Chapter 12 Withdrawal
The weight room at midnight hummed with the distant drone of fluorescent lights, a tomb of iron and rubber.
The air, thick and still, carried the faint, metallic tang of sweat and rust. This was the only place on campus where the sharp edges of the world seemed to soften, where the chaos in my skull could be drowned out by something simpler.
The library’s hushed quiet had left too much space for my thoughts to gnaw, for the same dark spiral to coil tighter and tighter.
And the motel room, a forgotten box, where I’d spent the last twenty-four hours tracing the geography of a water-stained ceiling, had pressed down on me like a concrete slab.
But here, in the gym? Here, there was only the cold logic of physics. Gravity. The precise measure of pain.
I slid another forty-five-pound plate onto the bar.
The metal disc kissed the worn chrome, a harsh, ringing clang that ricocheted off the mirrored walls, then settled into a low, metallic hum that vibrated up my arms. Three hundred and fifteen pounds.
A personal best, a trophy earned through tearing muscle and gritted teeth, if I could heave it.
An unforgiving, crushing weight, if I faltered.
I lay back on the bench. The vinyl, crisscrossed with hairline cracks, felt cold and slick against the damp fabric of my t-shirt. My fingers, calloused and thick, curled around the knurled steel. The rough texture bit into my palms, grounding me.
Thirty-six hours. That was how long it had been since I’d slipped out of the apartment.
Thirty-six hours since Jax had splintered me open, filling me with the bitter taste of his apologies and the slick heat of his cum, his promises a phantom whisper against my skin.
I had waited. Waited until the ragged rhythm of his breathing smoothed, until the heavy weight of his arm, draped across my waist, went slack with the deep pull of sleep.
Then I had gone.
No scribbled note. No hasty text. Just the quiet scrape of my duffel bag across the floor, the crunch of broken plastic beneath my sneakers as I stepped over the remains of his phone, and the soft click of the door closing behind me.
My chest had felt tight, a band of iron constricting my ribs, but my legs had carried me forward.
If I had stayed, I knew the walls would close in, the air would thicken until I couldn't draw a breath.
The cycle, a familiar, sickening loop of possession and blurred lines and the inevitable, gut-wrenching crash, would simply reset.
My stomach had knotted with the desperate need to feel the ground beneath my own two feet, to map the edges of my own existence beyond the gravitational pull of Jax Carter.
I drew a breath, slow and deliberate. One. Two. Three.
My arms uncoiled, muscles straining, as I lifted the bar from its rack.
The raw weight settled into my palms, solid and true, pulling at my shoulders.
I lowered it, a controlled descent, until the cold steel grazed my chest. My pectorals screamed, stretched taut.
My triceps quivered, a fine tremor running from elbow to shoulder.
I pushed.
The bar moved three inches. Then it stopped.
My arms trembled, a violent shudder. The weight was a mountain, unyielding.
My muscles burned, a deep, aching fire. My stomach felt hollow, my limbs heavy with exhaustion, and a raw, ragged emptiness echoed in my chest. Gravity asserted its relentless claim.
The bar began its slow, inevitable descent, inch by agonizing inch, towards my throat.
I clamped my jaw, teeth grinding, pushing with every fiber of my being, but it was a futile defiance.
The bar continued its slow, silent fall.
Then, the pressure vanished.
The bar flew upwards, slamming into the safety racks with a clang that vibrated through the floorboards and echoed like a gunshot.
My lungs convulsed, air rushing in, sharp and cold. My eyes snapped open.
Jax stood over the bench.
His skin was sallow, stretched tight over sharp cheekbones.
The mesh shorts he wore were rumpled, clinging to his thighs, and the grey hoodie hung loose, stained with what looked like dried coffee and something darker, like motor oil.
Dark stubble, a coarse shadow, covered his jaw and chin, obscuring the hard line of his mouth.
But it was his eyes that seized my breath, holding it captive in my throat.
They were bloodshot, the whites laced with angry red veins, sunken deep within his skull, ringed by dark, bruised hollows that spoke of sleepless nights.
His gaze, distant and unfocused, held the desperate, unblinking intensity of an animal caught in a trap.
"You dropped it," he rasped. His voice was a raw, shredded sound, like sandpaper dragged across a rusted pipe, as if he’d spent hours tearing it apart with screams.
"I had it," I lied, the words catching in my dry throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat a painful thud against bone.
"You were going to crush your windpipe."
He didn't move. He stood directly over me, leaning slightly, his body casting a long shadow that enveloped me on the bench. The air around him was thick with a potent scent – stale sweat, the sharp, acrid smell of adrenaline, and something metallic, like old blood.
"How did you find me?" I whispered, the sound barely audible.
"Tracker," he said, the word clipped. "On your phone."
"I turned my location off."
"You turned the GPS off, but you didn't disable the 'Find My Friends' location I forced you to share with me freshman year." He tapped the vinyl next to my head, the sound sharp. "Amateur."
His eyes, still unfocused, swept over my face. The air between us thickened, crackling with an almost visible static charge that made the hairs on my arms stand on end, a phantom burning sensation on my skin.
"You left," he said. His voice was flat, devoid of inflection, a simple statement of an impossible fact.
"I had to."
"I told you I needed you."
"And I told you I wasn't a toy."
"I deleted the video," he said, his voice gaining a sudden, dangerous edge. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a burner phone, its screen glowing faintly. He held it up, a small, black rectangle. "Cloud backup. Deleted. Local files. Deleted. It's gone, Tom. I scrubbed it."
"It wasn't about the video anymore, Jax."
"Then what?" The word tore from his throat, a guttural sound that rattled the windows.
He slammed his hands onto the bar supports, the metal rig shuddering violently, a deep vibration running through the bench beneath me.
"What was it? I gave you everything. I fell to my knees, put my face in the dirt.
And you still walked out while I was sleeping. "
He leaned down, his face a few inches from mine, the stubble on his jaw catching the dim light.
"Do you know what that was like?" he hissed, the words a spray of heat on my cheek. "Waking up? Reaching for you and grabbing a handful of cold sheets?"
"Jax, please..."
"I tore the apartment apart," he said, his voice rising, raw with a frantic energy. "I thought someone took you. I thought you were hurt. Then I saw your bag was gone."
A sound scraped from his throat, a broken, jagged laugh that held no humor, just a raw, desperate edge. "You tried to ghost me. After four years. After everything."
"I needed space," I said, trying to push myself up, my muscles still trembling from the failed lift.
He slammed a hand flat on my chest, right over my sternum, the force pinning me back against the vinyl. "You don't get space," he snarled, his lips peeling back from his teeth. "Not anymore. You voided that right when you walked out."
He climbed onto the bench, a fluid, predatory movement.
He straddled my hips, his knees pressing down on my thighs, trapping them against the cracked leather.
His heavy weight settled over my groin, a crushing pressure.
We were in the middle of the campus gym, surrounded by mirrors reflecting our distorted forms, glass walls looking out into the dark, empty hallway.
"Jax, the cameras," I hissed, my voice tight with a sudden surge of fear. "Security comes through here."
"Let them come."
He grabbed my wrists, his fingers like steel manacles. He pinned them to the bar above my head, stretching my arms.
"You think you can just leave?" he asked, his eyes burning into mine, seeking something he couldn't name. "You think you can just walk away from this? From what I burn into you?"
"I'm trying," I admitted, a hot ache blooming behind my eyes. The first pinprick of tears stung, blurring his face. "I'm trying to survive you."
"You don't survive me," he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. "You endure me."
He released one of my wrists, his free hand snaking down the front of my gym shorts. No questions. No teasing. Just a brutal, possessive grab. My cock, soft and dormant, was instantly engulfed.
I gasped, my back arching off the bench, a sharp, involuntary cry tearing from my lips.
"Soft," he accused, his thumb pressing hard against the head of my shaft. "You're soft."
"I'm scared, Jax." My stomach clenched, a cold knot tightening in my gut.
"Good."
His hand began to stroke, a rough, punishing motion. He squeezed hard, forcing a sudden rush of blood into the shaft, a dizzying jolt of sensation.
"You haven't come since you left, have you?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "You've been sitting in the motel room, pulling at yourself, trying to forget me. But it didn't work."
He was right. The memory of Motel 6, the lukewarm water sluicing over my skin, the frantic, desperate attempts to conjure an image, a feeling, anything other than his face, his scent. My body had refused, gone numb, a dead weight in my hands.
"Rule Number Three," I whispered, a desperate, hysterical laugh bubbling up, hot and dry, in my throat.