Forsaking Truth by Lydia Michaels

Author:Lydia Michaels [Michaels, Lydia]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Gay & Lesbian, Literature & Fiction, Fiction, Gay, Romance, Gay Romance, Western, Genre Fiction, Westerns
Amazon: B00KAE3KXA
Publisher: Secret Cravings Publishing
Published: 2014-05-05T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

Luke’s knee was gonna snap if he didn’t chill. Breath hissed out between his teeth as he braced himself and tightened his fingers on the handles of the leg press machine. Sweat burned his eyes as he tensed and shook with exertion. A roar cut from his chest as he pressed the weights forward again. They came down with a clank and he panted.

“Jesus, Luke, take it easy,” Finn said as he messed with the free weights a few feet away.

“Fuck that.” Luke grit his teeth and forced out another rep. Pain shot up his quad and he nearly passed out.

When he opened his eyes Finn was standing over him. “What the hell are you doing?”

Grabbing his sweat rag, he forced himself to stand. His legs quaked, but he refused to stop. “I’m working out. What the fuck does it look like?”

“It looks like you’re trying to kill yourself. Why don’t you tone it down a bit?”

“Why don’t you mind your own business? There’s a nice girly machine over there that makes you feel like you’re at the gyno. How ‘bout you go play with that and leave me alone?”

Finn threw up his hands. “Fine. Asshole.”

His brother turned and hit the showers. Luke went to the row machine and put it on the maximum resistance. He was freaking out and needed to blow off some steam before he killed someone.

It had been a week and Tristan had yet to call, text, or even look at him at work. A fucking week! He was pissed. Pissed at himself, pissed at Tristan, and pissed off at the fucking world. This was bullshit.

When he finished the rower, he jumped on the elliptical and stuffed the ear buds of his iPod in his ears, cranking up the volume and setting it to shuffle. He’d been hitting the gym hard these last seven days, spending at least three hours blowing off steam, but it still wasn’t enough. Something had to give and it would be either his knee or his stubbornness. He was sort of hoping for the knee.

He wasn’t ashamed of Tristan. That was a bunch of shit. He fucking loved the guy. He needed him and then he’d gone and pulled this shit and Luke didn’t know what to do.

He missed him. He missed his clothes showing up in his laundry, missed the scent of him on his sheets, missed his face. Enough time had passed, enough thinking. This was who he was. He couldn’t make himself be anything else and it wasn’t fair for Tristan to demand otherwise.

At five miles his legs went numb, but he kept going, kept pushing himself closer to that breaking point he couldn’t seem to reach. His steps faltered as heavy metal cut to soft piano notes.

He frowned. Fucking Tristan was always stealing his iPod and slipping songs into his playlist. He glanced at the screen and read Your Song, by Elton John. Jesus.

His legs rolled over the pedals as he approached seven miles. His thoughts grew distracted with each softly sung lyric.

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