Restraint is Useless Here

Chapter Fourteen

Brian found it odd that the smell of the gym comforted him. It wasn't so much that he liked it, because no one enjoyed the stench of other people's physical exertion. Rather, it reminded him of progress. The familiar, artificial aroma of the vinyl floor mats and the biting iron scent that lingered on his hands long after he bench pressed—it exhilarated him. All that negative energy he stowed away deep within him found its way out.

He loved the pain. It gave him an outlet for the nightmares; for the moments when he thought, I wish I'd finished it.

With a final heave, he eased the bar into its cradle and ducked under to sit up. After taking a moment to relish the burn coursing through his muscles, he grabbed the towel he'd rested across his abdomen and wiped the sweat pouring down his face.

His pinky throbbed after the benchpress. He still wore the damned splint; the last hurdle before he could jump back into jiu jitsu—well, ease back into it was more like it. He'd still need physical therapy. His doctor had said a total of six weeks, so they were still 2 weeks out. He was aching for it, but strength training would suffice until then. And even when he'd received the all clear for physical contact, he knew he'd need to take it slow.

Living with Matt helped with accountability; the guy was a total gym rat. The singer went full-on bro the moment they pushed through the doors, puffed out chest, exaggerated grunts, and never removed the aviators—every time they slid down his nose from the sweat, by God, he'd nudge them back up.

Brian scanned the perimeter looking for his friend. The mid-afternoon turnout was primarily soccer moms, primped and surgically enhanced, and usually a senior citizen or two donning sweatbands on their foreheads.

A sweet old lady watched him as she sat on a bench, curling her 2lb dumbbells, her eyes crinkling as she grinned. Her arms quivered as she lifted, but her determination didn't. She reminded him of his nonna and his heart swelled a bit—until his eyes landed on his friend just beyond her. He didn't know whether or laugh or punch him.

Matt Sanders stood on his tiptoes with his back to the wall mirror, twisting himself around at the waist and appeared to be snapping a cell phone photo of something on the floor.

"I'm embarrassed to be in the same room as you right now," Brian mumbled as he approached. He gestured grandiosely to his friend's contorted stance. "What is this?"

Matt turned to face him, a relieved grin stretching across his face. "Perfect timing. Hey, will you take a picture of my legs? I think my calves are asymmetrical and it's tripping me out. I can't get a good photo." Matt held his phone out to Brian, who recoiled like it was a grenade. "Can you just...?"

"Jesus, can you wait until we get home? This isn't Sports Illustrated. Or fucking Vogue."

An eyebrow arched above his friend's sunglasses. "That's quite some shit talk from a guy who hides out at the gym because he's scared of my girlfriend."

"No, it's some shit talk from the guy who doesn't give her regular orgasms—which I can hear down the hall, by the way—so she has no problem being mad at me." Brian snatched the phone out of Matt's hand, earning a triumphant smirk from his friend. "You vain motherfucker."

The morning after running into Val at the foyer, Brian had earned himself a set of ground rules through Val's whitened and gritted teeth, consisting mostly of "keep it in your pants," "don't be a slut," and "I swear to God, Brian, if you even think about it I will send you to live with Johnny."

He obliged, of course. He loved Val and he knew it came from a good place. But this was the most he'd ever wanted her to shut the fuck up in his life.