5. Isolde #2
I should just tell them my brain is going haywire. But maybe it’s just me that’s haywire. And I don’t want them to know that.
Ren doesn’t bother to say anything. She marches out of the kitchen. The front door opens and shuts.
My jaw aches differently now. There’s a pressure that wants to be released. A valve of tears.
I swallow a thick lump down my throat, effectively ensuring the tap is shut off.
Tristan, with the quiet skill the Ghost is known for, edges into the kitchen. His presence gently pushes up against my self-created bubble of tension. He doesn’t quite ease it, but his company isn’t unwelcome either. “You wanna get out of here?”
Tristan takes me to the gym.
We arrive at a row of warehouses where I know Tristan likes to scuttle about. The yellow paint on the outside is faded, and the blue cursive painting spelling ‘Leon’s’ now looks more gray.
It’s nothing like the gyms tucked away in bustling buildings, with commuters ducking in and out after work. And while I’m still standing outside, the chances of the place offering Pilates and smoothies are slim.
The place blends into the landscape in a way that tells me Leon’s Gym was here well before I ever knew about it and will be here well after I leave.
Tristan is completely at ease for once. Figures, with the amount of muscles he’s got, that a gym would be his safe haven.
Luis also gets out of the SUV, slinging a bag over his shoulder. He offers me a friendly smile, something he does every time he glances my way. I think if Tristan weren’t around, he’d be cracking jokes. After getting bitched at for letting Ren up without calling us, he’s more subdued.
“You wanted me to keep Ren away from her bestie?” Luis blinked when Tristan brought it up as we got situated in the black SUV. Tristan switched to Spanish, grumbling to him in another language.
Luis slams the driver's door shut, nodding at another man walking up.
“This is Antonio,” Tristan introduces, clapping the guy’s hand. “He works for me so you’ll see him around.”
Antonio looks vaguely familiar already. His sleeveless shirt shows off his muscles and his gym shorts are nothing like the suit he wore when acting as a doorman at Ren’s apartment.
“How many employees do you have?” I ask, pulling my gym bag along. The gym isn’t my favorite place, but I’m happy to be outside my apartment. It’s a cloudy morning, but the drive here helped me escape the misery swirling in my belly.
“Right now, just a handful.” Tristan closes the car door, ushering me inside.
Whirling box fans circulate the smell of body odor. The warehouse has been made into a typical gym, the ample space even allowing for a boxing ring.
“Oh.” Recognition hits me. “This is the place where people come for fights, isn’t it?”
Leon’s holds boxing matches. I’ve heard the stories. Glitz and glam and a shit ton of gambling. The gym must be set up differently for the matches unless people are working out on the treadmills while they watch.
“Rojas!” Tristan whistles, catching the attention of a willowy man in the boxing ring. He might be over eighteen, but he definitely still looks like a teenager.
The guy ambles down, heading over. Antonio and Luis met him halfway, the guys appearing completely at home in the space.
“Locker rooms.” Tristan points down a hallway.
I felt his eyes on me most of the car ride, but he’s remained neutral since the Ren incident.
“You come here often?” I ask. Rojas glances over at me, and I get the feeling the huddle of guys is discussing me.
“No one’s gonna hire a bodyguard who can’t keep up,” Tristan says. “We meet up here as much as we can. It’s exercise and team bonding all in one.”
“And you’re the drill sergeant?”
He smirks. An overhead light shines down on him, his brown eyes warmer. “You’re welcome to join Matheson, if you think you can keep up.”
It’s a hard pass, and he knows it. I keep in shape in case shit goes down. Not because I enjoy it. I’ll be on the treadmill, fine with being a basic bitch.
The locker room is clean but sparse. My mood takes a hit again when I scramble through my gym bag.
I was so annoyed and off-balance that I forgot to put in an extra pair of workout pants.
“Fuck,” I mumble under my breath. “Fuck!”
The pangs I’d just tried so hard to get rid of vibrate in my chest.
A stall door opens.
“Damn, girl, are you all right?” Adeline Akatov stops short. “Isolde! What are you doing here?”
Long, dark hair with fresh highlights falls around Adeline’s shoulders. She’s taller than me, with a willowy figure. She did not forget her gym clothes because she’s wearing a matching set of black leggings and a sports bra. I’d think she’d be at a spin class or an equally expensive workout class.
“I’ve never seen you at Leon’s before. What’s up?” Her cheeks are rosy, but there’s not a bit of sweat on her, so I can’t tell if she’s magical or hasn’t worked out yet. “Are you okay?”
“Forgot my leggings.” I know I’m wearing sweatpants right now, but I don’t want to be a sweaty mess when I’m done. Not if I’m driving home with Luis and Tristan.
“I don’t have leggings but I have an extra pair of shorts.
” Adeline rummages through her bag and pulls something out.
“They’re biker shorts, but if you don’t mind, I promise it’s not that bad wearing them.
Especially if you have a baggy shirt. Though, I can say for the most part there aren’t a lot of leers at Le—”
Adeline’s red lips form a little ‘O ’, making me think of Ren again.
I realize her abrupt stop is specifically in response to the panic clearly written on my face. “I, I don’t really wear shorts.”
“Oh.” Adeline nods, polite enough not to pry but appearing slightly confused.
Maybe it’s this reaction and the fact that Adeline is being so damn nice that I explain further.
“I’ve got a scar so. . .” That doesn’t exactly explain much. I try again. “It’s really nasty looking so. . .”
“Does it hurt?” Adeline asks, and I remember just how well-versed she must be. Her older sister Lennie has a pretty wicked scar herself.
“No, not really.” At least not anymore. “But it’s why I don’t like wearing jeans.”
My time in New York City has been characterized by my appreciation of a good tracksuit.
It’s practical, movable, and doesn’t press against the tender flesh.
It’s been years since I put on a pair of denim jeans, though, part of me knows this is more to do with being comfortable in sweatpants than the scar being aggravated.
“You want to give the shorts a try?” Adeline offers.
Fuck no. But Tristan brought me here, and I’ll be waiting around for him and his friends to finish anyway. The shirt I brought is super loose, so maybe it’ll cover some of my thigh.
“It’s really bad.” I hesitate.
“Can I see?” Adeline asks, without an ounce of shame. It almost makes me laugh.
“Yeah, all right,” I reply, unbothered by the nosiness because at this point, what the fuck else could go wrong.
Her gasp makes me rethink that, though, when I shimmy out of my sweatpants.
“Holy shit, Isolde.” Adeline covers her mouth, bending forward to inspect.
The scar begins mid-thigh, running up and inward. All these years later, it’s still a deep pink, but it’s starting to flatten. Part of me always expects the flesh to be an angry red that’s raised and tender to the touch, though.
“Fuck, Isolde.” Adeline’s head is practically in my crotch, she gets so close. Which is exactly when there’s a knock on the door, and Tristan appears.