When I find my woman – if I find her – I’m going to take her for life. I’m going to take her again and again until her body has no choice but to get pregnant, and then we’re going to be together, properly together, and I’ll never feel this strange loneliness again.
Fuck.
What am I thinking? I sound weak as hell right now, sinking into these self-pitying thoughts.
I can’t let the fact I’m forty-three turn me soft.
If I find my woman, fine. If I don’t, that’s fine too. I can’t waste time musing about it when there’s work to do, charities to support, workouts to smash.
The woman’s still staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“You can call my office,” I say, making my voice as friendly as I can.
It’s not fair on her, but she’s making me feel goddamn sick. It’s not her as a person, but what she’s proposing – with her eyes, with the wannabe-seductive quirk to her lips – twists me up inside.
Maybe it makes me an old fashioned bastard, but I don’t think women should throw themselves at men like that, at strangers. It doesn’t seem worth it for a couple of hours of release.
When I find my release, it’ll be with a woman who’s mine, only mine. And I’ll hurt any motherfucker who tries to take even a piece of her.
She gapes when I stride past her, back to the bench.
My mind is on the workout, just the workout – lifting the weights, letting out breath after breath through gritted teeth as I push for just one more rep.
And yet even now, at the edges of my mind, there’s that new and annoying-as-fuck feeling.
It’s like a niggling voice, almost like some primal part of me is waking up.
Find your woman. You can’t be alone forever.
Maybe this is what all men feel when they get to my age and they don’t have a partner, a wife, a mother to their children. A family. Maybe this is natural.
And maybe that’s why so many men end up with women they don’t really want… want in that possessive and jealous and hungry way I need to want a woman.
“Working hard?”
I groan at the sound of Zane’s voice. I should’ve known better than to come to our old gym.
Replacing the bar on the bracket, I stand and look across at my old business partner.
He’s not looking too good these days, with bloodshot eyes and that manic quality buzzing across his expression. He’s a tall man – six-six to my six-seven – with wide shoulders, and I can tell he’s still working out. But I can also tell he’s getting a little help too, from the swollen puffy look around his face, his black hair is lanky like seaweed around his shoulders.
“That’s not a very nice way to greet an old friend, is it, Ryker?” Zane folds his arms, grinning shakily. “I heard you just got back from LA.”
“Yeah, and where’d you hear that?”
“Twitter. That pop singer was singing your praises, saying he’s going to miss you. You know, the sort of shit they used to say about me.”
I grind my teeth, remembering how we’d stood in this gym a decade and a half ago, me and my best friend Zane. I remember how we’d cheer each other on to complete the last rep, how excitedly the prick ran around the gym when we secured our first big contract.
And it was all built on a lie.
“What do you want, Zane?” I snarl.
His face drops. “A little respect would do.”
“You lost any right to ask for that the second you—”
I cut myself off, reaching down for my gym bag.
“You know what? Fuck this. Fuck this and fuck you.”
Zane’s mouth falls open as I duck my head and make for the door, but he knows better than to stand in my way. Judging from his appearance – his clothes look worn, the color faded – I bet he was going to ask me for money.
He’s done it before. And my answer has been the same every time.
Fuck no.
Not after what he did.
I sit in my car, gripping the steering wheel, watching as light rain patters against the glass.
The streetlights are still on, so I know Zane’s been up all night, probably drinking, probably doing a whole lot else. It must’ve seemed like a safe bet for him to find me here.
But no, hell no. I refuse to spend my time obsessing over that prick.
Taking out my phone, I navigate to my emails, seeing if I’ve got any East Coast appointments today. My secretary emails me any appointments because otherwise I’ll get caught up in a workout and sweat half the day away. Or end up on the phone with one of my gym managers for my fitness charity.
There are dozens of emails, as usual, but I’ve become good at filtering through the trash.