Let Love Live (The Love Series #5) (24 page)

I take a deep breath and get back to work. I need to get a ton of crap done if I want to stay on top of everything, especially since chances are Rachel won’t be in tomorrow either. Her migraines always last at least two days. So much for that day off I was hoping for.

An hour passes quickly, and as I focus my attention back into the gym, shamefully, I’m disappointed that I don’t see Dylan anywhere. Leaning forward on the desk, I stretch across it, trying to look into the weight room.

I’m not sure what sight makes me happier, seeing a small handful of people in there or watching Dylan do lateral side raises.

I’m gonna go ahead and cast my vote for Dylan. He’s got his short sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscled arms and golden skin. The cords of his upper arms bunch and pull with each movement, causing my dick to strain in my khaki shorts.

It’s a good thing I’m not wearing workout shorts because nothings screams “I’m a professional” like sporting wood at the front desk of your own gym.

Like the idiot I am, I laugh at myself, shaking my head and my own dumb thoughts away. Even if Dylan wasn’t here with his partner, hitting on a client an hour after they’ve signed up isn’t exactly the kind of precedent I want to set. Just as I’m about to return to the last of the files in need of my attention, I hear a weight crash to the floor and someone cry out in pain.

The word
lawsuit
flashes in my head. Just my freaking luck.

I run around the corner of the desk, opening the door to the main room. When I see Dylan crouched on a bench, clutching his shoulder, doubled over in pain, I feel like an ass for my first thoughts being about me being sued and not who could have been hurt.

I squat in front of him. “What happened? Are you okay?”

His face is twisted in pain and he won’t let go of his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. It’s an old injury, torn rotator cuff.” He tries to stretch it out, maybe prove to me that he’s better than he actually is.

Breath hisses past his lips as he winces again. He immediately pulls his arm back into the position it was just in, crossed against his chest, his left arm supporting the weight of his right at the elbow.

“We have a trainer on staff,” I offer, hoping that he’ll take me up on it. “Might be able to help soothe some of the pain, get it moving again before too much swelling sets in.”

Reid jogs over, a bag of ice in his hand. “Here you go, Dyl.”

“Thanks.” Dylan takes it from Reid, but the exchange is odd, not at all what you would expect to see when one person in a couple is tending to the injuries of the other. There’s a casual air about the whole thing, which I dismiss as it being a routine injury, something they deal with all the time.

Dylan tries to move his shoulder again, but he’s not having much success. “I think I’ll take you up on that trainer,” he says as he gets up from the bench, looking over at Reid.

Something passes between them and then Reid pulls his phone from his pocket. “I should get going now anyway.” He swallows back the rest of his water before chucking the empty bottle into the recycling can. “It was good meeting you, Conner. See you tomorrow, Dyl.” And then he just walks away, leaving me and Dylan alone, our only company the excitement I feel that I finally have him to myself.

We walk to the back room and I want to ask him if he’s okay that Reid just left him here when he’s obviously hurt, but I know that would be overstepping my bounds. Considering that I don’t even know him, yeah, asking him about the ins and outs of his relationship would definitely be weird.

I stay focused on the task at hand, customer service. And in this case, there’s the added bonus of not being sued. Even though I know Dylan signed all the releases and consent forms, and even though my insurance covers minor injuries, I still worry about losing everything over someone getting hurt.

“Hey, Eddie.” I step into the training room where some loud rock music is playing as Eddie, the in-house trainer, is setting up his equipment. He turns down the music, and puts away the last of the medical tape he’s in the middle of unpacking.

When Eddie sees Dylan holding his arm, obviously in pain, he helps us over to an exam bench. “What happened?” he asks as Dylan hops up on the table, trying desperately not to wince with the movement.

Dylan pulls the ice pack off his shoulder. “It’s an old baseball injury. Must have overdone it with the weights. I think it should be fine if I just rest and ice it.” Eddie pokes and prods at Dylan’s arm while Dylan sits there with his jaw clenched as he tries to stifle the pain.

Eddie asks him to move it this way and that way. He’s able to comply with most of the requests, but I can see the stiffness of his movements, the need for some kind of relief. “I think you’ll be okay. You seem to have good mobility, but if you’ve aggravated an old injury, I really think you ought to go see your doctor tomorrow and make sure that you don’t need any kind of physical therapy.” Dylan nods as Eddie finishes up the rest of his instructions on how to take care of it for the night.

Eddie rifles through a drawer to the side of the exam table. “Where the hell…” his words trail off as he tosses around a few items in there. “Ah, here it is.” Eddie pulls out, opens a sling, and helps Dylan slide his arm into it. “This should help keep some of the strain off it. Try to keep it on through the night. You might have to sleep sitting up a little.”

Dylan inches his way forward on the bench before sliding down. I notice his shorts slide up a little, exposing his upper thigh – his firm and nicely muscled upper thigh.

He has a partner.

He has a kid.

You’re an asshole.

I shake away my own foolish thoughts as Dylan and Eddie finish up.

By the time we get back out onto the main floor, Carla’s class is wrapping up and the space is pretty much empty. Dylan glances up at the clock and curses. “Shit.”

“Everything okay?”

He shakes his head, hiding a small laugh. “Reid drove me here. My car’s at the office.”

“Oh.” I mentally flip through the options here. Should I offer to call him a cab? Somehow, volunteering to drive him home seems wrong.

Awkwardly reaching across his body with his left arm, he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket. After a few swipes and taps on the screen, he starts talking to who I’m assuming is Reid. I turn my attention back to the front desk and the end-of-the-night procedures that are awaiting my attention.

Through my yawn, I hear bits of their conversation, not that I’m trying to listen in or anything like that.

“Really…you’re shitting me…you suck, asshole…” I can’t help but laugh at the parts I’m hearing and I can only imagine what’s being said on the other end of the line.

When the conversation stops, I look up from what I’m doing to see Dylan tapping on his phone some more. He looks like he’s looking something up, not dialing another number.

“What’s wrong? Boyfriend leave you high and dry?” I joke.

Dylan lifts his eyes from his phone, tilting his head to the side as he shoots me an odd look. “Boyfriend?” he asks, skeptically.

“Yeah,” I tap a stack of papers on the desk before dropping them into a manila folder. “Reid’s your boyfriend, right? Partner. Husband. I mean whatever you guys call it.” The stupefied look on his face intensifies, as he continues to stare at me like I’ve just sprouted horns or something.

Dylan walks over to the desk, placing his phone down on the counter. “Let me get this straight. You think Reid and I are,” he pauses before saying, “together.” The last word comes out like a question, a ridiculous question accompanied by an amused chuckle.

“Uh, yeah.” I answer, dumbly, not really sure how I could possibly be wrong. “Aren’t you?”

He shakes his head as a crooked smile dances across his face. It’s a daring smile, one that extends a challenge, while concealing a deep dark secret at the same time. “No, we are most definitely not together. He’s married, but not to me. To his wife.”

I’m sure the look on my face says what my mouth is incapable of uttering. When I finally regain some ability to speak, all I can spit out is, “The kid?”

Dylan leans against the counter, resting his good elbow on the black granite top.  “That was Braden.” A proud look takes up residence on Dylan’s face. “Reid’s son and my nephew.”

It all makes sense. The closeness and the playful ribbing I saw going on between the two of them. While I’m laughing at myself for misreading the situation, I notice one major omission on Dylan’s part.

Assuming Dylan is with Reid means that I’ve also presumed he’s gay. I won’t lie; there is something about him that calls to me on a basic level, something that maybe I initially misread as a need to hook up, but maybe it’s something more.

As I’m working all of this out in my head, I also realize that while Dylan has denied being with Reid, he’s not denied the possibility of him being with another man.

“Really working something out in there, huh?” Dylan points lamely at my head.

“No, not really. Just feeling like a jerk for making an assumption that’s all.” Dylan looks like he wants me to say more, but I’ve already said too much, made too much of a fool out of myself for one night.

He hears the coolness of my words, can tell there’s a dismissal hidden there and he walks back through the gym and into the locker room.

By the time he comes back out, I’m all ready to lock up and head home. We walk out the door together. I turn left to the small lot where I parked earlier, leaving the larger lot open for the swarm of customers I’d hoped would have shown up today.

Dylan walks the other way, nodding a silent goodbye.

I’m just going to go ahead and blame my stupidity on my exhaustion. Me, of all people, should know better than to assume that someone’s gay, to call them out on it without knowing for sure.

That’s something that has nearly gotten me into trouble on more than a few occasions. 

Trying to erase those memories from my already-screwed-up-beyond-belief head, I start my car and pull to the front of the gym. Dylan’s still there, leaning up against the wall of windows in the front.

I pull up to the curb and push the button to lower the passenger’s side window. Wrongful assumptions aside, I can’t let him sit here by himself. Sure, he’s a grown man, but he’s hurt. “Can I give you a lift?”

Dylan picks his head up from his phone, looking tired and beat up. “Nah, it’s okay. I’m sure I’ll get a cab company soon enough.”

I should pull away. I should let him figure it out on his own. I don’t owe him anything, and he sure as hell doesn’t owe me anything, but I feel obligated somehow.

Or maybe it’s that I feel like I need to know more about him.

“Come on. Don’t be ridiculous. Let me give you a lift. It’s the least I can do for assuming you were gay.”

Dylan combs his good hand through his hair before bending down and scooping up his bag. I hit the button to unlock his door and feel marginally better that he’ll at least let me do this for him.

He gets in the car and, with his arm still in the sling, gawkily pulls the seatbelt across his lap. When he’s situated and facing forward, he kicks his gym bag with his feet, making room for his long legs. As I shift the car into drive and pull away from the curb, Dylan keeps his eyes focused on the road ahead of us.

Without even looking over at me, he says, “Who said your assumption was wrong?”