Branded as Trouble (Rough Riders #6)(88)

Days like this, it flat-out amazed him he’d passed the three-year mark without ingesting a single drop of booze.


India had left a message on his machine and on his cell phone and he ignored both. Pissy, testy, fighting the temptation of addiction; he wasn’t fit for company.


He needed a distraction. Driving into town and running on a treadmill at the gym didn’t appeal to him. He was too wired to sit on his ass and watch TV or climb into bed and sleep it off. He wanted to hit something—just not hit the bottle.


In the spare room he slipped on a pair of boxing shorts, his sparring gloves and circled the punching bag. Starting slow, he wanted to stretch out this beating and not tire himself out too quickly.


Right jab. Right jab. Left jab. Reverse the sequence.


He hit the bag over and over. Then he moved to the speed bag and pummeled it until he could scarcely hold his arms up. Only then did he take a breather. The workout mats were slick with sweat.


Colt’s entire body was soaked, even his hair dripped. His eyes stung. The self-inflicted physical punishment usually helped him focus on one thing: not chugging beer until he passed out.


But tonight it didn’t work.


So, Colt began his workout again. By the time he’d suffered through the third round, he’d almost reached that level of an exercise high. He wanted to wallow in that feeling of invincibility.


Of strength. He spun around to rest his forearms on the weight bench bar and saw India leaning in the doorway, gawking at him.


No hello. No pleasantries. He tried to level his breathing and demanded, “How long have you been standin’ there?”


“Long enough.”


Goddamn, she looked good. She wore leggings the color of rich coffee and a floaty sheer pink tunic that hit her mid-thigh. No shoes. No makeup. No extra jewelry. No bra.


“Tell me, do you always beat on that thing so hard?”


“Only when I’ve had a lousy f*ckin’ day.”


“Been a bad one?”


“You have no idea how bad.”


India crossed her arms over her chest. “Try me.”


“Look, Indy, I’m in a piss-poor mood, I’m shitty company, and I don’t feel like makin’ small talk.”


“Did I suggest we sit around and shoot the breeze?”


“No. But you oughta know I’m feelin’ a little mean, more than a little raw around the edges and I can’t promise I wouldn’t take it out on you, so it’d be best if you went on home.” Colt faced the heavy bag again. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”


“Oh, I see how this works. You can demand I buck up and spend time with you when I’m a physical and emotional train wreck, but when you’re having the same issues, I’m just supposed to accept a pat on the head and go on my merry way like an obedient girlfriend? That sucks, Colt, and it’s not fair.”


He ground his teeth together. “I didn’t ask you to come over.”


“I didn’t think I needed a written invitation.”


“Jesus, India. Will you just drop it?”


“Fuck that.” She stomped behind him. “You demanded complete honesty in this relationship and that includes both of us.


Which means you don’t get to hide this side of yourself from me.”


“I’m hidin’ it from you for your own damn good.”