Page 55 of Sin Bin

Exhale.

Stop thinking about her naked andridingyou.

Inhale.

Stop thinking about her naked andnotridingyou.

Exhale.

My steadied breathing breaks its rhythm, and I shove the iron up and onto its slot. Sweat gathers on my skin, like droplets of verified success for a job well done. Ironic, because for the last year of my life, nothing has gone asplanned.

And, from the looks of things, shit isn’t going to turn aroundanytimesoon.

I ignore the familiar pain that settles in my chest with a brisk rub of my palm. Nothing I’m not used to, but since the pain is emotional and not physical, it’s not like a couple trips to physical therapy can axe the feeling and put my world back torights.

Honestly, I don’t even think I know what “right” feels like anylonger.

Then again, “right” was sticking up for Zoe the other day in front of Walter Collins. “Right” was touching her hand and hearing her sigh of relief. “Right” was having her back, and being the support sheneeds.

As afriend.

Whatever recent thoughts I’ve been having of us together—crazy, insane thoughts—need to be cut loose. I was right to call the “no sex” rule between us at the start of the month, but I should have added another—no wondering what it might be like to be with Zoe Mackenzie. Full-time.Unprofessionally.

Coworkers. Friends, at the most.That’sall.

Throwing my legs over the side of the bench, I straighten into a seatedposition.

I need protein, a shower, and a beer—not necessarily in thatorder.

With slow, tempered movements, I come off the bench and stretch my beaten limbs.Pop! Pop!My shoulders creak, the tendons snapping back into position like an elastic band that’s seenbetterdays.

Which is a fair assessment of my body’sstatusquo.

At thirty, I feel more like I’m sixty on any given day. Snagging my discarded T-shirt from the floor, I shrug it on over my head and head down the hallway of my two-story house. I don’t own the place, preferring instead to rent it out. When my career has been as unstable as it has been for the last two years, there’s no reason to shore up with amortgage.

My feet pad down the carpeted steps, the echoingpop! pops!alerting me to the fact that, like my shoulders, my knees are hating life too rightaboutnow.

One moreseason.

After that, I’ll take my ass down to the Caribbean and set up shop on a white-beached island, drinking Jose Cuervo until I can obliterate my thoughtsforgood.

I’m busy picturing my life in Turks and Caicos when my doorbell rings. Feet slowing to a stop, I turn and head for the door instead. I had no plans for company—not that I usually do. The night at The Box with Zoe was ananomaly.

My teammates tend to leave me be, unless I voluntarily place myself in their path. Once a week, I strap on my big boy pants and head down to The Box. It’s my three hours of bonding time, usually spent drinking one too many whiskeys and cokes, and pretending thatI’mfine.

That everythingisfine.

But none of the guys ever come to my house. To be honest, I’m not even sure they know where I live—unless they’ve turned Chatty Kathy with one of the white shirts and asked for my personalrecords.

My hand clasps the doorknob, and with a single tug, I blink against the startlingsunlight.

Lust hits me straight inthegut.

Goddammit.

My eyes focus on Zoe’s face, and it takes everything in me to keep my expression neutral. Blank.Don’t let her see how much you want her here.If I scare her a little bit, that’s probably for the best. In a voice more husky than I intended, I say, “What are youdoinghere?”

Her heart-shaped face tips up in defiance. It’s so like her, to go down arms swinging until she’s already six feet under. “Can’t I come to say hello?” she says, sounding sweet and demure and everything else that I know sheisn’t.

---