hands forgotten.
No. He’s not leaving the same way he came. He was alive then.
I close my eyes for just a moment as I realize that isn’t true either. He was a dead man when I followed him into his apartment. He was a dead man the moment he hurt Olivia.
Two
Rocky
I notice moisture on the glass of the double doors as I open them. The familiar scent of sweat and vinyl fills my senses as soon as I walk in. The air is humid. Warm and sticky. Though I don’t immediately see anyone, I know somebody’s working the punching bag hard. I can hear it. That recognizable whack of leather.
The hits are quick. Firm. Precise.
I round the corner, heading to the office. My feet stop abruptly, rooting me to the floor. Link’s naked back is to me. Toned and solid. The muscles twist and ripple with each coiled strike he lands on the bag. Sweat glistens on his skin. And though it’s a beautiful sight, none of that is responsible for my acute attention.
Scar after scar line s his back. The skin is puckered, shiny. Some are a dark shade of pink. Others much too white against his golden skin. My eyes trail his form, from the base of his neck, all the way down to where his basketball shorts hang around his hips.
There are so many scars.
He told me there were eighteen. It seemed like a lot at the time, but I didn’t understand. Not until now. Seeing it with my own eyes.
I don’t wear my scars on the outside. Garrett didn’t leave any reminding marks on my skin. But I imagine that’s what I look like on the inside.
Link continues to batter the bag. I’ve never seen such ferocity before. He’s attacking it almost savagely. The floor around him is damp with his sweat. It’s obvious he’s been at this for a while. I remember from my days tagging along with Dad and Joe to the gym, bag work is draining and only meant for short periods of time.
I can tell from the humid air Link hasn’t slowed since he started.
I clear my throat, letting my presence be known. His hand reaches out to still the swaying bag. He peers at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark, cheeks red. He turns toward me, brushing the moisture from his brows with the back of his wrist. My gaze lowers, following a bead of sweat that falls from the tip of his nose and lands on his chest. I watch as it slides down between his pec muscles, mixing with the dampness there, and continues trailing down his abs.
I follow the path back up, coming to rest on the tattoo over his left pectoral muscle. In a swirl of black script is Olivia’s name.
“What are you doing here?” Link asks, his voice hoarse from his excruciating workout, I’m assuming.
“I work here,” I reply lightly, finally tearing my gaze off of his body and focusing my attention on his face.
His eyes narrow as he comes closer. His stride is swift and fluid. Graceful. The angry observation, the shimmering dampness of his skin, the huskiness to his voice—it’s all so damn appealing. I know this man is twisted and damaged, and probably the worst thing in the world for me. But aren’t we all twisted in some way?
I imagine myself running my fingers over his chest, sweeping my tongue across his sculpted stomach, and falling to my knees, freeing him of his shorts.
Goose bumps prickle my arms as I envision what a gorgeous sight that would be.
“You were attacked last night,” Link says, pulling me away from all my wicked thoughts. “You shouldn’t be here.” And then, as if just realizing it, he looks over at the door, and then back to me. “Did you walk here? By yourself?”
His words are the equivalent to being doused in ice water. “I don’t need the reminder,” I murmur, “or the lecture.”
He cocks a brow as he stares at me. The muscles in his jaw start their usual dance and I stifle an eye roll, anticipating a scolding. At least he’s shirtless. It will give me something to look at while I tune him out.
“I’m not going to lecture you,” he says quietly. “I was just going
No. He’s not leaving the same way he came. He was alive then.
I close my eyes for just a moment as I realize that isn’t true either. He was a dead man when I followed him into his apartment. He was a dead man the moment he hurt Olivia.
Two
Rocky
I notice moisture on the glass of the double doors as I open them. The familiar scent of sweat and vinyl fills my senses as soon as I walk in. The air is humid. Warm and sticky. Though I don’t immediately see anyone, I know somebody’s working the punching bag hard. I can hear it. That recognizable whack of leather.
The hits are quick. Firm. Precise.
I round the corner, heading to the office. My feet stop abruptly, rooting me to the floor. Link’s naked back is to me. Toned and solid. The muscles twist and ripple with each coiled strike he lands on the bag. Sweat glistens on his skin. And though it’s a beautiful sight, none of that is responsible for my acute attention.
Scar after scar line s his back. The skin is puckered, shiny. Some are a dark shade of pink. Others much too white against his golden skin. My eyes trail his form, from the base of his neck, all the way down to where his basketball shorts hang around his hips.
There are so many scars.
He told me there were eighteen. It seemed like a lot at the time, but I didn’t understand. Not until now. Seeing it with my own eyes.
I don’t wear my scars on the outside. Garrett didn’t leave any reminding marks on my skin. But I imagine that’s what I look like on the inside.
Link continues to batter the bag. I’ve never seen such ferocity before. He’s attacking it almost savagely. The floor around him is damp with his sweat. It’s obvious he’s been at this for a while. I remember from my days tagging along with Dad and Joe to the gym, bag work is draining and only meant for short periods of time.
I can tell from the humid air Link hasn’t slowed since he started.
I clear my throat, letting my presence be known. His hand reaches out to still the swaying bag. He peers at me over his shoulder, his eyes dark, cheeks red. He turns toward me, brushing the moisture from his brows with the back of his wrist. My gaze lowers, following a bead of sweat that falls from the tip of his nose and lands on his chest. I watch as it slides down between his pec muscles, mixing with the dampness there, and continues trailing down his abs.
I follow the path back up, coming to rest on the tattoo over his left pectoral muscle. In a swirl of black script is Olivia’s name.
“What are you doing here?” Link asks, his voice hoarse from his excruciating workout, I’m assuming.
“I work here,” I reply lightly, finally tearing my gaze off of his body and focusing my attention on his face.
His eyes narrow as he comes closer. His stride is swift and fluid. Graceful. The angry observation, the shimmering dampness of his skin, the huskiness to his voice—it’s all so damn appealing. I know this man is twisted and damaged, and probably the worst thing in the world for me. But aren’t we all twisted in some way?
I imagine myself running my fingers over his chest, sweeping my tongue across his sculpted stomach, and falling to my knees, freeing him of his shorts.
Goose bumps prickle my arms as I envision what a gorgeous sight that would be.
“You were attacked last night,” Link says, pulling me away from all my wicked thoughts. “You shouldn’t be here.” And then, as if just realizing it, he looks over at the door, and then back to me. “Did you walk here? By yourself?”
His words are the equivalent to being doused in ice water. “I don’t need the reminder,” I murmur, “or the lecture.”
He cocks a brow as he stares at me. The muscles in his jaw start their usual dance and I stifle an eye roll, anticipating a scolding. At least he’s shirtless. It will give me something to look at while I tune him out.
“I’m not going to lecture you,” he says quietly. “I was just going
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