Page 137 of Whispered Promises

My lip stings, the faint taste of metal coating my tongue from the painful grip of my teeth. No matter how intense the urge to respond to him is—to say I hope he has a good day too—my mouth refuses.

Grabbing a tissue from my bag, I dab cautiously at the self-inflicted cut, grateful it’s at least on the inside and not visible. My shoulders slump at the thought of tomorrow, of staying here with Brett. Just the two of us.

It’s not like he’s physically forced anything, but he’s been more forward and overtly friendly recently. So it will make tomorrow a long, painful day, having to smile and keep him at arm’s length.

Maybe people will stop using me one day; they’ll see me as an equal and not just…a cog in the machine.

I blink quickly, trying to push back the rising tears. I can’t cry over a job; I just have to finish the day, then I can go home to people who care about me.

FIFTY-NINE

ROSY

Every day is another day closer to being homeless, and after the truly shitty day at work, it is tempting to skip the gym and hibernate. But I like the routine of my walks, the calm they bring.

Then anger hits. I’m so tired of not standing up for myself every time they treat me like shit there. But I can’t do anything about it. I need the job, which means nothing changes. So all that anger’s trapped, battering around inside me with nowhere to go.

I’m clammy, worked up, and irritable.

Which perhaps isn’t the worst thing since I’m walking into the gym. People use it to let off steam all the time; except I come here to walk. Usually that works to ease my busy thoughts, but today, the emotions are deeper, darker.

Walking isn’t going to cut it.

Nate looks up from the far side of the room when I step through the door. His gaze prickles against my already heated skin. I weave around the different equipment, and his brows pinch as his eyes scan me. Before I’ve even stopped in front of him, his mouth opens, most likely to demand what’s going on. But I don’t let him get that far.

“I need to punch something today. Can you teach me?” I point at the area with the hanging bags.

The crease between his brows disappears, as they raise up his forehead, his surprise evident.

Which is fine, as long as he agrees with my request. I need to get this feeling out. My whole body’s almost vibrating at this point, my weight shifting back and forth between my feet.

Nate grabs his towel, wipes his face, then slings it over his shoulder. I’d probably find it incredibly sexy if I weren’t so worked up. He stands, places a hand on my back, and guides me over to the bags.

“You got any gloves?”

I shake my head, shoulders dropping.

“I’ll grab you some.” He places a kiss on my forehead, then leaves me to face the huge bags hanging from the ceiling.

The lump in my throat’s thick despite my attempt to swallow, and my fists clench at my sides.

I don’t want to feel so weak anymore. To be anyone else’s punching bag.

Movement to my side has my head turning.

“Fuck off. She’s mine,” Nate growls, his back blocking my view.

A tiny smile tugs at my lips, and a flicker of warmth curls low in my belly. It lasts for a mere moment, then it’s snuffed out by my anger.

After ensuring the encroacher has gone, Nate turns and gently wraps my fists, then secures the borrowed gloves. Large hands curl around my shoulders, and he turns me toward a bag. I expect him to bark out directions, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, his hands guide my body, running down my legs and pulling them apart with my left one forward and the right behind. Then he slides them down my arms, position in front of me.

What I don’t expect is for him to stand behind me, wrap his body around mine, and guide one hand to the bag, tapping it lightly so it barely moves.

“Jab.”

Moving that same hand, he guides me in another move.

“Hook.”