Page 4

Jaxon
2018
My hands tighten around the bar and I lift my knees, jacking them up to my chest while pushing out and up with my arms. The bar explodes from its slot to land in the one above it.
I do it again.
And again.
Again.
Again.
Until I’m at the top of the salmon ladder, hanging ten feet in the air. I can feel the scar slashed across my lower abdomen. The still-mending muscle underneath it starts to pull under my considerable weight.
I ignore it.
If my surgeon knew what I was doing, she’d shit a brick, but whatever. It’s been 3 months. I’m tired of sitting around. To be honest, I got tired of sitting around two and a half months ago.
What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.
I’ve got goals, and they don’t include letting myself go soft.
“Phone,” Simon says behind me. I had no idea he was standing there. If I had, I probably wouldn’t have pushed it so hard. He’s a worrier, like my mom.
Giving the ladder a final lunge, I unseat the bar, taking it with me as I make the ten-foot drop. I’m 6’7, so it’s not nearly as impressive as it sounds. Slamming the bar back into the bottom rung, I turn to find Simon watching me.
He’s a quiet kid, and it’s been awkward between us since I got back. Five years ago, he was five-years-old and my little shadow. Everywhere I went, he wanted to be. If he wasn’t sleeping or eating, he was perched on my shoulders. Sometimes even when he was eating or sleeping. Now he looks at me like I’m a total stranger.
Which I guess I am.
Scrubbing at my sweaty chest with a towel, I cross the space between us, fixing an easy smile on my face. “Thanks, kid.” I take the phone from him and reach out with my other hand to ruffle his hair the way I used to. He ducks out the door before I get the chance.
Guess he’s still mad at me.
Letting my free hand drop, I lift the phone to my ear. “Bennett.” I bark it, tossing the sweaty towel into the washing machine shoved into the corner of the detached garage. With the weight bench, salmon ladder, and punching bag it’s more gym than laundry room. I keep my ride off-site. Parking in Chicago costs a fucking fortune, but it’s worth it for the added security.
“Hey—got a job for you.” It’s Joe. He thinks salutations are a waste of time. When it comes to him, I agree. “Guy needs a driver, last minute.”
“For?” Last minute jobs are usually shit—which is a coincidence because so are my Saturday nights. Off weekends usually consist of me trying to awkwardly connect with Simon until he gets tired of me pestering him and disappears into his room for the rest of the night. Then I usually end up back out here, seeing how far I can push myself before my scar busts open.
Good times.
“Bachelorette party.” I hear his desk chair creak as he leans back to prop his feet on his desk.
Bachelorette party?
Yup. Total and complete shit.
“No way,” I say shaking my head. I’d rather bleed out on the mats than spend a Saturday night wrangling drunk chicks and mopping puke out of the back of my ride. “You know that’s not my thing. Get Mullens or Graham to do it.”
“Come on, man.” He starts to wheedle, using a tone that instantly sets my teeth on edge. “The ladies love you.”
Yeah. They love me. Because I’m under thirty and actually give a shit about keeping myself in fighting shape. Regardless, I don’t work out and stay sharp because I enjoy getting groped by drunk bridesmaids.
Instead of arguing I repeat myself. “Get Mullens or Graham to do it.” I’m freelance, not a regular employee. That means I can pick and choose my assignments. I don’t have to take his shit jobs, and he knows it.
“Can’t.” Joe blows out a sigh. “Got both of ‘em working.”