat. I watched the hard planes of muscle shift and bunch under his skin as he threw combinations.

A right hook, a left cross, a knee. His movements were pure violence, but economical. He didn’t waste a single motion. I’d seen hundreds of fighters hit a bag. Amateurs gassed themselves out in thirty seconds, all rage and no technique. Declan was different. His power was controlled, his form perfected through fight data and targeted training. His focus was absolute.

The air in the reception area felt suddenly close. A prickle of heat crawled up my neck, spreading into my cheeks. I snapped my gaze back to the laptop, my own reflection a faint, pale ghost on the screen. The numbers swam, meaningless.

Get a grip. A familiar, sour voice rose in my head. A man who looked like that, who moved like that, was a creature from another planet. He lived in a world of camera flashes and endorsement deals, of women who looked like Billie but with more money and less personality. Guys like Declan Walsh didn’t look twice at the girl behind the counter…not unless they wanted a towel.

The thought was so bitter it made me feel sick. I forced myself to stare at the screen, focusing on the crappy spreadsheet. It was easier to deal with a mess I could fix.

Numbers didn’t lie.

An hour later, a shadow fell across my screen, blocking the light. The scent of sweat hit me a second before his voice did.

“Got any zinc oxide tape behind there?”

I didn’t look up. My fingers stayed on the keyboard, still poised over the disastrous spreadsheet.

“Or even some extra-thick gauze? I forgot to bring more…”

His voice was lower now, rough with exertion. I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was standing far too close to the desk. Far too close to me.

“Your manager had me put fresh supplies in the corner locker…as per your agreement.” My gaze stayed locked on the screen, the numbers blurring into a meaningless grid. I clicked on a cell. Then another.

He didn’t move. The shadow remained, encroaching on my personal space. I could feel his stare burning into me as the silence stretched. He was waiting for me to break, to look up, to offer a smile, or another word.

My hand moved. I lifted the receiver of the gym’s landline phone and started dialling my own mobile number.

The shadow retreated.

From the corner of my eye, I watched him turn. The set of his broad shoulders was stiff, his expression unreadable from this distance. He stalked back towards the mats where Tomas Fontes was stretching against the ropes.

Tomas saw him coming, then his gaze flicked to me. A huge, knowing grin split his face before he threw his head back and laughed, clapping Declan hard on the back.

My mouth twisted into a sneer. Of course. A bet to see who could get the ice queen at the front desk to crack first.

Well, bugger that. I slammed the phone down. They could have their little games. I wasn’t playing.

The heavy thud of a body hitting the mats pulled my attention from the monitor. Then another. And another. I forced my gaze back to my work, but it was useless.

Declan’s movements were hypnotising. Even from this distance, I could see the damp patch of his training shirt stretching tight across his broad shoulders. He moved like he owned the space, absorbing the air and light around him until he was the only thing in the room.

I hated it. I hated how easy it was for him to just exist. I hated how easy it was for him to waltz in here and fuck everything up.

Billie’s voice echoed in my head. You’re still getting paid for it, so who cares? She was right. Gary’s incompetence had finally produced a financial benefit, even if it came with a side of arrogance taking over the gym. Double time for doing sweet FA. I just had to get through the next few hours. I only had to times it by six weeks.

A sharp crack cut through the air. A kick connecting with a pad Tomas held up. My gaze snapped back to him against my will. He shifted his weight, light on his feet, and threw another. It was like a gravitational point had appeared in the room, pulling everything toward it. My will. My attention. The air in my lungs.

A traitorous heat crept up my neck. My heart thumped. I refused to be drawn into his orbit, to be another star-struck bimbo fawning at the edges of his microscopic attention span.

Finally, it was twelve and the gym fell silent.

Declan and Tomas gathered their gear. Zips rasped. Drink bottles clattered into bags. My gaze stayed glued to the screen, tracking the cursor as it blinked at the end of a long, meaningless row of figures.

Footsteps approached the front desk, then paused. I braced myself.

He said nothing.