Page 60 of Omega's Faith

"Six days." Six days, fourteen hours, and approximately thirty-seven minutes. Not that I'm counting with the obsession of someone who used to mark time by when it was acceptable to have the first drink of the day.

"You sick?"

"No."

"Dying?"

"No."

"Did the church mouse put you on some kind of religious—"

"He left." The words come out flat. I focus on my form, on the wrap protecting my knuckles, on the burn in my shoulders. "Jonah left. A week ago."

The bag stills. Around us, I can hear the distant whir of treadmills behind soundproof glass and the muffled impact ofother fighters at other bags. Someone's trainer is counting reps in Italian.

"Shit," Ricky says finally. "I'm sorry, man."

"Don't be. We both knew it wouldn't work."

"Still. How long were you married, ten days?"

"Six." Six days of marriage. Two of wondering what the fuck we were doing. Three of them lost to heat and two to fighting.

"You okay?"

I throw a hook that makes the bag jump despite Ricky's grip. "I'm boxing at ten in the morning on a Thursday. What do you think?"

"I think you're processing. How was Cabo, you ask? Thanks for wondering. The resort was gorgeous."

I can't help but smile slightly. "How was Cabo?"

"Absolute paradise. Diana set me up at Las Ventanas. Private beach, swim-up bar that I couldn't use because apparently I'm 'recuperating from head trauma.' The concierge kept trying to get me to do yoga." He shudders theatrically. "I played a lot of golf instead. Met this developer from Texas who kept trying to ask me if I could get you to invest in his latest scheme."

"Sounds thrilling."

"The massage therapist made up for it. This Brazilian woman with hands that could crack walnuts and a laugh like—" He stops, catching something in my expression. "You really haven't been drinking?"

"Is that so hard to believe?"

"From you? Yes.”

I step back from the bag, pulling off my gloves. My hands are shaking slightly. Maybe it’s withdrawal but at least part is exhaustion. Pushing my body is easier than sitting still with my thoughts.

Before I can respond, one of the gym's discrete staff members appears at my elbow.

"Mr. Colborne? Mrs Norris has arrived. She's in the member's lounge."

I stare at him. "Diana's here? At the gym?"

"Yes, sir. She's quite insistent about seeing you immediately."

Diana doesn't come to gyms. Diana doesn't go anywhere that might involve sweat or effort or the possibility of seeing someone without their makeup done. In fifteen years, I've never seen her in anything less formal than business casual.

“I thought you said she wasn’t tracking you.”

“I guess I was wrong,” I say, handing Ricky my gloves.

"Want backup?"