Chapter 46
RIGGS
Instead of the treadmill, I tell Bruce I want to work on my dexterity and because it’s something he’s been pushing from day one, he readily agrees.
I’ve spent the last hour and a half doing toe taps on the short flight of training steps and lateral foot raises where I lift my foot and move it sideways over a stationary block.
It feels ridiculous but after about a thousand of them, it stops feeling ridiculous.
My shirt is soaked with sweat. Legs wobbling like they’re made of jelly.
More sweat dripping into my eyes, but I force myself to keep going.
“Come on, man,” Bruce chides me gently. “Let’s take a break.” He sounds like he regrets letting me choose today’s workout, after all. “You’re gonna gas out if you keep pushing.”
He’s right.
Letting go of the safety rails, I let myself fall back into my locked chair.
Legs twitching and jerking while they try to catch up to my brain, I yank at the towel I tossed over one of the parallel bars and use it to scrub at the excess sweat dripping down the back of my neck.
“I’m done for the day,” I tell Bruce without preamble. “You can take off.”
When I cut our session short—something I’ve never done—he lifts a skeptical blue brow at me and plants a hand on his hip. “Say what now?”
“You can leave.” I say it slowly, like I’m talking to a particularly obstinate child. “I’m done—see you tomorrow.”
For a second, Bruce just stares at me, shiny blue fingernails drumming against his hip. “Where’s Gemma?” he asks me suspiciously, like the answer might be tied up in the basement. “She didn’t let me in.”
Gemma is usually the one who greets him at the door when he gets here with her usual sunny smile.
She leads him into the kitchen where they chat for a few minutes, talking and laughing like they’re old friends and when he leaves it’s with pastries, a kiss on his cheek, and a see you tomorrow, Brucie.
Today it was me who opened the door when he knocked, and I can promise you I wasn’t smiling.
“Upstairs,” I answer, jaw tight and grinding my teeth to dust. “She has company.”
I don’t know who it is. I heard the front door open and slam shut, but by the time I got to the doorway to check, whoever it was had already made their way upstairs.
Despite Gemma’s confessions last night—that there is nothing going on between her and Colt and that she’s a virgin—I haven’t been able to convince myself that whoever is upstairs with Gem, isn’t him.
The mental images and ideas my fucked-up imagination has been feeding me about what’s been going on above my head for the last several hours is enough to make me want to burn the fucking house down, just so I can find out for sure.
So, Bruce’s concern about Gemma and where she is, isn’t entirely misplaced.
“Huh…” Dropping his hand away from his hip, Bruce flicks a knowing look over my sweaty frame. “She’s been upstairs this whole time?”
“All day,” I confirm, pushing the words past clenched teeth.
“With company.” He must see it on my face—he’s pushing me to a place neither of us wants me to go. Rather than backpedal, Bruce laughs. “Then I’ll just go up there to say a quick goodbye on my way out.”
Gripping the wheels of my chair, I shove myself back, away from the set of steps in front of me.
“Suit yourself,” I tell him with a who gives a shit shrug.
Angling my chair toward the door, I wheel myself away from him and into the kitchen.
Heading straight for the fridge, I open it to grab one of the bottles of water Gemma keeps chilled for me.
Cracking it open, I watch Bruce cross the kitchen to make his way up the back stairs, bag slung over his shoulder.
“Gemma, honey,” Bruce calls out while he climbs, disappearing behind the switchback. “I’m coming up…”
Sitting here, alone again, I drink my water and seethe while I listen to the murmur of voices in the upstairs hallway—Bruce and Gemma—chatting quietly. Probably about what an unhinged asshole I’ve been all day.
While I’m sitting here, blatantly trying and failing to eavesdrop, I hear a set of rapidly moving footsteps on the front staircase. A few seconds later, the front door opens and slams shut like it did earlier.
Gemma and Bruce are still talking so that means whoever was here with her just left.
What do you think? That after she told you she’s been holding on to her virginity for the last twenty–seven years, she just up and decided that enough is enough and called Shirtless Sheriff Colt to come over to relieve her of her burden?
I don’t know.
Maybe.
Yeah—maybe. And if she did, it’s none of your fucking business.
Matter of fact it’d probably be the smartest thing she’s ever done because when you leave, Colt’s still going to be here.
He’s gonna be the one drinking morning coffee in her kitchen and checking on her when she forgets to trap Janet in the house before she leaves for work.
He’s gonna be the one who stays and helps her pick up the pieces while you keep running like the sad little bitch you are.
Fuck.
Chest so tight, I feel like I can’t take a breath, I drain my water bottle and toss it in the trash while behind me, Bruce moves down the stairs to land in the kitchen.
“So?” I ask, disgruntled beyond reason that I can’t stop myself from asking. “Who was it?”
“That’s something you should probably ask her,” Bruce says, a smug smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ll tell you this… I wouldn’t kick ‘em out of my bed, that’s for sure.”
Moving across the kitchen, he disappears through the kitchen doorway. A few seconds later, he follows Gemma’s mystery guest out the door.