Fierce

Chapter 22

I would like to dedicate this chapter to every one of you who have left me with a wonderful comment. Thank you all(:

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Jaycob rolled over in bed and picked up his blaring cellphone with a half-asleep grunt.

"Get up Shady," was what he was greeted with. "We have a problem."

"How did you get my number?"

"Never you mind," Charlotte said briskly. "Focus please. George didn't show to bootcamp this morning."

"So? Those things suck."

"So idiot, things with Lincoln have gone south. Badly. Of course she's completely in denial about the whole thing and has convinced herself that she's fine."

"Huh?"

Charlotte exhaled impatiently: honestly, she had no time for this. "She's perfected the ability to avoid messy emotions; there's a great possibility she could keep lying to herself, ignore this entirely, pretend everything's hunky-dory and move on," she explained speedily.

"Look, I'm bummed and all, but why exactly are you telling me this?"

"Ugh. Are you purposely being obtuse? Or are you just that stupid? She needs to stop running and face this!"

He smirked – he may have been hamming it up a little, but it was 5 o'clock in the morning for pete's sake. "What could I possibly do though? You know George, she does exactly what she always has and nothing I could say will change that."

"So we'll both talk to her. But first you're going to talk to Lincoln."

He choked and sat up. "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me. One of the Sales girls goes to the same gym – I've booked you an initial trial session in one hour."

"That's crazy! You're crazy! I don't even know this dude," he sputtered.

"I figured this would be a piece of cake for you– home turf and all. You know, with you being a gym rat?"

"Didn't need an explanation thanks," he bit.

"Plus, if it comes to a fight you could snap him in half."

"Is this funny to you? Huh? Are you anticipating a fistfight?"

"No...though I am curious how he'd go, to be honest. It could be fun," she giggled.

"Unbelievable!"

"Thank you," she said mildly. "I'll text you the address – he's apparently very punctual, so don't be late."

"I'm not going," he stated, barely withholding from full-out pleading.

"Call me after – I want to know how it goes. Bye," and she hung up, leaving him hissing and spitting all the way to the gym.

*

Lincoln had punched the upwards arrow on the treadmill half a dozen times more than he usually did and the pace was punishing. Almost too fast. His feet pounded the conveyor belt at a furious pace, matching the furious set of his brow. But he had barely been running ten minutes when a figure appeared in the corner of his eye; he almost tripped and face planted in shock. Automatically, he jumped – feet landing on the tracks either side – and when he looked over again, the shock turned to trepidation.

Jaycob the Brick-Shithouse was standing next to his treadmill. Linc swallowed. Three guesses why he was here... he hadn't even bothered wearing exercise gear. His body language was clear enough: arms folded, legs spread, biceps bulging, decked head to toe in black – glaring at him.