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Needing to get to the gym to silence my thoughts I quicken my steps to my room. I didn’t have time to unpack my suitcase yesterday, so I rummage through and find my yoga pants and matching crop top.

I hunt for something appropriate to cover me in the gym, but all I find are dresses. I packed in such a rush that I forgot my tee I usually wear.

“Damn it,” I hiss. I never go to the gym in just a crop top. My self-esteem or my mother’s words would never allow it. The only time I do, is in my heels class.

“When you dress like that, Gabriella, you are asking for attention.”

“Don’t wear that. You are giving men the wrong impression.”

“What did you expect when you drink and dress like that?”

Phrases I have heard on repeat since I was a teen echo through my mind, and I close my eyes as if that will make them magically vanish. I’ve always been told attention is a bad thing, well, attention that comes to you because of how you look. I had to wear my hair a certain way, my make up a certain way, my clothes a certain way. Enough to look pretty and put together, but never enough to draw attention. Just enough to blend in and not take center stage. That awful swell of anxiety begins in the pit of my stomach, and it makes me want to just stay in my room and do a workout in here.

No, fight this, Gabby. You deserve to be seen.

My feet pound against the treadmill while beads of sweat trickle down my back and chest, alerting me that I have pushed my body to the fullest. This feels good. This is what I needed; to sweat out the toxins and let my mind rest for just a minute. Music blasts through my headphones and nothing exist. I was thankful that the hotel gym was empty when I arrived. I mean,who is working out in Vegas? Probably not many. I managed to buy a t-shirt from the hotel gift store that says I love Vegas in big letters. Not my usual style, but it covered up everything I needed it to. I slow my pace to walking and take a sip of water, welcoming the cold liquid as it soothes my burning throat. Knowing I need to stretch, or I will ache like a mother trucker later, I make my way over to the mats.

I place my water bottle down and quickly scan the still-empty gym. The sweat-soaked t-shirt clings to my body, and I need to get rid of it. I reach the hem of my shirt and pull it up over my head and discard it next to my water bottle. I capture a glimpse of myself in the full length mirror. My skin is glowing from my workout and my abs look more defined. I work hard to have the definition I have, but I can’t ever bring myself to let anyone see it.

I reach above my head, stretching my arms and bending my spine slightly. I inhale and then fold forward, exhaling as I get into the downward dog position, feeling the stretch in my back and legs. I repeat the movement, the music still blasting through my wireless headphones. My hips begin to move to the beat on instinct, and as I bring my hands to the floor, I widen my hips and legs and reach between my legs, pushing the stretch. I close my eyes, really leaning into the burn pulsing through my body. I love the feeling of stretching after an intense run.

I bring my body back to a standing position, raising my arms above my head for one final stretch. Opening my eyes, I let out a startled scream when I see the familiar silhouette of a man standing a few steps behind. But when I rip off my headphones and spin to face him, my breathing a little ragged, I instantly relax when I take in the glorious sight of his bare, toned, tattooed skin dripping in sweat. He gives me a small smirk; one so quick I might have missed it had I not been staring at his features.

“Need a hand stretching out, baby girl?”

Chapter Eight

Brad

When I walked into the gym after my early morning run, I did not expect to stumble upon Gabriella, bent over, panting, sweating, and stretching her insane body. The woman is fire. Every inch of her toned and defined, and it’s doing things to me and evidentially my dick, if the tent forming in my running shorts is anything to go by.

Stand down, soldier, your services are not required at this time.

But, fuck, I wish they were. This little soft spot, crush, whatever the hell you wanna call it, that I have for her, is becoming increasingly difficult to manage. I have control of every aspect of my life, but I worry this may be something I can’t.Blurred Linesby Robin Thicke blasts through the gym speakers,and I step a little closer to where she stands, unmoving and silent.

“You okay?” I ask, concern in my voice that I’ve startled her.

I watch her throat bob as she swallows, and suddenly an image of Gabriella on her knees in front of me, opening up her pouty lips, flits through my mind, and I have to clear my own throat to stop a groan escaping.

She’s your friend, she’s your friend.

I couldn’t tell you when this shift happened. When I suddenly started looking at her differently. I think it’s always been there, but the feelings are intensifying, and add in that there is something about her that reminds me of the girl in the red mask at the club. Maybe it’s the curves of her body, the way she moves, the thought of bending her over, claiming her, making her mine. It has been my every thought, and I think it’s the reason I can’t seem to look at Gabriella as just my friend anymore.

“Gabriella,” I say slowly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you jump.”

Her wide eyes look at me, and it’s as if she fixes a mask back in place, and the sweet smile that always graces her face appears as she says, “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I had my headphones on. I didn’t hear you come in. Did… did you go for a run?” she asks, her words hurried as she bends down to pick up a white t-shirt and fumbles to place it over her head. The fabric falls over her body, drowning her, hiding her.

I furrow my brows. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“I, erm, didn’t have anything appropriate to wear in the gym, so I had to go to the hotel gift shop. This was all they had. I heart Vegas, yay.” Her voice has a nervous edge to it.

“What’s wrong with what you were just wearing?” I question. She was wearing a matching yoga set that clung to her in all the right places. She looked incredible in an outfit most women wear in the gym.

“It, erm… was a little too erm… revealing. I needed something to cover up here,” she says quietly, gesturing to her stomach and chest. Sympathy, anger, I don’t know what simmers in my body.Who’s made her feel this way?

I close the space between us. “Hey,” I say, lifting her chin with forefinger and thumb. “You don’t need to hide or cover up. Do you hear me? You’re beautiful and don’t need to hide.” Her eyes widen at my words, and I worry I’ve overstepped.

I’ve noticed how she always hides in the background, how she never wears or says or acts in a way that would draw attention to herself. The only time she does is when she lets her hair down and has a few drinks, but again, she only does that when she’s around her friends, around people she feels safe with. It’s with that thought that I realize that maybe I make her feel safe, and that thought has my body tingling in an unfamiliar way. I’ve done a lot of wrong in my life, let people down, made mistakes, and hurt people. I didn’t think I was capable of making anyone feel safe, but I want to. I want to make her feel safe.