Page 19 of Fallen Rook

He wore a hoodie, but only zipped it halfway up, and without a shirt underneath, so everyone had a front seat to his godly pecs and demarcated six-pack.

Months of surveillance had their perks. I knew his first exercise was the bench press, so I headed in that direction and snagged the last available bench out of a row of ten.

After tossing my towel on the faux leather, the universal gym sign for pissing on one’s territory, I started piling plates on the bar. Sure enough, not two minutes passed before I heard, “Yo, Tomcat!”

He had not just given the FBI agent who was after his throat a pet name.

He had not.

Only he fucking had.

Enzo Ferrante, ladies and gents.

“My name is Tom,” I drawled without looking up from my task, already regretting coming here.

“Tell me about it; I moaned it this morning when I whacked off.” He tossed his towel on top of mine with an opaque smile, punctuated by a singular dimple. Of course he had one dimple. Two would be too conventional. None, too ordinary.

I didn’t know what to make of his confession. Was he messing around, or did he really think about me when he jerked off? Hard to tell. He seemed to be struggling to come to terms with his attractions.

“Decided to take me up on my Instagram offer?” He winked.

“No idea what you’re talking about.” My jaw tightened around a traffic jam of curses.

He squeezed between me and the bench, sliding the barbell clamps to lock both sides of the bar. “Course not. Spot you?”

An unenthusiastic grunt escaped me. Why was it so damn hard to be nice to him? I was a loner, but not a misanthrope. I had perfectly adequate communication skills. When I put my mind to it, I could be pleasant and charming.

“This your warm-up set, yeah?” He eyed the hundred and fifty pounds dismissively.

No, you little shit. It’s what I usually lift.

“Obviously.” My lips set in a disapproving line.

Why was I ashamed of the amount of weight I lifted? I’d never bought into the macho games the meathead crowd was a part of. And he was not about to change that.

“Can I just say, I’m glad you graduated from creeping on me like a voyeur to actually getting a workout as well?” He took his position behind the bar while I slipped onto the bench. He was so goddamn friendly he didn’t even give me shit for blocking him after mauling his face and spitting in his mouth.

“Trying something new, I guess.” I grabbed on to the bar and started pressing.

“That something should be me.”

I swallowed back an exasperated sigh, almost losing grip on the bar. I pushed the weight up and locked my elbows at the last second to avoid crushing myself.

He was the perfect mix between cockily adorable and completely fucking out of his depth. I knew he was struggling with figuring out what and who he was, but he insisted on pretending nothing was amiss. What else was he hiding behind his shiny exterior?

Enzo chuckled at my response. “You good, buddy?”

I needed to break bread with him to keep my Ferrante case alive.

“Look, about yesterday…”

“What about it?”

“I’m glad I was able to help with your…confusion.”

I finished my set and cleared the bench for him, taking position behind the bar as he piled another fifty-pound plate on either side before slipping underneath it.

“Yeah, it was a solid kiss.” He grabbed the bar and started pressing, not even breaking a damn sweat.