Chapter Seven Tom
Chapter Seven
Tom
I hadn’t veered off course with my routine for the past eight years.
No vacations. No holidays. No birthdays. No days off.
I slept, trained, ate, and worked. I tried to visit my grandmother every month, my parents once a decade, and Silas and Iris every other weekend. Each encounter was meticulously planned and took place in a controlled environment.
The strict routine grounded me and gave me a sense of control. When I followed the rules, nobody got hurt. Nobody got disappointed or overwhelmed.
Nobody died.
More importantly—through my routine, I managed to avoid the unfortunate episodes that took over me from time to time.
Today was going to be different, and I had a certain Italian boy with whiskey eyes to blame for the occasion. I was walking into the unknown, no matter how well prepared I was.
In fact, I could write a dissertation about each and every one of the Ferrante brothers.
There was Luca, who wore a civilized veneer to hide the elegant chaos beneath the surface. I didn’t think anyone—including his brothers—knew his secrets.
Achilles was afforded no such mask. Nothing refined or pleasant about the man. His face told his story, and his story was a Greek tragedy.
And then came Vincenzo. Gorgeous. Sweet. Kindhearted. Diabolical. A conundrum.
The nicest, yet the deadliest. He was the only one I hadn’t figured out completely.
Yet.
At eight thirty sharp, I showed up at the Empyrean gym on Bryant Park. Also known as the hottest, busiest, most obnoxiously expensive fitness club in Manhattan, so of course it was the place Enzo chose for his workouts.
I knew his hours and days of exercise. Hell, I knew his A/B plan. Today was his chest and leg day. His least favorite, but I was about to provide entertainment.
A model I recognized from billboards greeted me at the front desk, and after parting ways with four figures, I became the not-so-proud owner of a ten-pass card to the fitness center.
As soon as I set foot in the place, I noticed everyone was in their early to midtwenties, and were the proud owners of breast implants, six-packs, and enhanced asses.
I stood in my Nike shorts and sleeveless DriFit shirt, pissed by the fact all the men seemed to adhere to a uniform of gray sweatpants and a muscle shirt.
It took me an embarrassingly short time to spot Enzo. Force of habit meant my gaze always gravitated toward him.
He was standing next to the restroom, holding a protein shake and chatting with some dudebro. If my gay radar wasn’t wrong—and it never was—said dudebro was checking him out.
My chest constricted with a notion that made me want to punch a wall. Hadn’t he learned to be more careful about hooking up with people?
No. Enzo was in the closet. He wasn’t going to exchange numbers with this guy.
Not that I gave a shit either way, of course.
He wore a hoodie, but only zipped it halfway up, and without a shirt underneath, so everyone had a front seat to his godly pecs and demarcated six-pack.
Months of surveillance had their perks. I knew his first exercise was the bench press, so I headed in that direction and snagged the last available bench out of a row of ten.
After tossing my towel on the faux leather, the universal gym sign for pissing on one’s territory, I started piling plates on the bar. Sure enough, not two minutes passed before I heard, “Yo, Tomcat!”
He had not just given the FBI agent who was after his throat a pet name.
He had not.
Only he fucking had.
Enzo Ferrante, ladies and gents.
“My name is Tom,” I drawled without looking up from my task, already regretting coming here.
“Tell me about it; I moaned it this morning when I whacked off.” He tossed his towel on top of mine with an opaque smile, punctuated by a singular dimple. Of course he had one dimple. Two would be too conventional. None, too ordinary.
I didn’t know what to make of his confession. Was he messing around, or did he really think about me when he jerked off? Hard to tell. He seemed to be struggling to come to terms with his attractions.
“Decided to take me up on my Instagram offer?” He winked.
“No idea what you’re talking about.” My jaw tightened around a traffic jam of curses.
He squeezed between me and the bench, sliding the barbell clamps to lock both sides of the bar. “Course not. Spot you?”
An unenthusiastic grunt escaped me. Why was it so damn hard to be nice to him? I was a loner, but not a misanthrope. I had perfectly adequate communication skills. When I put my mind to it, I could be pleasant and charming.
“This your warm-up set, yeah?” He eyed the hundred and fifty pounds dismissively.
No, you little shit. It’s what I usually lift.
“Obviously.” My lips set in a disapproving line.
Why was I ashamed of the amount of weight I lifted? I’d never bought into the macho games the meathead crowd was a part of. And he was not about to change that.
“Can I just say, I’m glad you graduated from creeping on me like a voyeur to actually getting a workout as well?
” He took his position behind the bar while I slipped onto the bench.
He was so goddamn friendly he didn’t even give me shit for blocking him after mauling his face and spitting in his mouth.
“Trying something new, I guess.” I grabbed on to the bar and started pressing.
“That something should be me.”
I swallowed back an exasperated sigh, almost losing grip on the bar. I pushed the weight up and locked my elbows at the last second to avoid crushing myself.
He was the perfect mix between cockily adorable and completely fucking out of his depth. I knew he was struggling with figuring out what and who he was, but he insisted on pretending nothing was amiss. What else was he hiding behind his shiny exterior?
Enzo chuckled at my response. “You good, buddy?”
I needed to break bread with him to keep my Ferrante case alive.
“Look, about yesterday…”
“What about it?”
“I’m glad I was able to help with your…confusion.”
I finished my set and cleared the bench for him, taking position behind the bar as he piled another fifty-pound plate on either side before slipping underneath it.
“Yeah, it was a solid kiss.” He grabbed the bar and started pressing, not even breaking a damn sweat.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
Enzo peered around, making sure we were alone before dropping his voice to a whisper.
“I dunno…it was still just a kiss. Nothing more. Maybe I’m just experimenting?” he asked hopefully, staring up at me with those heavily lashed amber eyes. “Ya know, like dudes getting bro-jobs in college?”
“They’re probably bi, too.”
“So it’s not possible?” he croaked. “That I’m just…curious?”
“Listen, kid, you get curious—you google shit. You get horny—you let a stranger suck your dick in public. That’s not curiosity. That’s metaphysical certitude.” I paused, sighing. “Anyway, why do you need to label shit? You’re not a product on a fucking supermarket shelf.”
He finished his set, sliding sideways to make way for me. “That blowie sucked ass, but the kiss was good.” He ignored my words, the chaotic little ray of demonic sunshine that he was.
Wait…good?
Just good?
That kiss was imprinted into my fucking DNA now. It was a permanent love bite on my genetic makeup.
I took position. Grabbed the bar. Fuck. This shit was heavy. What did Chiara Ferrante feed her kids to build them this way?
If I didn’t pop a damn artery by the end of this, I’d consider it an accomplishment.
Enzo settled behind me, oblivious to my struggle. “So…I’m definitely gay?”
“I don’t know what you are.” Sweat formed around my temples, and my muscles trembled. “Other than fucking annoying. I do know that with one-hundred-percent certainty.”
He tapped his mouth, and my gaze immediately shifted to those pillowy lips. It was a simple movement, and yet it sucked me into a lustful vortex to a point that I nearly crushed myself to death.
Whatever went through his mind, he decided to keep it to himself. A welcome change, if you ask me.
“Hey, why didn’t you answer my texts?” He frowned.
“Blocked you.”
He pouted. “That’s rude. I was just being friendly.”
“You were being a pest.” I finished my set after twelve reps, not my usual fifteen, slipping under the bar carefully from fear I’d vomit. “I’ll unblock you, though.”
“Oh, yeah?” He curved an eyebrow. “What’s changed?”
I’m just desperate enough to ruin your life to ruin my own in the process.
This meant inserting myself into the eye of the shitstorm, and breaking bread with the man who flayed people for a living.
“It’s no longer a conflict of interest for me to socialize with you.”
“Oh? Shit. I figured you were bad at your job, what with your failure to get us arrested, but I hadn’t realized they would fire you.”
His flawless face twisted in genuine concern. Un-fucking-believable. I stopped myself from pointing out I surpassed all Code of Excellence metrics, and was, in fact, a fine supervisory special agent, not some mindless idiot pushing papers.
“I wasn’t fired. We dropped the Ferrante case.”
Not the exact truth, but it was a form of it. Zeke had declared the case all but dead. This last-ditch effort to connect with Enzo had me grasping at straws.
“Really?” He rubbed his lower lip.
“Really.”
“Well, la-di-da. I’m making us friendship bracelets tonight.”
“Go ahead. But if you give me one, I’ll probably try to choke you with it.” I flashed him one of those deep scowls that usually gave me headaches.
“I’ve always had a taste for violence.”
“You can’t handle my brand of brutality, kid.”
“Try me,” he challenged.
“I wouldn’t tempt me.”
Chuckling to himself, he swept his eyes over me, zoning in on my groin. I shifted, returning the favor. His quads were magnificent. Muscular, smooth, deeply tanned, and tastefully inked. The outline of his dick suggested either a semi or a monstrous flaccid cock. My gaze returned to him.
He swallowed visibly, wetting his lower lip. “Gotcha. Well, still… I just might call you.”
“I just might answer.”
He smirked. I didn’t.
Enzo sighed. “Do you ever smile, Agent Rothwell?”