“What?” I glare at him. “Since when?”
Brantley stares at me, hitting the blender off after mixing his shake. “Since forever. Everyone knows that pancake batter needs to sit in the fridge for an hour before you cook it.”
There are so many different layers to Brantley Vitiosis and I’m so thankful he peels a couple of them away for me. “Aw Bran Bran, you’re so sweet.”
“First warning of the day,” he mutters nonchalantly, pouring his protein shake into a shaker.
I put the mixture in the fridge, taking out a water bottle while I’m there. “I’ll listen, but you’re eating these with me.”
I turn around, laughing, but he’s already gone. How did I manage to live in a house with a bunch of moody, hot, sexually charged men?
Oh, that’s right, my fucking blood.
I made my way to the third floor after hassling Bailey for some workout clothes. We both agreed that we’re going shopping today, because I really do need clothes. I almost forgot about all the money that’s in my account. It’s unreal.
Walking slowly down the hallway, I see one door directly at the end. It’s black and has patterns carved into the wood. Brantley’s room, no doubt. I wonder what his room looks like? Will it be as dark as him, or will it be all white and bland? Somehow, the latter just doesn’t seem feasible.
I go for the second door and push it open. My mouth drops to the floor when I take in the space. I know that they all take their training seriously, but I could live in here. The walls are floor to ceiling glass, built to curve around the whole back of the house. You get the view of the forest and can see from here the clearing where the graveyard is. I shiver. Fucking sinister house. The gym is probably the most executive part about this whole house. The equipment is all laid out perfectly, with everything plus more that you will find in a regular gym. Including a stepper. Thank fuck.
There’s a punching bag in the corner too that calls to me. I could do with a punching session. I need to exhaust all this energy before tonight, when and I’m faced with Nate and his—virginity stealer.
I push my earbuds into my ears and flick through my Spotify as I slowly pace toward the treadmill. I climb on and hit level 12 instantly. I hit Halsey’s playlist, needing more of her soothing voice after this morning. “Without Me” starts playing and I pick up my pace. It always takes me a couple of minutes to find my stride, huffing and puffing like an unfit cow that hasn’t worked out in months—because I haven’t. Finally, my breathing becomes level and the lyrics to the song disappear. I need something angrier to match the raging sweat that’s dripping down my face, not to be the counterpart of the sad beat of my heart. “Go Fuck Yourself” by Two Feet comes on instead and I leave it, because who wouldn’t. This song is the best two-or so minutes in music history. That beat. I hit the ramp up to 2. My thighs burn, my heart is pounding in my chest and for the next twenty minutes, I’m thinking of nothing but the ache in my muscles.
Turning off the treadmill, I jump down but jerk in shock when I see Nate standing near the door. I rip off my earbuds. “What are you doing here?”
He doesn’t answer, just watches me as I reach for my water bottle. His eyes drop down my body and I curse Bailey and her skimpy clothes—once again. I’m in nothing but a bright green sports bra and little black spandex shorts. They’re so short that my ass actually falls out of them after a while.
Nate ignores me, pushing forward and going straight for the weight machines. “Working out. What do you think?”
I want to just leave after the run, but I also don’t want it to be obvious that his presence disrupts me in such an obvious way.
So I go for the punching bag, pushing the gloves on while glaring at him. He removes his shirt and slings it over a bench, stretching his back muscles.
The tattoos on his back flex above his muscles. The Elite King skull sitting above New York City is over his left side. He has old English writing curving across his traps that read “MALUM” like the one that sits over his pelvic area that says “King.”
I need to stop staring.
I push my earbuds back into my ears to distract me and hit play on Rihanna’s “Desperado.” I wrap my knuckles with the smaller gloves. Why are there girl sized gloves here? And stretch my neck. Bailey, obviously… I start with single jabs, launching them toward the hard, black sack. Inhale, exhale. I tense my abs with every hit, sweat continuing to pour out of my flesh. When the single jabs start to lose their effect, I start on one, two, three combos. I speed up and then slow down, all while keeping my abs tight and my core strong.
My arms burn the longer I punch, but it feels good. Ridge and I used to do this every weekend in his garage, so it’s easy to pick back up on the combos. Everything that has happened up to this point in my life starts to slowly drift through my head and I find my punches getting hard. My aggression hits a new level and I swing my leg around in a roundhouse kick before going back to the jab and hook combinations. I don’t want to stop. I want to beat this bag until my limbs fall off. My earbuds fall out of my ears and the loud base that Nate is obviously playing takes up every inch of the area. “Na Na” by
