Chapter 8
Needing to get my head on straight or at least stop myself from going two doors down and burying myself in what’s become the only thing I think about lately.
I hit the shower and crank the handle all the way to cold.
The water hits me like ice, a shock to the system, but the ache…
the need… it doesn’t fade. It settles deeper.
Becomes something heavier. Meaner. It sits in my chest like a live wire, humming with frustration.
After the shower, that did nothing to sate this growing hunger, I dry off with rough, impatient hands, dragging the towel over my skin like it might scrub the craving out of me.
I drag on a T-shirt, joggers, whatever the hell’s closest, and grab my phone.
I dial Justin, out of habit more than anything.
I need a distraction. Anything to keep my mind from drifting right back to Blair.
It’s fucking Saturday. I should be working. I should be doing something productive. But nothing, no amount of focus, no responsibility, is enough to distract from the way she lives in my head lately.
Blair.
That mouth, smart, sinful, begging to be ruined. Those legs that go on forever, made to be draped over my shoulders while I make her forget her own name. That body, fuck, that body, built to be bent, marked, and worshipped like a religion I’d gladly burn for.
And I’ve barely even touched her. Not in the way I want. But it’s enough to poison everything else.
And then there’s her laugh.
Unfiltered, unbothered. It cuts through the noise in my head, and somehow it makes everything feel easier. Lighter.
I fucking hate that.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve never been reckless like this. Never let myself spiral over anyone, especially someone who would cost me everything.
She’s off-limits. Full stop.
That should be enough, but it’s not.
If anything, Blair being forbidden makes her a problem I want to solve with my hands. With my mouth. With every goddamn inch of me.
Maybe if I fuck her out of my system, I’ll get back to normal. Maybe then I’ll stop feeling like I’m on the verge of ruining everything.
But until then… I’m hanging on by a thread.
“What’s up, Cal?” Justin’s voice comes through, easy and familiar, reminding me I actually called him.
“Tell me you’re in town,” I say. “I need to clear my head, man.”
I’ve already hit the weights in my home gym, but it didn’t do shit. I still need to hit something, or at least talk to someone.
“You’re in luck. Gym in thirty?”
I glance at my watch, calculating the drive.
“Bet.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m pulling up in front of the boxing gym where we usually spar. It’s been shut down for renovations for the past few weeks, but since Justin owns the place, he’s got the keys, and I know he’ll let us in.
“Dun dun da-dunnn…”
I stop cold.
This fucker.
“You’re not serious.”
Sure enough, Justin’s right behind me, humming the wedding march like an idiot, smirk already locked and loaded like he’s been waiting all day for this.
My engagement caught them all off guard, and I know they’re calling bullshit in their heads.
They just haven’t said it out loud yet, which I’m grateful for because if they do, I’ll have to lie straight to their faces.
“Really?” I deadpan, arching a brow.
He throws an arm around my shoulder, all charm and zero shame.
“C’mon, fiancé. Gotta keep you loose for the big day. If you freeze on that aisle, you’re going to end up a meme. A tragic one.”
“Keep talking and I’ll forget to pull my punches,” I say, the threat empty but satisfying.
“Hey, I’m just saying, you might want to rehearse that walk. Wouldn’t want you tripping in front of the entire guest list,” he says, laughing as he pulls a key from his pocket.
He unlocks the gym door with a practiced flick of his wrist, and the place creaks open like it’s been waiting for us. The air inside smells faintly of fresh paint and vinyl.
“After you, bridezilla,” he adds with a mock bow.
I roll my eyes and walk in, already pulling off my gym bag.
“Keep it up, asshole. Let’s see who’s laughing after a few rounds.”
“Bring it,” he fires back, dropping his bag and starting to wrap his hands.
The gym is modern with state-of-the-art facilities with a gritty, authentic atmosphere that pays homage to the sport’s roots.
Upon entering, you’re greeted by a spacious, well-lit area with high ceilings and industrial-style exposed beams. The floors are polished concrete, easy to clean, and durable enough to withstand the toughest training sessions.
To the left, a row of high-tech treadmills and stationary bikes lines the wall, equipped with digital screens for tracking progress and streaming motivational content.
Adjacent to this cardio zone, a series of sleek, adjustable weight machines and free weights cater to strength training needs.
The gym’s centerpiece, however, is the full-sized boxing ring, elevated on a platform with reinforced ropes and cushioned flooring, ready for intense sparring sessions.
Surrounding the ring, multiple heavy bags, speed bags, and double-end bags hang from sturdy steel frames.
Each bag is crafted from high-quality, tear-resistant material, ensuring longevity and consistent performance.
The walls are adorned with large mirrors, allowing boxers to perfect their form and technique, while motivational posters and historic fight photos provide inspiration.
In the back, you’ll find well-maintained locker rooms with sleek showers, digital lockers, and amenities like fresh towels and toiletries.
“Ready to go, man?” Justin asks, tightening the laces on his gloves with a sly grin.
I return the grin, feeling that familiar rush of competitive fire. “Always.”
We step into the ring, a pristine square bordered by red and white ropes, the floor marked with years of wear but sturdy beneath our feet.
The high ceilings and exposed beams of the gym add a rugged, industrial vibe, while bright lights shine down, illuminating every inch of the space.
It’s the perfect place to settle into the rhythm of a good fight.
We tap gloves, eyes locked in a silent promise of a battle to come.
Justin moves first, throwing a couple of testing jabs.
I block them easily, my arms absorbing the impact like it’s nothing.
I counter with a quick hook, just to see if he’s awake, and sure enough, he dodges it with his usual practiced finesse.
We’re circling each other, our bodies moving in sync, both knowing every step of this dance from years of practice.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on with you, or do I need to beat it out of you?” he asks. His tone is light, but there’s that edge of curiosity underneath.
I fake a jab, then go for a harder right hook. “I don’t know, man, it’s this girl…”
He grunts at the hit but shakes it off, the look on his face telling me he’s intrigued.
“She’s got me all twisted up in my head. I can’t stop thinking about her, and I don’t like that shit. At all.” I barely finish the sentence when he lands a punch square in my torso, the force of it making me cough.
“Are we talking about your fiancée here?” he asks, his breathing steady as we both bob and weave, dodging each other’s swings. We’re not aiming for faces, too much business at stake, but the hits to the body still sting.
I pause for a beat. “Nah, man. Her little sister.”
The second I say it, I see the surprise flash across his face. He falters just enough for me to seize the opening. With a ferocious cross, I catch him off guard, and he stumbles backward, crashing to the mat with a thud. “Cheating fucker.” He coughs due to the blow.
Justin stays down for a beat, flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Probably processing my confession more than the punch that put him there.
I sink to the mat beside him, grab my water bottle, the cool liquid barely soothing the burn in my throat.
“She’s too young. Too pretty. Too mouthy.
Too unavailable.” I drag the words out. “Just… too much. And somehow, all of that makes me want her more.”
He huffs a short, incredulous laugh and finally props himself up on his elbows. “Well… fuck.”
“Yeah, no shit. But here’s what’s tripping me up about this whole thing…
” I drag a hand over my jaw, trying to line the words up right.
“I’ve never been with a white woman before.
Never even been attracted to one. And that’s not…
” I pause, searching for the right tone.
“That’s not to say I have a problem with white women.
I think they’re beautiful. I’ve just always been drawn to Black women…
women who look like me, women around my age, maybe a couple years younger or older.
So none of this makes sense. The way I want her.
The way she gets in my head. I think I’m losing it. ”
Justin doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, and when I glance up, he’s giving me that knowing look, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What?”
He cocks a brow. “You do realize you’re engaged to a white woman, right?”
I think about what I just said and let out a low curse. “Yeah, well, that’s different. That’s… love. This is pure lust.”
I hear how weak that sounds, but I keep talking because I can’t tell him the truth, that I picked Abigail to marry because I thought she was safe.
Because I figured there was zero chance I’d want her that way.
I thought I knew myself well enough at thirty to trust that.
To believe I could keep things strictly professional, help us both get what we wanted, and walk away clean when it was over.
“Right,” Justin says slowly, that smug little smile still sitting on his face. He lets a beat pass before adding, “Well… why not get it out of your system? You said this is just lust, right? Just attraction. So why not, just once, if she’s willing? Get it out of your system.”
Because Abigail specifically asked me not to touch her sister. And I’m terrified that if I do, I’ll want her again. I’ve tried to be logical, but what I’m dealing with isn’t logical. It’s Blair. She’s a wildfire I keep wanting to walk into, knowing damn well I’ll get burned.
“And if things… grow into something more, then you deal with that honestly. Just don’t pretend it doesn’t exist.”
His words make me scowl. I don’t want a relationship with Blair, far from it.
I barely know her. This isn’t some love-at-first-sight bullshit.
But I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want her.
That’s what’s twisting me up. It’s not the idea of having her once, it’s the fear that once I do, I won’t be able to stop.
So I do what I always do when the walls start closing in: I deflect. I lean back, a smirk tugging at my lips, pretending it’s all a joke.
“I’m not you and Kingsley. I don’t do love. I just want to fuck her. That’s it. That’s all this is.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Justin says, flipping me off but laughing. “I’ll have you know we’re very happy.”
It’s true. They’re happy, as far as I can tell.
Seeing them with their partners sometimes makes me wonder if that’s ever going to be me, if I’ll ever have something like what my parents had.
And I can admit it, even if I don’t say it out loud: I want that kind of love.
Not just a fling, not just lust. I want the kind of love that makes you feel instantly at ease the second you see that one person.
The kind that’s steady, comforting, grounding.
I’ve grown up seeing it, the way my parents moved through the world together, the way they knew each other without having to explain.
I’m not a robot; I can’t pretend I don’t want that.
But right now… right now, it feels impossible.
My focus is my work, my projects, my life built brick by brick, floor by floor.
Love like that… maybe it’s something I’ll get one day.
Maybe not. But I can’t stop myself from thinking about it.
Even if it’s just a thought, a fleeting glimpse of a life I want but don’t yet have.
We get back up, stretching, gearing up for round two.
We finish the round in silence, the sound of gloves hitting skin filling the air. But even as I throw my last punch, all I can think about is Blair. This obsession is going to ruin me. But damn if I’m not already too far gone to stop it.