Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"Good," Riley said as Lyle pivoted and kicked the sandbag for what felt like the thousandth time that afternoon. "Next time get your body and leg completely parallel with the ground. Form's important, Tarpin."

"Fuck you," Lyle retorted amiably, wiping sweat off his upper lip. "We've been at this for six hours. You do remember I'm going to have a stunt double, right?"

"Nice try. You're the one who said you didn't just want to be in shape. I think your exact words were, 'I need more than muscle and strength. Even if I'm only walking, I need to move like someone who knows his way around a fight.'"

Lyle groaned. "How was I supposed to know you'd break from pattern and actually listen to me?"

"Come on. Just do it one more time, and then we'll switch back to upper body work."

"Oh, joy."

Riley laughed. "You're the one who's going to go shirtless in a movie that's gonna be seen by millions. But if you want slack muscle tone when you're on the big screen..."

"You know you're a prick, right?"

"It's one of my most endearing qualities. Okay, go."

Lyle did, managing to bend and pivot a full ten reps without falling on his ass. And, as a plus, he kicked the shit out of that damned sandbag each and every time.

"Not bad," Riley said, when Lyle was upright again and mopping his face with the towel Riley tossed him. "Especially impressive considering you've been off your game all afternoon."

Lyle lowered the towel. "I have, and I'm sorry. It's not the workout--if anything having you ride my ass is helping me to not think."

Riley took a long pull from his water bottle, then lowered it slowly. "Oh, fuck. It was yesterday, wasn't it? Thirteen years since the accident. Since Jenny died. Christ, Lyle, I'm an ass for not remembering sooner."

"You're not," Lyle assured him. He hung the towel over his shoulder, then went to sit on the wooden bench on the far side of the shabby gym space that Riley had lined up for their sessions. "And I'll be fine."

"Fine?" Riley repeated, frowning slightly. "Yeah, sure. You'll get by--you always do. But if you need to talk we can ditch the session, go grab a beer."

Lyle forced a smile. "I'm almost tempted just because my muscles are screaming, but I really am okay. Jenny's death twisted me up some yesterday--I figure it always will--but she's not the reason I'm off my game today."

"Is that a fact?" Riley crossed his arms over his broad chest, his feet hip distance apart. With his dark hair, rugged features, and seriously honed muscles, he looked more like a superhero than Lyle ever would. Then again, considering what Riley did for a living, he pretty much was a walking, talking action hero.

"You gonna clue me in?" Riley pressed.

"I wouldn't lay odds on it."

Riley Blade was Lyle's oldest friend. They'd met in Iowa when they were kids, and despite a three-year age difference and all the other shit that should have kept them from clicking, they'd become fast friends. Lyle might not have any blood relatives left, but as far as he was concerned, Riley was his brother.

But even brothers didn't need to know everything.

Still, he'd told Riley part of the truth--he was distracted. But not by Jenny's memory. Not by flashbacks of that horrible night.

No, his thoughts were on a gorgeous blonde with a sharp tongue, soft lips, and wide, beguiling eyes that had seen at least some of his secrets.

For the first time in a long time, it wasn't Jenny on his mind. And Lyle wasn't sure if that meant he was healing--or if he was about to climb the ladder to a whole new level of guilt.

Riley still stood there, as if debating whether to press. Finally, he shrugged. "Suit yourself, man. But distraction or not, you better get your shit together sooner rather than later if you want me to be the one getting you camera ready on fight techniques and weapons."

"I know," Lyle assured him. "And I'm focused. Hell, I'm just glad you could squeeze a couple of weeks into your schedule for me." A former FBI SWAT team member, Riley was an expert in hand-to-hand and weapons-based fighting. Not to mention firearms and ordnance, though the latter two had no relevance to Lyle's prep work for M. Sterious.

Riley was also dead serious about fitness, and Lyle knew that every day he trained with Riley would make him that much more authentic in the role. Superpowers or not, Lyle had to project strength, confidence, and skill, all of which were qualities that Riley's methods of training honed. And since Riley had worked as a consultant on several films, including The Price of Ransom, Lyle knew that his friend understood how to train and prep an actor.

"You never told me where you're heading after we finish here," Lyle said. "Back to Texas?"

Riley had left law enforcement for the private sector several years ago, and he hadn't looked back. Now he was working as a consultant with McKay/Taggart, a Dallas-based a private security firm that Riley swore was top notch.

"I wish," Riley said. "No, the assignment's for a short term security detail. I meet the client in Illinois. Then we have two weeks traveling around the country in a tricked out bus."