"I'm pretty damn sure the flapping and the smell of smoke about fifteen minutes ago meant he ran one of them into the ground. "
"Damn. "
"Yup. "
Bracing himself, Blay ducked into the weight room--
"Jesus. . . Christ. John. "
His voice didn't carry at all. Then again, the roar of the treadmill and John's slamming strides would have drowned out a car backfiring.
The guy's massive body was in a full-out bolt on the machine, his T- shirt and torso dripping with sweat, droplets flicking off his cranked fists and creating twin tracts of damp on either side on the floor. Both his white socks had red blushes streaking up from his heels as if he'd worn patches of skin off, and the black nylon shorts he had on his hips slapped like a wet towel.
"John?" Blay shouted, as he measured the burned-out machine next to the one the guy was on. "John!"
When yelling didn't bring that head around, Blay stalked over and waved his hands right in the guy's visual field. And then wished he hadn't. The eyes that locked on his were blazing with a hatred so vicious, Blay took a step back.
As John refocused on the air in front of his face, it was pretty damn clear that the fucker was going to keep this up until he was a yard shorter from having run his legs into stubs.
"John, how 'bout you step off!" Blay hollered. "Before you fall off?"
No response. Just the screaming whirl of the treadmill and the carpet- bombing sound of those feet.
"John! Come on, now! You're killing yourself!"
Fuck this.
Blay walked around behind the piece of equipment and yanked the cord out of the wall. The abrupt slowdown caused John to trip and fall forward, but he caught himself on the console's arms. Or maybe just collapsed onto them.
His heaving breaths tore in and out of his lax mouth as his head lolled on
his arm.
Blay pulled a weight bench over and parked it so he could look into the guy's face. "John. . . what the hell's going on?"
John let go of the console and fell back on his ass, his legs giving out from under him. After a series of sawing breaths, he drew his hand through his wet hair.
"Talk to me, John. I'll keep it just between us. I swear it on the life of my mother. "
It was quite a while before John lifted his head, and when he did, his eyes were shiny. And not from sweat or exertion.
"Talk to me and it goes nowhere," Blay whispered. "What happened? Tell me. "
When the guy eventually signed, it was messy, but Blay read the words just fine.
He hurt her, Blay. He. . . hurt her.
"Well, yeah, I know. I heard about the shape she was in when she--"
John squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head.
In the tense silence that followed, the skin on the back of Blay's neck tightened. Oh. . . shit.
There had been more to it. Hadn't there.
"How bad," Blay growled.
Bad as it gets, John mouthed.