Page 24 of Gym With Benefits

The walk to the bar felt like traversing a battlefield. It took me forever to wedge through the throng of people, my focus fixed on the chipped mahogany counter. The place was packed, but I was determined to squeeze myself in there to get served. I finally found a sliver of space at the far end of the rail, waving a hand to catch the bartender's eye.

"Three Botanist tonics and a vodka soda," I said, feeling confident in my read of Sloane. She seemed like the type.

"And a double Macallan. Neat."

The voice was a low-frequency vibration in my ear. I stiffened, and the air grew ten degrees colder.

"You’re not stalking me, are you?" His gaze was fixed on the rows of glowing bottles behind the bar. He’d lost the tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

"I could ask you the same thing.” My grip tightened on the edge of the bar. "Though I suppose a fixer needs to stay close to the source of the rot. Is there a senator in the bathroom you need to bribe?"

Dane finally turned his head, his dark eyes raking over my outfit. The slow, dismissive tour of his gaze was an intrusion. "Do you ever get tired of trying too hard?"

“Excuse me?” I spluttered, my ears growing hot.

“The dress is nice, but it’s clearly not you,” he said, as if anything about my face suggested I wanted to be walked through his insult. “You’re out of your element, and it shows.”

"Eat a dick.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I knew I wasn’t wrong about you. I’m never wrong.”

The bartender slid my drinks across the bar, and as I reached into my clutch, Dane’s card was already there.

"I've got it," he said to the bartender. “And the Macallan.”

"I don't want your money.” I tried snatching back the card, but it was too late. “Why did you do that? I don’t need you to—”

"Take the drinks," he said, his voice devoid of the laughter I'd seen earlier. He didn't look at me as he took his scotch, his expression returning to that unreadable, aristocratic mask. "Consider it a fee for looking down the front of your dress for the past five minutes."

Before I could hurl a retort—or the gin—at his head, he turned and walked away.

9

Brock

"I’m going to fail Developmental Psych," Hunter muttered, his stride lacking its usual bounce as we made our way along 14th. "And I’m going to do it while smelling like vanilla whey and someone else’s sweat."

"You aren't going to fail," I said, my pace steady. "You’re just sleep-deprived. Have a coffee and stop projecting your academic anxiety onto the sidewalk."

"Easy for you to say. You and the sun have a blood pact." He glanced at me, a spark of his usual mischief fighting through the haze of his mental load. "Though I suppose you have extra motivation to stay awake today. I saw the digital log before I left last night."

I didn't take the bait. It was barely five a.m. and he wasn’t going to get the better of me. The glass doors of the gym appeared, a dark sanctuary in the gray morning. My fob clicked, the lock disengaged, and the climate-controlled air hit us in the face. A dry, sterile contrast to the D.C. humidity.

Inside, the silence was absolute aside from the constant drone of the HVAC system. I loved getting to work this early. Nobody clawing for my attention, and nothing but inanimate objects to keep me busy for at least another hour.

“Catch you later, man.”

But Hunter didn’t veer off to the protein bar to start his shift. He followed me into the Muscle Mansion, his sneakers squeaking against the rubber mats while I began the morning rounds.

“Anything interesting?” he asked, when I undocked the iPad.

I glared at him and said nothing.

The screen was a cold white flare in the dim light. I moved from rack to rack, my fingers checking the tension on the cables and the seating of the pins. It was a mechanical ritual, a way to ground the day before clients streamed in.

"So," Hunter said, leaning against a stack of bumper plates, his eyes tracking me. "We’re just gonna pretend you haven’t booked a new client for today? A hot new client who just happens to be the love of my life?"

I shook my head slowly, too tired to laugh. “I take private sessions. It’s my job. The love of your life is all yours.”