Page 130 of Twisted Ties

I nod, curtly. Then I make my way to the front door. I can smell her scent, barely there, but I can smell it.

I need to get the hell out of here.

I have my hand on the doorknob when he says,

“She is special, Tristan. Just not in the way you think.”

41

Spencer

It’slate but I can’t sleep. Haven’t been able to sleep for days. Partly it’s the upcoming match. The biggest of the academic year. The one everyone is counting on me to win for them.

Partly it’s what happened. The fear that it will happen again. I’m taking double the tablets I should and pushing my body to the physical limit. Despite that, the thing still stirs inside me. Won’t leave me damn alone. And those black clouds have been looming over me, turning all my thoughts dark.

Usually, I’d go fuck some girl. Let them suck my cock. A way of releasing the tension, soothing my mind, and distracting me from my worries.

That shit isn’t working anymore. I’ve tried. I just end up thinking about Pig Girl, comparing the girl in front of me tothe girl that won’t get out of my head. It’s the fucking anthesis of a turn on and my cock won’t play ball.

Instead, I’m here in the gym, lifting weights until my arms shake.

I’m about to increase the weight I’m lifting even further, when the door creaks open and Tristan strides through, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts.

“You can’t sleep, either?” I say.

He spots me on the bench.

“I just went to see my father.”

“You want to hit something?”

“Your face.”

I rub my jaw. I’m almost healed. Though that ache won’t go. I still feel like shit.

“I was thinking more about the punch bag. But if you want to go a round and get yourself knocked out before Saturday’s game …”

“I’d like to go down to the warehouse,” he says, cracking his knuckles and rolling his shoulders. “Blow off some steam.”

“Yeah,” I say. I wouldn’t mind doing that myself. But the match is days away and neither of us can risk an injury.

“Let’s do the bag,” Tristan says.

We’re silent as we strap up our hands, and then I hold the punchbag in my arms, throwing my weight against it and letting him volley his fists into its depth. Anger spits in his eyes, his brow is drawn low, and it doesn’t take long for sweat to slide down his face.

“What did he want?” I ask.

“Asking questions about the werebeast attack,” he huffs out, punching at the bag with all his force.

“Right.” I know he won’t have told him. I also know that will have cost him; even in the dull light of the gym, the faintmarks on his neck are visible. They’ll be gone by the morning. Tristan will heal them himself.

“Asking questions about the pig girl too. Thinks she’s special.”

My eyes automatically fall to my stomach. The mark’s gone now. “I think we should talk to her again.”

He frowns harder, smacking the punch bag so hard, I’m tousled backwards. “It’s impossible. She won’t talk to us.”

I regain my balance. “Then we’ll make her.”