Page 41 of Kill Feed
“You were,” I cut in. “And even if we are, it’s none of your business.”
There’s a beat of silence, and I let it stretch.
“That’s it?” he finally says. “You have a tall, tatted blonde dude pinned to the floor, and I’m supposed to believe he’s just a trainer? There’s a mystery here, and I don’t like being left out of it.”
I meet his eyes then and hold them. “That’s it. No mystery.”
What I don’t say—and what I don’t need to—is that Dante isn’t a mystery to me. Not exactly. He’s a variable I haven’t finished measuring yet, that’s all.
Lucas exhales, running a hand through his hair, watching me with those curious eyes. I rub at the scar in my neck, once, then twice, before letting my hands meet my side. All while never breaking eye contact.
He then lifts both hands in surrender, wearing that smug grin that always seems permanently carved into his face. “All I’m saying is, I’d call you two something a hell of a lot more than ‘casual acquaintances’.” Lucas snorts before continuing, “Trainer my ass, since when does boxing require full-blown contact like that?”
It’s not like I fucked Dante in the boxing ring. Jesus, what is he on about? He might not officially be my trainer, but he was training me. “I barely know the guy.” I digress.
Lucas hums, the sound dripping with disbelief. “Hm. Do you plan to fuck him in the future?”
“Lucas. I’m not fucking him.”
He points his fork at me with all the subtlety of a loaded gun. “So, it’s the other way around?” He looks pleased with himself, like he’s landed on a nerve worth pressing. Then he pushes, predictably crass, “I’m just looking out for your well-being. When was the last time you even had sex?”
Does he ever shut up?
I don’t answer immediately. People only ask questions like that when they’re trying to put you somewhere. A box. A punchline. Something easier to handle. I’m not interested in giving him that. I’m even less interested in explaining my sex life to a straight, mildly feral man-child who thinks intimacy is a spectator sport.
“I don't keep track,” I claim. Rounding the kitchen island to grab my jacket off the couch.
Sex doesn’t come up often for me; neither do relationships. Not because I can’t get it—but because it requires upkeep. All the texting, remembering birthdays, pretending to have interest in things that bore me to death. Relationships are a subscription model, and I’ve never seen the value in renewing something that demands constant attention for diminishing returns.
The last one barely lasted a few months.
Nice enough guy. Attractive, but tried too hard, spending most of his time looking at me like I was a puzzle he could solve if he just stayed patient long enough. That should’ve been my cue. It usually is.
He called me a maniac the first time we argued. A sadist, too… Maybe he just didn’t like the way I wrapped my hands around his neck when we’d fuck. Hm.
Either way, I didn’t bother correcting him when he called me those words. Explaining myself would’ve taken longer than just fucking ending it.
Sex is easy. People, on the other hand, not so much.
“My bike’s still at Nine Rounds,” I state, nudging his attention towards the door.
Lucas’s about to answer when his phone vibrates on the countertop. He grabs it instantly, watching it ring and ring. It’s only when the vibration stops that his thumbs go to work, tapping away.
His face pales instantly.
“Yeah, listen, man, can we do that later?” he finally says. “My dad’s going to actually kill me if I don’t show up for work today, and I’m already late.”
My jaw tightens, the muscle twitching once before I force it still as I wait for him to continue.
“Here’s the plan,” he begins, plastering on a smile. “I need at least twenty minutes to shower and change. You drop me at work, keep my car if you need it for uni or whatever. Then at five, you pick me up, and I’ll take you to your trainer’s,” he says with finger air quotes, “gym to collect the bike. Sound good?”
Like I even have a choice.
Chapter 12
Adrian
By the time five rolls around, I’m already parked in front of a two-story brick building.
