Page 8 of Confession
I walk in like I haven’t been standing outside listening, nodding to Quinn when his eyes flick up over Roman’s shoulder. I hit the treadmill, covertly watching them as I warm up.
They’re both barefoot on the black rubber mat, both shirtless. At 6’4”, Roman has several inches on Quinn, but they both have powerful builds. Muscle flexes with every hit, and the old brick walls make a rugged backdrop.
Between Roman’s dark, skull-trimmed hair and the scars slashing his body, my brother looks very fucking dangerous—and he is. I’ve seen him slam a human body on the ground again and again until it was as limp as a ragdoll. It puts me on edge to see him hitting like that at Quinn, but Roman seems to be in control, and Quinn can obviously take it.
Quinn isn’t scarred as badly as Roman, but he’s pretty torn up too. Not just the new, dark scars or the old, pale burns. There are stab wounds and nasty cuts. He’s never said, but I think he used to street fight. That’s what I see in his style. Well, one of the things I see. I also see someone who knows how to take a lot of punishment.
Maybe that’s why he’s better with Roman than I am. There’s something he gets that I don’t, some way he knows how to move around my brother.
At first, I tell myself that’s what I’m studying. The two of them together. Their interaction.
And yet … my eyes aren’t lingering on Roman like they are on Quinn. The way his lats pop along his side. The v-line cutting along his hip to the waistband of his gray sweats. The way his body braces against the impacts.
Wait a second.
Is this …
Am I …
Am Iattractedto him? Is that why I’ve been so fixated on him?
… no. That can’t be.
That wouldn’t make sense.
I’ve known Quinn for years and have never had a sexual reaction to him—or to any man for that matter—and that’s not exactly something I could mistake. I’d get hard. I would know. It would be obvious.
I mean, come on, appreciation of another man’s physique isn’t attraction. Quinn looks great. He’s fucking jacked. I’m confident enough in my own body to recognize that his is incredible, that’s all. There’s no need for a sexual identity crisis just because I looked at another man’s abs. Jesus. Chill the fuck out.
All the same, I cut my warmup short and head over to the weights.
This gym is one of the few major changes I’ve made to the house, ripping down several walls to expand it beyond the rack of free weights my father had. Now, there’s the sparring area, punching bags and treadmills, plus racks, benches, a leg press, and power cage.
I settle on the bench press because lying down means I’m not tempted to use the wall of mirrors to watch the sparring. I get focused enough that the temptation fades. This is what I love about working out. It’s the only thing I know that’s simultaneously easy and difficult in just the right way to make my mind quiet down.
I’m sweaty and shirtless by the time I finish my sets. Movement in the mirror catches my eye. I look up to see Quinn approaching. Roman is gone.
“Haven’t had enough?” I ask. He’s wearing shoes now, but he’s still shirtless. His upper body is sheened with sweat.
“I sat on my ass for weeks,” he reminds me as he angles toward the leg press. He starts loading it with weight.
“You’re not right in the head,” I tease him as plate after plate goes on. I always give Quinn shit about the leg press because, like a fucking psychopath, he loves it.
He adjusts the seat and plunks down. “Did you skip leg day this week?”
“No, jackass. I did legs this morning. But like a normal person, I hated every fucking second.”
He chuckles and gets his feet up on the board. He’s not looking at me, so I see his profile as he smiles.
AmI gay?
No. Jesus.
“Fucking masochist,” I mutter as he pushes the loaded sled. I don’t expect a response with him in the middle of a set, but Quinn grunts between reps, “Yeah. Kind of.”
Wait, what?
He doesn’t elaborate, so I make myself get busy at the lat pulldown. It’s not what I’m supposed to do next, but it faces the other way and stops me from looking at him. It does not, however, stop me from hearing the steady glide of the machine as he does his reps.
