Page 18 of Without Judgment

“Sounds good,” I told Jed.

The gym was on the other side of the house, about eight hundred square feet of equipment, including a treadmill, elliptical machine, stationary bike, and all the weights you could possibly picture. All of this was mostly thanks to my brother. Once I arrived, I scanned the room for the camera, spotting it in the corner. Guess it was better safe than sorry.

I’d been on the treadmill ten minutes when I finally heard the door open. “Glad you made it through inspection. What do you want to do first?”

“Jed couldn’t stay.”

I turned sharply to see Mason standing there. Stopping the treadmill, I gave him my full attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean he didn’t pass inspection.”

“How so?”

“He just didn’t.”

My temper began to rise. “And you think it’s acceptable to refuse to tell me why?”

He gave a half shrug. “My job is security. If I think he doesn’t pass, then he doesn’t come in.”

Nope. I wouldn’t allow him to treat me like a child. “It’s bad enough my own father dictates what is said on my behalf to the press and what I get to know and not know about the video situation. But I will not put up with that sort of thing from you. All I asked was why Jed didn’t pass inspection. I’m not questioning your judgment. I’m asking for an explanation, and that’s not unreasonable.”

I expected him to turn on his heel and leave. And for me to have to resist taking off my tennis shoe and chucking it at his head. But instead he answered me.

“He asked if I’d seen the video and what did I think as if we were guys out for a drink. Then he asked my opinion of your performance. I in turn asked him to leave.”

I instantly felt sick and had to fight tears. My anger at Mason evaporated. “I see. Well, thank you for telling me.” I turned so he couldn’t see my eyes and distracted myself by re-starting the treadmill.

“What did you need a trainer for?” Mason’s voice came from the side, closer to me than where he’d been standing before.

“I wanted to learn more about lifting weights. Increase my strength.”

“If you’re warmed up, I can take you through a routine.”

I was hesitant and met his eyes. “What’s the catch?

“Nothing. Let’s get started.”

***

An obscene amount of time was spent in a hot shower later that night. There’d been a catch, all right. Mason was a sadistic motherfucker in the gym, taking me through an entire weight routine for both upper and lower body. Pride hadn’t let me shrug away from a single thing he’d challenged me to do. Yep, that bitch would be responsible for a sore body over the next couple of days.

I had to admit Mason had known what he was doing, however. And I’d caught myself frequently fascinated by the muscles flexing under his black T-shirt while he showed me the moves.

Sighing, I changed into PJs and then finally climbed into bed. As I fell asleep, I didn’t try to avoid dreaming about how strong his hands had looked while lifting the weights.

I woke with a start. Clearing my head, I listened for a moment. I was about to close my eyes again when I heard the sound of talking. Sitting up, I went still, waiting to hear if the sound came one more time. It did, and now it was louder—definitely a man’s voice.

Was Mason on the phone? I glanced at the clock, noting it was a few minutes after midnight, before easing out of bed. I opened my bedroom door to the hall and listened. The noise came again, louder, and definitely coming from his bedroom across the hall.

I should have gone back to bed. But curiosity had me tiptoeing the couple steps I needed to discover that Mason’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. Peeking in, I didn’t sense any movement to indicate he was awake, but a sudden guttural groan had me jumping back.

Oh, shit. Was he having a nightmare? Opening the door wide, I was struck by the image of him writhing on the bed as if in pain. Though he was wrapped in the sheet, I could see he was shirtless, and now I could hear him mumbling incoherent sentences.

Though I walked to the side of the mattress, I was careful to keep my distance in case he woke up swinging at whatever was causing the pain in his dream. “Mason. Mason, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

He mumbled something like, “no don’t die,” making my heart hurt over whatever pain he was reliving.

I risked a tap on his shoulder. Meanwhile, I tried not to stare at the tribal tattoo wrapped around his well-toned bicep. Or the other ink of dog tags that snaked down the rib cage of his impressively cut and muscled body. Or the eagle, globe, and anchor on his chest. And let’s not even talk about the hot-as-fuck piercings through both his nipples.

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