That doesn’t mean I won’t give it my best shot, though.
I lay down a barrage of punches, pounding the bag over and over again, losing myself—or at least trying to—in the rhythm of the attack.
Even though I’ve been here for hours, alternating between the heavy bag and speed bag in between bouts of relentless sobbing, I still keep pushing as if I just walked in those doors. As if I had just heard the truth.
Because that agony will not abate.
The harder I go, the harder I want to keep going, but I’m not so deep into it that I don’t hear the gym door open behind me.
I know who it is before he ever says a word or even approaches.
Because somehow, I always know.
I always sense when he’s near, and the way my splintered heart does that stupid flip-flop thing is going to fucking kill me long before Satriano or McDonald ever will.
It’s the last thing I should be feeling right now—this intense mix of agony and longing for someone who doesn’t exist.
He doesn’t exist.
The man I fell asleep with last night isn’t real. Every word he said, all those things he did…none of it was real.
It was all some glorious illusion created by a masterful magician. A man who was trained in deceit. Whose entire life has revolved around it.
And I walked right into his trap.
I squeeze my eyes closed and suck in a sharp breath as the heavy bag rocks back and forth in front of me. If I keep them clenched tightly for long enough, maybe he’ll be gone when I reopen them. Maybe it will all have been some sort of wicked nightmare sent as a warning to keep my heart locked down tight…
But tentative footsteps sound across the gym floor, shattering any hope of that dream becoming a reality.
All that’s left is the creaking sound of the still swinging bag, my heaving breaths, the sting in my knuckles, and the blood rushing in my ears.
“I assume you’re picturing my face while you’re hitting that.”
His voice cuts through it all as sharp as the knife that he drove straight into my chest with his deceit.
I open my eyes and catch the bag, only now noticing the blood on my split knuckles. I didn’t even feel it when they ripped, didn’t even register the injury because I’ve craved the pain.
It’s better than being numb.
At least feeling this pain, I know I’m still alive, that somehow, I survived the type of betrayal that should have been unsurvivable.
That’s what drives me to slowly turn to face him. The knowledge that if I don’t get this off my chest, if I don’t have this conversation, it’ll never be truly over and it needs to be.
Now.
Gage stands only a few feet from me, still wearing the same clothes he wore at the penthouse—dark jeans, a white T-shirt, and that damn leather jacket that always makes him look so fucking dangerous and sexy. His hair is a disheveled mess, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly, and dark circles mar the skin under his eyes.
He bears a look of utter exhaustion I feel to my bones. “I know you want to hurt me, Bishop.” His eyes dip down to my hands. “But please don’t hurt yourself.”
The laugh that slips from my lips is dark, humorless, filled with so much agony and incredulity that I barely recognize the sound. “That’s rich coming from you.”
From the person who has hurt me more than anyone else ever has my entire life…
He winces, then glances back toward the door and the darkness that has descended outside. “Are you here alone? Where’s your security?”
I rest my hands on my hips, trying to regain my breath for the first time since I arrived. Now that I’ve stopped, I’m sure I’m going to feel it. Those aches and that soreness that has plagued me since the explosion, that Gage was so good at melting away, will come screaming back now that I’ve pushed so hard.
“I sent them home.”
