“Hey, Red!” Ben’s voice booms from behind.

Dammit. I turn to catch him just as his attention shifts up from my ass. “Ben.”

He strides around and grabs my bag for me. “You need a spotter?”

“I guess I’m getting one either way, aren’t I?” I grumble. But then his sly smirk makes me laugh for some reason, releasing the tension in my body. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

He shrugs. “I’m sure you can teach me.” Then he flashes that grin again, as he adds, “I prefer being in control but for you I can …”

Ben’s jabbering away with layers of innuendos and I stop listening. Just to teach him a lesson, I surprise him with a roundhouse kick. He grunts as the bag slams into his hip. “Consider that your first lesson. Shut up. Don’t talk to me while I’m working out.”

For the next fifteen minutes, I pound away at the bag with jabs and kicks and Ben does a half-decent job of shifting with the impact. If he talks, I don’t hear him. I’m zoned in on the sequence that propels me forward, hammering again and again, releasing all that anger with each hit.

Three idiots getting drunk one night.

Three murderers taking my life from me.

One. Two. Three.

Finally spent, I lean forward and support myself against my knees with my hands to catch my breath.

“Jeez, Kace.” I look up to see astonishment on Ben’s face. “I’ve never seen someone so completely dialed during rounds. You were like Ivan Drago. He’s this Russian who—”

I cut him off, reciting the line from Rocky IV with a mock Russian accent. “If he dies, he dies.” Another of my dad’s favs.

Ben’s head is bobbing, his brows arched with surprise. “You know that one.”

“Who doesn’t?” I can’t help but chuckle again. Soon we’re both laughing and I’m thinking Ben isn’t such a pompous ass after all.

That’s when a tall form walks past us and drops a sledge hammer down on my shields.

Trent.

My laughter dies, all traces of ease vanishing. Grabbing my water bottle, I try to hide my reaction from Ben by drawing a long swig, all the while watching Trent as he drops his stuff to the ground beside a speed bag and tugs his sweatshirt over his head by the back collar.

What the fuck is he doing here? In my gym? This is my … Holy … A dribble of water runs down my chin and I wipe it away with my forearm, trying hard not to gape at the defined body that has emerged, covered only by a white tank. He keeps his back to me without a glance in my direction and begins punching the speed bag with precision that surprises me. As if he’s well-trained. I watch for a moment, mesmerized and a little disappointed that he hasn’t acknowledged me, even though I don’t deserve his attention.

Maybe he doesn’t know I’m here.

I doubt that.

Black ink curls peek out from the edges of his tank. Whatever the tattoo is, it spans the width of his upper back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. I’d love to peel that shirt off and study his ink while he’s stretched out on my bed.

“I think I’ve seen that guy at Penny’s,” Ben notes. So he’s caught me staring at Trent. Great.

“You got something for him?” I tease coolly.

“No, but I hear someone does.” I can’t miss the suggestive tone in his voice.

Bloody Storm. “He’s my neighbor. That’s it.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. I don’t have a thing for anyone. Including you.” I take a swing at my bag.

He smirks secretly. “Aren’t you gonna go over and say ‘hi’ to your neighbor then?”

I answer with roundhouse kick. Ben finally takes the hint, diving in to secure the bag. He doesn’t mention Trent again.

I do my best to complete a second round but my head’s not in it anymore and it’s all because of that smexy guy on the other side of the room, pounding away on the punching bag. As much as I try not to look, I find myself glancing over frequently.

This last time, I catch Trent wiping the sweat from his brow with the bottom of his shirt, pulled up to reveal a perfect eight-pack. I suck in a breath, temporarily paralyzed, my heart rate shoots through the roof, staring …

Something sharp snaps across my ass. “Ow!” I scream and spin around to find Ben with his towel and a devilish grin.

“Did you just snap my ass with your towel?” I growl.

My anger doesn’t seem to faze him. My punch to his ribs does. He doubles over in pain, moaning. “Hope it was worth it, asshole.” I stoop down to grab my things. When I stand, I meet Trent’s gaze head on. His face is blank but his eyes … Even from this distance, I see a world of determination, hurt, and anger in them.

He knew I was here. He knew all along.

After a long stare, Trent turns his back to me and starts pounding on the bag again and suddenly I feel like I’m the bag, that someone is pummeling me with guilt. And pain. I’m actually hurting over Trent.

I’ve had enough.

I storm out to the women’s locker room without another word to Ben. For half an hour I sit on the wooden bench in that room—a tiny, dark dungeon with two shower stalls and little room to maneuver—and I fight to bury all these unwanted emotions clawing their way up the well. Why does he have to be out there? Why this gym? Is he stalking me? In reality, I know that this is the only specialized gym on this side of Miami so if he’s a trained fighter, it makes sense that he ends up here. Still …

I’m used to having things in control. I fight to stay numb. That’s how I get through each day and it’s worked well for me. Until now. Now Trent has edged into my life and I can’t focus. My body is going haywire, I’m battling this internal urge to push him away and hold him close, I’m thinking about him far too often. Even the thought of him now kindles desire inside me that I haven’t felt since my last random encounter more than two years ago. Only now it’s a million times more acute, more needy. I rock forward and back, my forehead in my hands. I don’t want this. I don’t want this. I don’t want this …

I hear a soft knock on the door. Hope gushes like water through a busted dam and I realize it’s because I want it to be Trent. I can’t help myself. I want it. I want him. Please be …

A contrite-looking Ben stands on the other side of the door, bowling me over with disappointment. “Are you okay? I’m sorry. I probably hit you harder than I should have but you were off in Lala Land.”

I don’t answer, adrenaline racing through my limbs, my heart racing, frustration pounding. I look up into that face and see a sweet, genuine guy. One that’s become appealing in this very moment. Right or wrong, destructive or not, I grab hold of Ben’s shirt with two fists and haul him into the change room. He doesn’t resist, though by his sluggish movements he’s not entirely sure what’s happening. I shove him into the shower stall and snap the lock on the door behind me.

“Take your clothes off. Don’t touch my hands.”

“Um,” I can tell this isn’t what Ben expected. Hell, this isn’t what I expected. But I need to dislodge this Trent problem and mindless sex with someone else ought to do it.

When Ben doesn’t move, I seize his shirt and yank him down to my mouth. He finally gets a clue. His hands tug at the back of my tank as he pulls me against him, his tongue sliding into my mouth. His kiss is sweet, but it’s not like … no, stop it Kacey. You’re doing this to forget about Trent.

Just his name sets fireworks off inside my body.

“Kacey,” Ben moans, his hands travelling up to my shoulders and down, over my breasts, squeezing them as they pass. He breaks long enough to yank my tank top over my head before he covers my mouth with his again. It’s a confined space but he makes the most of it, lifting me onto the little bench against the wall so I’m towering over him. “I didn’t think you were in to me.”

“Stop talking,” I command as I shimmy my shorts and panties down. His hand is instantly on my inner thigh and sliding up. Up. Until it’s exactly where I want it to be.