Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“I don’t know, something. I’m off to the gym, if you want to join me, and maybe we can drive to Knysna afterward? Check out the sights.”

“That sounds tempting,” Harris said, looking genuinely interested, but then he shook his head. “But I want to stay for the sunrise . . .”

Greyson hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own concerns that he hadn’t noticed that Harris and Martine had shared a few sunrises together since their arrival. Comprehending that Harris was hoping it would offer him the chance to talk with Martine after last night, Greyson nodded. But he had actually looked forward to spending some time with Harris, no matter how impulsive the offer, and felt curiously let down by the other man’s refusal. “I understand.”

“Rain check?” Harris asked, and Greyson offered him a tentative smile.

“Of course.”

The gym was empty when he arrived. Spencer Carlisle was there, working on the weights. He lifted a hand in greeting when he saw Greyson. Greyson dipped his chin in acknowledgment and did a few stretches before picking up a jump rope. His warm-up was fast and vigorous, and when his heart rate was up and his muscles loose and limber, he moved on to the heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling, starting with basic punches and kicks before moving on to his more specialized training.

He lost himself in that for a while, enjoying the physical exertion and the outlet for his anger and frustration with himself over the last few months. He hadn’t trained enough since Clara’s birth. First sinking into a pit of despair, then nearly drowning in a seemingly endless well of alcohol, and then, after clawing his way free from that near disaster, burying himself in work and repairing the parts of his life that were more clearly salvageable.

It felt good to do something physical again. Beating and kicking the shit out of that bag was therapeutic and helped him get his thoughts back in order. He lost himself in the soothing, violent rhythm of what he was doing. When he finally ran out of steam and became aware of his surroundings again, he was hugging the bag, his breath heaving in and out of his lungs in huge gasps. His muscles were on fire, his legs and arms felt like jelly, and his still-bandaged injured hand hurt like a son of a bitch—but luckily wasn’t bleeding. Yet Greyson felt invigorated.

“That was some workout.” The quiet voice with its slow and measured cadence came from somewhere to his left, and he swung his head in that direction to see Spencer Carlisle putting away his weights.

“I needed to—to blow off some steam,” Greyson panted, fighting to get his breath back.

“It work?”

Taken aback by the man’s abbreviated question, Greyson blinked and nodded. “Enough.” Greyson liked that he could just throw the word at the guy. No unnecessary extra details required.

“Good.”

Greyson waited, but when nothing more seemed to be forthcoming from the big guy, he pushed himself away from the bag, happy that his legs seemed able to support him again. He made his way to his water bottle and took a thirsty gulp, then picked up his towel and mopped up the sweat on his face, across his shoulders, and under his arms. Harris always liked to joke that Greyson didn’t possess sweat glands. A jibe at how neat and controlled Greyson usually liked to keep all aspects of his life. He didn’t like messy, not in his surroundings, on his person, or in his personal life. But since everything else was fucked . . . a bit of good, healthy sweat thrown into the mix couldn’t do any harm. Besides, Harris had never seen him practice his Krav Maga. It required strength and discipline, which appealed to Greyson, but it always left him wrung out and sweaty. And usually sporting a fair number of bruises all over his body.

“What discipline?” Spencer asked. Greyson’s eyes lifted to his, and the man jerked his head toward the punching bag.

“Krav Maga. Black belt.” Greyson really liked this guy. He liked his lack of social graces; it encouraged Greyson to abandon all his hard-earned social and conversational cues and just shrug and grunt and gesture.

Spencer’s brows lifted, and he whistled appreciatively. “Need a sparring partner?”

“You offering?” Greyson asked, his voice colored with surprise. The guy was huge and looked strong, but he didn’t move like a fighter. A fact that was confirmed when Spencer snorted good naturedly and shook his head.

“Wife’s brother-in-law, Sam. Former special ops,” he clarified, and this time Greyson’s brow flew up.

“I’d be interested,” he said, starting his cooldown stretching routine.

Spencer left him alone while he did that, going back to setting the gym to rights. A few more people wandered in, all of them staring at Greyson curiously and greeting him with nods and waves. The reticent Spencer got warmer verbal greetings, which he returned with grunts and slight waves.