“Evan, I’d like to go for a run, and before you tell me that I’m not allowed, I’m well aware,” I snap. Drew has banned my outdoor runs since the incident, and I need my exercise. “Would you accompany me down to the hotel gym so I can use the treadmill?” I ask as sweet as possible.
No way am I going to make things worse by going anywhere without protection or worse, going for my usual long run through the city streets like I’ve been dying to do. Drew would have an absolute coronary, although, I notice that he’s not restricted to the hotel suite like I am, nor did he let me know where the hell he went this morning.
Someone didn’t try to kill him either, dummy.
“Sure thing, Miss Tannen, when do you need me?”
“I’m getting dressed right now, is fifteen minutes enough time?”
“Yes, I’ll be at your door.”
“Thanks, Evan.” I hang up the phone.
Twenty minutes later Evan is ushering me through the glass doors of the posh hotel gym. I didn’t expect anyone else to be here this early, but across the huge gym past all of the equipment, I see two shirtless men in protective headgear sparring each other, throwing vicious punches non-stop.
Ignoring them, I grab the nearest treadmill and pop my ear buds in, cranking up the modern playlist that Drew so thoughtfully put on my iPod. He decided that my decade long shunning of any new music needed to stop, and compiled a list of his favorites for me. I set the treadmill to a pretty good pace and watch the two men fight as I run to the sounds of Maroon 5.
As I observe them hit and kick each other, I notice Steve come out of the men’s locker room and stand next to where the men are sparring. Suddenly nauseous, I feel a prickle of fear run up my neck and plunge down into my stomach.
Slowing my treadmill so I can focus better, I look right at the two men. With a sickening feeling spreading through me I realize that I recognize the torso of the man who is currently on top of the other, pounding on him over and over again with his fists. It’s only when I see Steve jump in and yank them apart that my brain registers that Drew is the man beating the shit out of his sparring partner.
I hit the kill switch on the treadmill and pull out my ear buds, approaching Drew cautiously as he catches his breath. Glancing at the man on the floor, I see that he’s removed his protective headgear. It’s Drew’s friend and trainer, Damien Spader.
I know Drew had him flown in from New York to train with him for the film, but they usually only work at the gym on the studio lot. Drew isn’t supposed to spar when he’s filming. He said the studio told him it gives him too many bruises and injuries to cover up, and he could break something important and put filming on hold. Damien seems okay, angry but no blood, so I focus on Drew.
“What’s going on? Why did you leave the room without telling me?” I ask.
Drew’s eyes dart around and he reminds me that we aren’t alone. “Not here, Sydney.” Turning from me he grabs a towel and wipes the sweat out of his eyes.
“Then upstairs, Forrester. Now,” I say in a low, angry voice.
He spins around with wide eyes, surprised by my demand. Did he think he wasn’t affecting me with his standoffish bullshit? He can’t be that stupid.
“Fine. Grab our gear and bring it up,” he barks at Steve. “I’ll see you on set tomorrow Damien.” Damien waves, pretending not to notice the tension between me and Drew.
Drew turns and grips my arm tightly, hurrying me out of the gym and to the elevators. Pissed off, I grab his hand and pry his fingers loose.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I whisper angrily. “I didn’t do anything to you, so stop punishing me.” Now I’m the one who’s fuming, and he made me skip my run which I desperately need to stay sane.
The elevator signals its arrival and when the doors slide open, it’s empty. I stomp in and Drew follows. He stabs the button for our floor and spins around, his arms on the wall on either side of my head, his tape-wrapped hands inches from my face.
“I don’t know, Sydney. I have all of this …this anger at our situation and I don’t know how to deal with it.” He closes his eyes and I see his jaw clenching. “It’s not that I’m angry with you, I just can’t stomach the thought of something happening to you again. I won’t allow it.” His beautiful mouth just millimeters from mine. “But I can’t stop it either, and it’s fucking killing me!” he says, the cords of muscle in his neck bulging from stress.
“Your anger is going to affect your performance.”
“Fuck my performance!” he yells, causing me to cower in the tight space.