Page 19 of Vicious Behaviors
Big and honey-brown. Absolutely breathtaking if you weren’t able to read the intent behind them. Always curious. Inspective. Like they are searching for something. Or someone.
I’m not sure how she convinced my grandfather to hire her, but I’m pretty sure we’ll both live to regret it.
She doesn’t belong here. Not only because many of my father’s men come here to train, making anormalwalk amongst them risky at best, but also because I’m not entirely sure if that isn’t her objective all along.
There’s just something about her that I can’t quite pinpoint. She seems too polished, as if she ironed herself into imperfection just to look the part. But it’s too clean, too sharp, too… practiced.
Everything about Izzie Graham screams manipulation. The glimmer in her eyes, those soft, cupid-bow lips, and that subtle little pause she makes whenever her gaze meets mine, as if she weren’t expecting me to be watching her. But I always watch.
Even though we haven’t been officially introduced or exchanged a word since she joined the ranks, it feels like a string is pulling us together. It’s as if we can’t help but sense each other’s presence in the room, regardless of whether we acknowledge one another.
My distrust of her is what pulls me to her. Why I’ve piqued her interest is anyone’s guess. On more than a few occasions, I’ve let myself get close enough to her to overhear her conversations with the other gym members. Her story is always the same, and like her, beautifully practiced.
She says she just moved back to Chicago after a few years deployed overseas and is excited to start a new chapter in her life. And when one of the most confident guys here asked herout, she swiftly shot him down, giving him the excuse that there’s no time for a social life between university classes and work.
Her voice is always a sweet melody while her words are smooth and to the point. But there’s something else behind them. As if she were balancing between a lie and the hope of no one noticing it. I didn’t buy it then, and I don’t buy it now. Whenever I hear Izzie talk to someone, I’m filing her away. She’s not here for cardio or boxing gloves. She’s here for something else. What that is, I haven’t quite figured out.
Yet, there’s a pull. Something magnetic about her I can’t quite shake. Maybe it’s the way she defiantly looks back at me. Perhaps it’s how her light brown hair falls over her bare shoulder, as if she didn’t mean to be that distracting. Maybe it’s just the way she carries herself, like someone who’s used to being in control but doesn’t realize she just stepped into a world where control is out of her grasp.
I’m not supposed to find her intriguing, but I do. And that’s a problem. Because I don’t trust her. And now, seeing her all alone in my grandfather’s office at this early hour, that distrust feels more justified than ever.
I lean against the doorframe with arms crossed over my chest, watching her rifling through drawers like she owns the place.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, alerting her to my presence.
Izzie freezes for a second, then glances up at me, looking completely unbothered by being caught in the act.
“Neither should you,” she replies unamused, returning to her search. “The gym’s closed. Come back at nine.”
“It’s open for me,” I rebuke, uncaring if my tone comes off intimidating.
“Whatever you say,” she mutters, too distracted in her task to give me the time of day. When she finds a manila folder in one of the drawers, she smiles with clear relief. “There you are.”
“And exactly what is it that you have in your hands?” I ask in a low tone.
“It’s the list of people who signed up for free training sessions with me this month,” she says, flipping through the pages. “I had given it to Carmine so he could see for himself that the new social media pages and ads were working, but I forgot to make a copy for myself so I can confirm all the bookings.”
Carmine? Ads? Bookings? What the fuck is she talking about?
Instead of asking her, I take two strides in her direction and snatch the folder from her hands.
“Hey! Just who do you think you are?” she exclaims, pissed.
I ignore her, scanning the long list of potential new members—most of them women.
“Is this a joke?” I grunt, stepping in close enough to back her ass into the edge of the desk.
“I have no idea what your problem is, but no. This is not a joke. I worked damn hard this week to bring in fresh blood,” she fires back, a scowl tugging at her pretty pink lips. “Besides, I don’t report to you. Carmine signs my checks, and he’s the one who gave me the green light to build the gym’s online presence and get new people through the door. If you have a problem with that, talk to him.”
Well, at least that explains why I caught her casually filming the gym and zeroing in on a few of the less-threatening guys last week. I was sure she was going to use the footage for more nefarious reasons. Not fucking TikTok and Insta reels.
I reread the names, my jaw tightening with each one I sound out in my head.
This is a bad idea. What the hell is my grandfather thinking?
“Take the ads down,” I say flatly. “Take everything down.”
“No.” She crosses her arms, putting a wall between us.
