FIGHT

Chapter 18

Stop it, Tatum.

I hustle down the hallway and throw myself into the elevator, pressing the button for the lobby. The sooner I get to work, the sooner I can finish and come home. If I could stay in bed all day, I would. That's really the only thing I have enough energy for.

Hailing a cab isn't worth it, so I walk. Dragging my feet across the hard concrete, I don't have the heart to apologize whenever I accidentally bump someone on the sidewalk. Not that it matters, really. This is New York after all; we're not exactly known for any sort of southern hospitality.

It feels like years pass until I finally reach the building and it takes every ounce of drive in me to enter the structure. Nobody says hi. Nobody even looks at me. I've been putting people off for far too long to gain any friendly gazes.

When I enter my office, the pile of work on my desk nearly makes me hurl. The manuscripts keep piling up and I feel bad for the authors who have manuscripts laying on my desk. It's my job to read through them, to edit them.

But when the only word I see on the page is "Holden," I can't edit anything.

Counseling is probably what I need, if I'm being completely honest. He lied, he's doing something terrible. And I can't stop thinking about him. The way he laughs. The way his eyes crinkle when he's truly smiling. And god, the way his lips feel brushing against my skin.

I'm going certifiably insane, there's no doubt about that.

I set the first manuscript in front of me, but I can't even read the first paragraph without his name flitting across the page. I try again and again, only to come up with the same results. On every single manuscript.

Before I know it, work is over.

I pack up the written work, shoving it as nicely as I can into my purse. I'll get the same result at home, I'm sure, but at least then it looks like I'm trying. On my walk home, I bump into more people than I can count. My vision is blurry and I can't focus on anything; I'm finding my way home purely on muscle memory.

When I make it home, I force myself to eat. I can barely get anything down, but something is much better than nothing. I try to watch TV, but nothing interests me.

I need to fight.

I don't know where the sudden urge came from, but I can't move fast enough. I've been either in pain or numbness for the last few weeks and I need it. I need to feel something. I need to burn through the adrenaline I get from training.

I need to fight.

Once I have my workout clothes on, I'm sprinting. I don't have the patience to wait for a cab, so I run. I don't know how far of a run it is, but I'm out of breath and panting by the end of it. Moving like I'm running from a zombie rather than being said zombie feels marvelous. It's exhilarating.

The door feels light as I swing it open, entering the familiar gym to the scent of musk and sweat. I drop my small bag on the ground by one of the benches, scanning the room. Men are working out like crazy, the testosterone heavy in the air.

I didn't realize how much I missed this.

My eyes gaze over the entire room, searching for Josh. I need training, and I need it now. I make a quick lap around the open space, not seeing him once. Before I can change my mind, I jog over to his office. Whatever business he has to do, it can wait.

I push open the door, my feet frozen on the spot. I glance between the men, ignoring the ache in my heart as Holden's green eyes avoid mine. I can't back out, not now. I need the training. I need to feel something.