Chapter 12
TWELVE
Danika
The sun starts to peak over the horizon, and I have yet to leave this damn treadmill. Hush scared the living crap out of me but not in ways other men do.
With determination, I turn off the machine and head up to where the dummy bags are.
But I fumble to a stop at the sight of Hush at the pull up bar.
Sweat glistens on his skin, dampening the back of his shirt.
The swirls of his black ink can be seen and with each pulling movement, his biceps flex.
Not to mention his back muscles being extremely visible under his tight, sweat drenched shirt.
I find the safety of the wall resting my hand to it, watching his every movement. He has to be on like fifty pull ups by now. Well… maybe not that many but it must be close.
He catches my gaze, staring back intently as he drops down. His eyes never leave mine as he catches his breath.
Shit.
My cheeks warm and I snap my head away, grabbing the tape from my bag, and wrapping it around my sore knuckles on each hand.
I start with the same moves I’ve been practicing and punch the bag with the highest amount of force my body will allow, continuing the sets repeatedly.
A presence hovers over me, and I stop to see Hush standing tall only a couple feet away looking at me with narrowed eyes.
“Have you been icing them?” The quiet huskiness of his voice vibrates through my body, and I follow his gaze down to my hands. The bruises are large enough so even with tape, they’re visible.
I haven’t been, which I know is stupid, but my focus is to get stronger, not weaker and with my shifts at the diner and my persistence with coming here every day, I guess I haven’t really had the time. “No,” I flatly answer.
Hush takes a small step forward. “You should be icing your hands in between and elevating them. Maybe try soaking them in Epsom salts, too. You can’t expect to keep going at this rate if you don’t give your body time to heal.
” His words are stern and somewhat aggressive.
Which I find odd because Hush was never in any way aggressive.
Not with me. Or with anyone for that matter.
That I’ve seen. Even defending me, he’s always calm, cool, and collective.
He sighs and any part of his tense body language fleets. “You’re pushing yourself too hard.”
Not hard enough.
“I’ll be fine.” I turn my body back toward the dummy and continue throwing punches, wincing at every blow that lands.
Dammit.
I just know he notices that.
I pause, and before he can walk away, I say, “Attackers don’t care if you’re sore. Or if your knuckles are bruised.” My eyes meet his darkened ones, surprising me with the intensity. But then something changes, and they lighten, soften with empathy.
“Resting doesn’t make you weak.”
Maybe he’s right, but how do I tell him that I enjoy the push? Enjoy the soreness it brings afterward. Or how I crave it because it makes me feel something.
After more than an hour, Hush is gone, leaving me to myself. But when my body refuses to let me workout any longer, I leave too, entering the outside with the welcoming of winter air. The coldness soothes my aching hands.
The tiredness takes over considering I barely slept last night. Some nights are worse than others. Which is why I end up here. To let out steam.
I make my way up the short hill to the clubhouse.
“Hey, mommy. It’s the pretty girl from the diner.” A child’s voice I recognize sounds in the short distance, and she sends me an excited wave. I don’t think I’ve seen Chloe since the diner and a warm smile instantly spreads across my face.
Jules carries a dress in one hand while trying to tug a relentless six-year-old with the other. I quickly make my way over to her, offering to take the dress for her. It’s gorgeous with soft material feeling like pajamas.
“Thanks.” Jules lets out a tired sigh but manages to throw a genuine smile at me. “I thought my arm was going to fall off.”
With the dress draped over my forearm I look down at Chloe. “What’s up, cutie? I like your coat.”
It’s pink with faux fur lining the inside.
“Thanks! Are you coming inside for waffle day?”
Jules looks away from her energetic child to me. “Maggie is making her famous blueberry waffles this morning. You should come.”
“Yes! Please. Pretty please. You can sit next to me.” Chloe sprints the two steps to me and grabs my hand. “Please!”
I think about how sweaty and gross I am, really hoping I don’t smell, but how do I say no to a begging six-year-old who looks that adorable. Her big blue eyes peer up at me. The same color as her daddy’s.
“I would but I just got done at the gym and—”
“Say no more. Charger’s old room is vacant upstairs. You can borrow the shower.”
“Mommy lets go so I can save Danika a seat!”
“Okay. Okay.” Jules rolls her eyes in playfulness leading the way inside the clubhouse.
I follow beside her, still carrying her dress. “Mind me asking what the occasion is? This dress is… hot.”
The black material and sexy drop at the chest will hug her full girlies in the most perfect way, and it appears to flare at the waist giving room for her baby bump.
“Oh, that’s right. I’m glad you’re here actually. Got any plans for tomorrow night?” She lets go of Chloe’s hand and her little girl goes running to the back where Maggie fixes the table.
Do I have plans? If plans count as rotting on my couch with a blanket and a movie on my night off then yes, I do.
“No. No plans.”
“Do you wanna come out with me and the girls? Well, and the guys. It’s a combo bachelorette and bachelor party. Honestly, it was the only way Charger would agree to let me go to a bar.”
“Let you?” My brows raise. He doesn’t seem like that type, but I don’t really know them all that well.
“Ah. Let me rephrase that. It sounded worse than it is. Had I wanted separate parties, he would have stuck a bodyguard on me. But honestly, I was okay with the guys joining us. Here let me take that.” Jules holds out an arm, and I place the dress over it.
“It’s at The Fallen Star. No where crazy. So, what do you say?”
Going out with them and the guys doesn’t make my stomach sour, in fact, a rush of excitement sparks in me. “I’m in.”
She smiles. “Normally I’d do a little girly hop in excitement but considering I’m only months from giving birth, I fear this little babe might slide right on out of here.” I chuckle. “I can’t wait to tell Tequila. All right, I’ll see you after your shower. Breakfast should be ready by then.”
We part ways as I head up to find Charger’s old room. I realize Jules never specified which one is his.
Shit.
There’s music playing from behind the door on my left, so I keep going and walk a bit until I reach another.
I try the handle and when it opens, the inside of it looks desolate.
With only the bare minimum. A bed. A dresser.
And a bathroom. It’s tidy and clean, so this must be it.
It doesn’t even look lived in. The bookshelf near the bed catches my interest and I run a finger along the older looking spines.
Classics. Charger liked to read classic literature. Interesting.
The shower has a bar of soap, shampoo, but also a bottle of body wash. Guess it’s here just in case.
I turn on the light and close the door with a familiar scent rolling through me. I can’t place it, but I know I smelled that tobacco and woodsy scent somewhere before. Or is it pine?
I undress, stepping into the warm spray of water and close my eyes. It feels so damn good on my skin. My muscles ache with an extreme tightness, so the heat is heavenly. I can stay here forever.
Taking the bar of soap, I lather it up, running it all over my body. Not sure how sanitizing this is, but it is soap. It’s self-cleaning.
Even though I don’t want to get out, I also don’t want to be rude and miss breakfast. Or be weird and spend forever in Jules’s fiancé’s old room.
With the towel tucked securely between my breasts, I shake out my hair, giving the natural waves a chance to surface.
Outside the bathroom, a picture lays on the floor.
It wasn’t there before, and the door must have blown it off from wherever it was.
The pocket size picture is too far away to make out any details, but I can tell it’s a woman.
Maybe a picture of Jules that got left behind which is super sweet to think Charger keeps a picture of her close by.
I bend to pick up the photo and with it now in my hands, I go still. The woman staring back at me is… oddly familiar. So familiar that my blood turns cold, it rushing to my toes.
The bedroom door opens, and I jump back managing to place the photo back down onto the dresser. I create a scenario in my mind that I made this up just now because the woman in the photo couldn’t possibly be her. And who the hell will believe me?