Page 36 of Wrecked

Sure enough, the fitness center is open, although the lights are dimmed and there’s no one in here, at least not that I can see. I head straight for the jogging track that runs the perimeter of the large, open facility. I hit the textured latex surface and start running hard, not bothering to warm up. I figure I got a good enough warm-up in Cooper’s bed.

According to the sign on the wall, twelve laps is a mile. So I start counting. One, two, three—ten, eleven, twelve. I run the first mile in six minutes, which is pretty decent. Halfway through the second mile, my body starts to lag. My thighs are shaking. I haven’t eaten since lunch, and the two shots of coconut rum I had at Sapphires aren’t helping.

After I force myself to finish the second mile, I step off the track and head to the snack room to grab a bottle of Gatorade and a protein bar. I’m still not ready to go to my apartment.

After downing the drink and food, I move to the punching bag section. The idea of hitting something right now sounds really good.

After I kick off my shoes and socks, I let the bag have it, punching it with my bare fists. I don’t bother with gloves or even tape, because I want this to hurt. I want to beat the bag until my knuckles bleed. I need physical pain to overshadow the emotional pain I’m feeling. My heart feels like it’s been shredded. My gut feels sick, and it’s threatening to reject the food and drink I just consumed. God, please don’t let me barf here. The clean-up would be a bitch.

Besides, I’ll be damned if I’ll let Cooper make me puke.

I keep punching the bag, over and over, relentlessly, hoping to block out the thoughts of self-derision swirling in my brain. Some part of me is aware of the drops of blood on the mat under my feet, but I ignore that.

I’m such a fucking idiot, I deserve this.

I keep seeing a pair of steely blue eyes, short gray hair, those gorgeous arms, that thick, veiny cock.

“Ahhh!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “Damn you!” I punch the bag over and over, wishing it was Cooper’s stupid, handsome face. But at the same time, I can’t accuse him of lying to me or deceiving me. No, I did that to myself.

“I’m such a fucking idiot!”

I cock back my fist in preparation to throw another punch, but before I make contact with the bag, someone grabs my hand.

I turn to see who the fuck is in here. “Liam?”

“Hi, Sam.” He frowns. “Is everything okay?”

My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. “Yeah, fine. Everything’s fine.”

Clearly, he doesn’t believe me. “What are you doing in here this late?”

I shrug. “Felt like a workout. I ran a couple miles, then thought I’d beat up this bag.” I try to laugh, to sound easygoing, but I do a piss poor job of it. Liam’s still holding my fist. The skinof my knuckles is torn and bloody. I glance down at the blood splatters on the floor at my feet. “Shit, I made a mess. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Let me clean your hand.”

“That’s all right. I can do it.”

Liam examines my wrist. “Where did these bruises come from?”

I glance down to see a ring of purple fingerprints circling my wrist.Cooper. When he pinned my wrists to the mattress.“Oh, that. It’s nothing.”

Liam meets my gaze head on. “Who did this to you?”

Shit. “No one.”

He clearly doesn’t believe me. “Sam, did someone hurt you tonight?”

My stomach tightens. “No.”Yes, but not in the way he means.

“I’ll be honest with you—I heard you yelling earlier. Now, tell me who hurt you.”

“It’s not like that. No one hurt me. I did a stupid thing tonight, but I swear to you, no one hurt me. He—it was consensual, Liam. He didn’t do anything to me I didn’t want.”

“If someone hurt you, all I need is a name, and I’ll handle it.”

I laugh. “Thanks. I appreciate that you’re willing to come to my rescue, but I promise you it’s not necessary.”

“All right. At least let me get you cleaned up.”