The clank of weights keeps me company. The cinder-block room is cramped and has two lightbulbs hanging by wires from the ceiling, but I don’t care about the ambience because the physical exertion is exactly what I need right now.
The burn of my muscles as I squat down with the bar on my shoulder and focus on the proper form forces me to clear my head. I swear my laser-honed concentration on what I’m doing makes me feel every single rivulet of sweat that runs down my bare chest. And that’s a good thing because if I’m concentrating on that, there’s no room for anything else. Music blares in my earbuds, but my own grunt of strength to rise back to standing interrupts the sound.
I puff out a breath as I rack the weight bar, having completed my reps and then some, before I drop to sit on a bench against the far wall of the room. My muscles are liquid fire, but God it feels good to work out the anger churning inside me. I rub my T-shirt over my face and hair to wipe the sweat away as I catch my breath for a moment, my body exhausted but in such a productive way.
The cold concrete wall feels hella good as I lean my shoulders against it and close my eyes. Beaux’s face flashes in my mind, and I wonder if she’s why I feel so restless. Maybe I just need to see her, set some guidelines for this fucked-up situation I’ve been forced into, and then maybe I’ll get back into my groove a little quicker. What the fuck kind of way is it to start a working relationship when you’ve seen the other person naked and heard that sound they make as they climax? Talk about stepping out on the wrong foot.
I don’t like her. Plain and simple. I had a moment of bad judgment, a lot of alcohol, and wanted some sex. Little did I know the woman I chose would be the new partner I don’t want.
Fuck.
The quicker I rectify the situation the better. I need structure in my life – I thrive on it – to function in this tumultuous country where every day is something different and yet the exact same. But having Beaux here adds an unpredictability element, and so the quicker I let her know how I operate, the better off we’ll be in the long run.
Maybe I’ll even suck it up for the sake of calming the churning waters and apologize for the one-night stand.
Nah. Fuck it. She came with me willingly, left on her own accord. No need to set the precedent that I’m in the wrong when I know I’ve done nothing of the sort. Now I just need to decide whether I believe that she purposefully slept with me or whether it was purely a coincidence.
The jury’s still out on that one.
I glance at my watch and figure it’s okay to go knocking on her door since it is seven thirty. Maybe that’s a little dick-ish, but at least I’ll learn if she’s a morning person or not; I can play it off like I want to make sure she can be up and ready if we get a call on a lead.
I’m winded by the time I leave the hotel’s basement where the makeshift gym is located and jog up the thirteen flights of steps to the twelfth floor. Once I walk into the hallway, I realize I have no clue which room is Beaux’s. Only one way to find out.
I grab my cell phone from my pocket and pull up her number, walking the short distance of the hallway as the ring fills my ear. It takes a few moments, but I hear the faint ring on my right-hand side and follow it until I’m standing outside room twelve thirteen.
My hesitation over having the wrong room is fleeting as my knock resonates through the empty corridor. Beaux’s voice mail picks up, her throaty voice filling my ear at the same time the ringing on the other side of the door I’m standing at ceases. At least I know I have the right room.
I rap on the door again and listen for any sign of movement behind the door but hear nothing. I call again, almost determined to wake her up now, prove a point that she thinks she can handle this job but that she can’t. Fuck yeah, I’m being a prick, but I don’t care.
Her voice mail picks up again. I pound one more time and press my ear to the door. I tell myself I just want to wake her up, but unease begins to creep up on me. Why isn’t she answering? Is she that dead-to-the-world tired?
Or is something wrong?
I fist my hand against the door to prevent myself from pounding it down as the same worries I always had over Stella’s safety in this godforsaken land come back with a vengeance.
She has to be asleep. No one leaves their cell behind anymore these days. Maybe she sleeps with earplugs in or music on or some other lame excuse for being unable to hear me. I accept the attempt at rationalization but can’t ignore that feeling in my gut that tells me otherwise.
“Let it go, Thomas,” I mutter as I turn away and head into the stairwell, despite all of the horrible images flashing through my mind of what could be wrong. And then I become angry. I’m not a worrier. I’m not some overdramatic guy who worries about people I don’t care about. If I were, I wouldn’t be able to do my job. I see death and destruction all the time in all sorts of unfathomable ways, so I’ve learned to not think about those possibilities.
So why the fuck am I thinking along those lines when it comes to Beaux? The last thing I want is to be thinking about her.
Shit. This whole thing with Stella has affected me. The thought pisses me off even further because that means the brass at work might just be right. And I won’t let them be right. Now I’m pissed both at Beaux and myself, so it seems my little venture to set things right just put me back on the goddamn Tilt-A-Whirl.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that when I fling open the stairwell door to my floor, I collide solidly with another person going just as fast as I am. We both cry out as we stumble backward, and I know before I even look down whose biceps my hands are gripping. I push Beaux away like she’s a hot coal.