Page 41 of Dance of Defiance
“Thefuckis your fucking problem?!” he roars, slamming into me and shoving me back with his palms.
“Everything all right, gentlemen?”
I blink, and we both turn to see some douche-y fucker who looks like a trainer standing there, sporting an Equilibrium t-shirt and employee badge.
I smile at him. “No problem here at all.”
“Actually, there is,” Roman growls. “He”—he jabs his thumb at me—“isn’t a member.”
The trainer turns to me. I grin and pull my shiny new ID card out of my gym shorts pocket.
“Just joined.”
The guy frowns and pulls out his phone, holding the camera to the QR code on the front of my card. The phone dings and a little green checkmark blinks on the screen before he smiles warmly at me. “Ah! Well, welcome to Equilibrium, Mr. Bancroft!”
“You’ve gotta be kidding,” Roman mutters under his breath. He turns to the trainer. “Nolan, thank you, but I’d like some space, andMr. Bancrofthere is making that impossible.”
“Nolan” turns to me with an apologetic smile. “So sorry, Mr. Bancroft, but it would appear Mr. Nikitin would like a bit more time on the bench press?”
Or to lie to himself.
“Yeah, I think I’m fucking done here anyway,” I mutter, turning away. “Enjoy the bench, dickhead. See if you can turn that denial into fuel.”
Anger clouds my face as I storm into the locker room.
Fucking asshole.
I know I can be a little much…okay,a lotmuch. But for fuck’s sake.
I know—andRomanknows—how he’s responded every time we’ve crashed together. Those little fucking whimpers, and thenotlittle, at all, erection that rises to say hello every time we’re in the same room together.
Coming to terms with your sexuality is complicated. Igetthat. But Jesus Christ. We’re well into the twenty-first century. This isn’t the goddamn forties, and that motherfucker isobviouslyinto men.
Obviously intome, to be exact. Not to toot my own horn.
And this constant…not justdenial, but the way he shoves that denial in my face, as if I’m somehowimagininghis huge fucking erection and subby little whimpers when I touch him…is getting insulting.
I exhale the fury from my lungs as I drop my forehead to the lockers.
This guy is making a mess of me, and I don’t understandwhy. I also don’t understand why I don’t just walk away from this train wreck of a closet case. Whether he figures his shit out or not, it’s none of my fucking business. It shouldn’t be taking up so much space in my brain and my life.
He’s…wreckage.
And I have no time for that.
I strip off my shorts and tank top and wrap a towel around my hips before I storm over to the steam room. This membership cost a small fortune, and if I didn’t get a chance to actually work out, you can be damn sure I’ll at least enjoy the amenities while I’m here.
The steam room is hot as fuck when I step in. I groan, already feeling the tension releasing from my muscles as I roll my neck, turn the heat up a bit, and settle onto the wooden bench along the far wall with a deep sigh.
…Which is exactly when the door slams open, and Roman comes barging in like a Miley Cyrus‘s “Wrecking Ball”.
He freezes in the doorway, and I can’t hold back my smirk when his gaze drops to my muscled, tattooed chest, and then to my grooved, inked abs.
His throat bobs as he swallows, just…staring at my bare torso as his mouth drops open just a little.
I arch a brow. “Is…this what I hope it is?”
He blinks, the stunned gaze disappearing as he quickly yanks his eyes up to mine. His face darkens as he scowls deeply. “You need toFuck. OFF.”
