Chapter Six
Jett
She’s wearing a hat that could block a solar eclipse.
Hot pink, wide-brimmed, ridiculous. Somehow still not enough to hide that platinum hair tipped in bubblegum. She’s got on glitter heart-shaped sunglasses, a dress that deliberately shows the tops of her thigh highs, and a mouth cherry-glossed like she came here to ruin someone’s week.
She’s tiny. Probably too short for most fair rides.
She’s also staring at me like we didn’t just meet in a court-mandated group therapy session for men you shouldn’t fuck with.
God help me, I stare back.
She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t look away. Just owns the space between us in a way no one that pink has the right to.
Jesus Christ.
I finish spotting Taylor, lavender shorts, giggles when she’s nervous, and help her rerack before stepping back.
“Good set,” I tell her, but half my voice is somewhere else.
Across the gym. On her.
Delilah fucking Darling.
Did she follow me here?
No. No, that’s not normal.
People don’t do that.
But she did. She’s here, dressed like a fucking fever dream Barbie spy, and she’s staring at me like she wants me to know.
My whole body goes tight with fucked-up interest.
Because that’s what it is, right?
She followed me.
She saw the logo on my shirt. And now she’s signing up for a membership like this is a normal Thursday and not insane.
This isn’t flattering.
This isn’t healthy.
This is exactly the kind of shit I’m in therapy for.
And I can’t look away.
She sees something in me. Something wrong.
And I want to scream, What the fuck is it?
But I want her to answer it with her teeth on my neck.
I’m so fucked.
Her pen flashes hot pink at the front desk. Her mouth moves. I see Kevin lean in and laugh. Her hand slides over the form like she’s about to carve a sigil into the page with her signature.
She isn’t normal.
She isn’t stable.
And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.
She doesn’t move like other people. She prowls. She poses. She radiates unearned confidence.
I don’t do needy. I don’t do clingy. And I definitely don’t do obsessive.
But this feels like a dare.
And fuck me, I kind of want to know just how deep the crazy goes.
Easy, boy. I grit it out internally. I’ve got enough on my plate without throwing glitter and arson on top. That asshole Chad pressing charges already eats up my fucking bandwidth.
I head to my locker, grab my bag of trail mix, heavy on the salted cashews and M&Ms, no raisins, and circle back to the floor.
Kevin’s showing Delilah the spin bikes.
She tracks me. No attempt to be subtle. Doesn’t blink when I meet her stare, just adjusts those heart-shaped sunglasses like we’re in a fucking standoff.
I chew slowly.
Who the fuck wears shades in a gym?
The kind of woman who’d ride me on the weight bench after hours, and smile while doing it.
Also the kind who’d follow me home, key “mine” into the tank of my Harley, and post a selfie after.
I don’t need that shit.
Kevin’s voice is too loud. Too fucking chipper for a new member tour. He’s got that pathetic first-day-of-school energy he gets around pretty girls.
She’s smiling like she didn’t just crawl out of my court-mandated nightmares and into my gym like fate’s got jokes.
Then she touches him.
Just a brush of her hand against his arm. Barely anything.
But her eyes lock on me the whole time.
She knew I’d see it. She wanted me to.
I can visualize myself walking over, saying, “Hey Kevin, I’ve got this one. Why don’t you go... sort the dumbbells or whatever the fuck it is you do?” just before I throat punch him.
But I don’t. Because watching Delilah touch Kevin has my jaw locked and my fists doing the math on how many bones he can live without.
I chew slow, seconds from choking on a cashew just to keep from committing manslaughter.
Kevin laughs at something she says.
I take another bite of trail mix. Remember the group therapy bullshit.
Three deep breaths. Repeat your mantra.
I draw in breath one.
Grant me the strength to not commit a felony…
She bites her lip. That’s a real thing? That’s not just a porn move?
Breath two.
…The patience to breathe through bullshit…
Kevin’s got his hand on the small of her back. Not guiding. Not spotting. Just touching her.
Breath three.
I could kill him with one hit.
Shit… no it’s…
…and the wisdom to not fuck the menace in glitter.
Nope, that’s not it.
Just because I want to bend her over the squat rack doesn’t mean I should.
Fuck.
What the hell was the last line of my mantra?
I turn my back. Pretend I’m checking the weight racks. Anything to not watch her flip her hair like a challenge and pretend she’s not unraveling me from the inside out.
She’s too loud now. Her voice rolls across the gym in honeyed ribbons, and I know it’s for me. Not him.
I move to the incline bench. Start loading plates just to have something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve dragging her out by her pretty pink leash.
Then I hear her behind me.
“Hey,” she says, all syrup and smirk. “This the part where you spot me?”
I don’t turn around. “No.”
“Oh.” She clicks her tongue. “Then is this the part where you tell me to fuck off and do it anyway?”
Goddammit.
I look. And yeah, she’s already at the squat rack. Thigh highs on full display, back arched, eyes on me through those stupid glitter heart lenses. A demon in a Bratz doll wrapper.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, stepping in anyway. Standing behind her. Not touching. Not breathing.
She lifts the bar. No weights, just the bar. “Too late.”
And then she drops. Smooth and slow. Like she’s been practicing just to destroy me.
She lets out a little sound on the third rep. Not a grunt. Not strain.
A fucking moan.
Soft. Pitched. Purposeful.
My jaw grinds so hard I feel it in my molars.
“You doing okay back there?” she asks sweetly, glancing over her shoulder.
“I swear to God, Delilah.”
“What?” She rises, racks the bar, and turns. “Scared I’ll make you blush?”
“I’m not playing with you,” I say.
She steps into my space. Close enough I could count the sparkles in her gloss. “Good. I don’t want you to play. Games end in restraining orders.”
My hand twitches at my side. She sees it. Smiles like she’s winning something.
“You don’t scare me, Jett,” she whispers. “I like broken things.”
Fuck. Me. I believe her.
My brain white-noises. My cock’s halfway to a felony.
And for one fucking second, I want to ask, what do you see when you look at me like that? What broken thing are you hoping I am?
“What the fuck is this?” I manage.
She shrugs, sweeping those glittery eyes over me like a goddamn menu. “I’m learning new ways to deal with my anger.”
“Anger,” I echo. “You want to learn about anger from me?”
Why the fuck am I talking to her? Why am I still standing here?
“I signed up for hands-on training,” she purrs. “What days do you get personal?”
Depends where my hands are going. “I’m here every day.”
“Perfect.” Her smile could start a house fire. “If we’ve got circle-jerk therapy on Thursdays, we should space it out. I need time between sessions to reflect on healthy boundaries or whatever the fuck.”
“Reflect.” I should walk. I should.
But women in thigh highs don’t believe in obstacles. And clearly, neither do I.
“Yes. I’m growing,” she says, voice all sugary bright like she’s not actively trying to ruin my life.
“You’re fucking insane.”
“Okay, Lord Bench Press. That’s rude, especially coming from a man who’s also legally required to attend therapy,” she says with a touch more bite to her sugar.
“Yeah? I’m not the one treating it like Tinder.”
She steps up to the bar again, pretending she knows what she’s doing, but I clock the flaws instantly.
Grip’s too narrow. Stance is wrong. Shoulders tense like she’s waiting for me.
I should walk. I should let her pop a shoulder and get banned for liability.
But my body moves before my brain can veto.
“Your form’s shit,” I say, stepping in behind her. “You’ll fuck up your wrists.”
She looks over her shoulder, lashes batting like we’re in some kind of gym romcom porn parody. “Maybe I like it rough.”
I ignore the visual that gives me, barely.
My hands close over hers on the bar. “Wider grip.”
She obeys, dragging it out to feel every inch of my skin against hers, shivers and smiles. “Are you gonna fix my form all over, or just my hands?”
God fucking help me. I step closer. My voice is a growl in her ear. “Bend your knees.”
“Like this?” she whispers, sticking her ass out in a fucking challenge.
I swear under my breath. Adjust her hips. Her back arches. My restraint snaps halfway down my spine, gripping her hips.
“You always this hands-on, coach?” she teases.
I’m about to answer, probably with something regrettable, definitely something hard when Kevin’s voice cuts through the tension like a fucking foam roller to the balls.
“Yo, Jett!” he says. “You helping Delilah?”
I freeze. Her ass is still pushed back against my thighs.
Kevin approaches, all chipper fucking incompetence. “Need me to take over?”
No, Kevin. I do not need your untrained fingers anywhere near this disaster goblin in lipstick.
“She’s good,” I say. My jaw clicks with the effort it takes to stay civil. “We’re done.”
Delilah smiles like we just got engaged.
Kevin, oblivious as ever, gives her a welcome packet.
I imagine jamming it down his throat.
“See you next week, Jett,” she says, voice all sugar and sin. “I’ll schedule our time with Kev.”
Kev? Fuck.
I don’t respond.
Because if I open my mouth, I’ll say something like bring kneepads or you’re not surviving next week if you wear those thigh highs again.
She leaves.
Kevin lingers.
And I seriously debate how deep I’d have to dig to hide a body under the squat rack.