I’m charmless.
I’m just crude.
I blow hot breath out of my nose.
Too bad I’m also stubborn as hell, and like fuck will I be less crude for anyone. I take another check of the clock. With an hour to kill, I quickly change into a sports bra, gray muscle shirt and some turquoise nylon shorts. A weight bench is pushed up against the far side of my room, and I start slipping on the plates to each end.
I can get a solid workout in before I confront Akara.
Confront.
Wrong choice of word. I sit on the bench.
Talk.
Better.
I grab the bar over my head, and as soon as my fingers curl over the metal, I let all the thoughts drift out of my head. After years of training for the Olympics, I’ve learned how to focus. To empty the invasive thoughts to make way for the here and now.
I count in my head with each rep.
The ache in my muscles goads me to keep going and sweat builds up along my skin. Halfway through, my breathing heavies and it takes more energy to do the same movements.
When my arms start quaking like jelly, I set the bar back in its rack. I may love pushing my limits, but I don’t have a spotter. And an injury is a worse outcome.
I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my arm, and my eyes flit to the clock.
3:45 a.m.
Close enough. The longer I prolong talking to Akara—the more I’m going to be chicken-shit scared and back out. I can’t back out.
I made up my mind last night. And that’s that.
Grabbing my water bottle from the nightstand, I make a quick exit from my room. I wind through the hallway and leave through the front door, entering a foyer with an elevator.
Akara lives three floors below the penthouse in a two-bedroom apartment with some of the other Security Force Omega bodyguards.
His roommates: Banks Moretti, Paul Donnelly, and Quinn Oliveira.
As the elevator drops me off, and I walk down the hallway of the 30th floor, I type out a quick text to Akara. At your door. Can we talk?
I don’t overthink it before I hit send, and then I slide my cell into my shorts pocket.
Waiting for a reply, I pop the lid to my water bottle. At this early hour, it’s no surprise that the hallway is empty and dead quiet. Water rushes down the back of my throat.
The door suddenly opens—
A very shirtless Banks Moretti exits the apartment.
I inhale quickly and choke in surprise.
“You alright?” Banks whispers in concern and softly shuts the apartment door behind him. That’s strange. But it’s hard to focus on his actions when I’m coughing into my elbow.
I nod vigorously. “It just”—I motion to my throat—“went down the wrong way.” Because I was expecting someone else. Not you.
And not a half-naked you.
Gray drawstring pants hang low like he threw them on quickly to meet me in the hall. Dog tags lie against his unshaven chest. More hair leads down his sculpted body, a trail right to his package.
Oh, fuck, I’m looking at his crotch.
I raise my gaze and catch his shadowy smile. He leans against the wall next to the shut door, muscular arms threading loosely. “You used to swallowing water?”
Pool water, yeah. My natural makeup is probably half-chlorine by now. But that response flits away as I take a sip from my water bottle, then I reply, “Probably not as much as you’re used to making girls choke.” I let out a weak laugh because I can’t tell if we’re buddy-buddy still. Maybe we never really were…
I’m so fucking confused.
Banks shuts one eye. “You’d be surprised.” His other eye tightens like fluorescents suddenly beam at him. But the hallway lighting is dim at best.
I’d be surprised? “It was a blow job joke,” I say, thinking he didn’t get it.
“I know.” He rubs his temple. “Don’t love blow jobs as much as other things.” His nose flares while he takes a long blink.
“Hey, are you alright?” I step forward.
“Yeah.” He expels a heavy breath. “No…actually I’ve gotta grab something.” He stands off the wall, but hesitates to go back inside the apartment.
And that’s when I realize, “Akara sent you?”
Banks bounces his head. “He just needs five minutes, then he can talk.”
Five minutes?
Doing what?
“Is he taking a shit or something?” I ask.
Banks almost laughs. The sound catches in his chest. “Or something.” He shuts another eye again. Is he in pain?
I frown, my concern building like a snow-packed avalanche. “Don’t let me hold you up. Go do your thing.”
Banks glances down either side of the hall. I’m famous. It’s easy to forget when it’s almost 4 a.m. and I’m standing in a ghost town of a hallway.
Totally safe.
But I can understand how he’d feel responsible if someone snuck up on me while he’s gone.