The drive to Bianca's high-end apartment complex was a blur of aggressive gear shifts and white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. Frank's mind was a chaotic battlefield. The morning session had been brutal—Davis had been a phantom of cold efficiency, pushing Frank until his lungs burned and his vision blurred, all while maintaining a distance so vast it felt like they were in different time zones. Not a single look of recognition. Not a single "accidental" touch. Just the barking of orders and the clinical observation of Frank's suffering.
It's just sex, Frank told himself, pulling into the underground parking. That's all this is. I'm a man, I have needs. Davis is just a distraction. A physical anomaly. Bianca is the Queen. She's what I'm supposed to want.
He needed to prove to himself that his body could function the way the world expected it to. He needed to drown out the scent of cedar and cold iron with the expensive, floral perfume of the woman who held the title of the most beautiful girl on campus.
When he reached her door, he pounded.
The moment Bianca opened the door, looking effortless in a silk lounge set, Frank didn't give her a chance to speak. He stepped into her space, his hands framing her face with a sudden, desperate intensity, and captured her mouth.
"Frank?" she managed to gasp against his lips, her voice muffled by the ferocity of his kiss. "God, you're... you're intense today."
He didn't answer. He couldn't. If he spoke, he might lose the momentum. He backed her into the living room, his tongue seeking hers with a frantic hunger. He was trying to force the thrill, trying to spark that same white-hot lightning he'd felt when he'd lunged at Davis the night before. He told himself her lips were soft, her skin was smooth, and her scent was intoxicating. She was everything a man was supposed to die for.
"Let's go to the bedroom," he muttered, his voice ragged.
Bianca laughed, a light, melodic sound of surprise and triumph. She led him down the hallway, and the moment they hit the mattress, Frank was on her. He moved with the practiced grace of a boyfriend who knew exactly what was expected of him. He began to unbutton her silk top, his hands moving quickly, almost mechanically.
As the fabric fell away, revealing her perfectly sculpted body, Frank forced himself to look. She was a vision—golden skin, soft curves, a masterpiece of feminine beauty. Any other guy at Upperhill would have given anything to be in this position. Frank stared at her, chanting a mantra in the back of his mind: This is what you want. This is the goal. This is normal.
He leaned down to kiss the hollow of her throat, but as his eyes closed, the darkness behind his eyelids didn't show him Bianca.
It showed him a rainfall showerhead. It showed him wet, scarred granite skin. It showed him the heavy, dismissive gaze of a man who called him a "kid."
Frank's heart stuttered. He felt a wave of cold sweat break across his forehead. He redoubled his efforts, his hands roaming Bianca's back, pulling her closer, trying to ground himself in the reality of her touch. He wanted to feel that surge, that primal, undeniable ache that had nearly brought him to his knees in the gym.
But there was nothing.
The more he tried to force it, the more his body felt like lead. He felt like he was performing a play where he'd forgotten all the lines. He was kissing her, he was touching her, but he felt like he was observing the scene from a great distance.
Bianca, sensing his intensity, reached down. She wanted to return the favor, to feel the evidence of his desire for her. Her hand slid under the waistband of his jeans, searching for the hardness she intends to ignite.
She froze.
Frank felt the moment the air left the room. Bianca's hand stayed there for a long, agonizing heartbeat, but there was no response. Despite the frantic kissing, despite the "erotic" display, Frank was completely, devastatingly relaxed.
Bianca pulled back, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. She sat up, clutching her discarded silk top to her chest, her eyes searching Frank's flushed, miserable face.
"Frank?" she asked, her voice soft but tinged with a sharp edge of hurt. "What's wrong with you?"
Frank rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above them. He felt like he was drowning in his own skin. "Nothing. I'm just... I'm tired, Bee."
"Tired?" Bianca let out a short, incredulous breath. "You almost broke down my door. You've been kissing me like you wanted to eat me alive for ten minutes, but... nothing? If you're not into it, why do all this? Why the show?"
Frank closed his eyes, his jaw tightening until it ached. He couldn't tell her the truth. He couldn't tell the Miss University Queen that a thirty-five-year-old man in a tactical jacket had broken his compass.
"I'm stressed," he snapped, the words feeling like a shield. "My parents... they hired that guy. The one from the club. The 'police' looking guy. His name is Davis."
Bianca's expression shifted from hurt to realization. "The one who was staring at us? The one who made you act like a crazy person on the dance floor?"
"Yeah," Frank muttered, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. "He's my new lead instructor. He's living at the house. And he's... he's as strict as a fuck, Bianca. He had me up at 4:30. He's been riding my ass for six hours straight. He treats me like I'm some amateur who's never seen a glove. He's got my head all messed up with 'kinetic chains' and 'discipline.' I can't even think straight."
Bianca's face softened. She moved closer, draping a slim, comforting arm across his chest. She didn't see the lie; she saw a boyfriend who was crumbling under the weight of his father's impossible expectations.
"Oh, Frank," she whispered, leaning down to kiss his temple. "Why didn't you just say so? You don't have to perform for me. If you're that stressed out, you shouldn't bother with this. You don't need to prove anything to me."
She pulled him into an embrace, tucking his head under her chin. "Just relax. Just breathe. Forget about the training, and just spend the evening with me. We can just watch a movie. No pressure."
Frank stayed there, held in the arms of the most beautiful woman he knew, feeling the softness of her and the safety of her affection. He should have felt lucky. He should have felt relieved.
But as he lay there in the quiet of her apartment, all he could think about was the fact that Bianca's touch felt like nothing, while the memory of Davis's hand on his thigh felt like a brand that would never heal. He was a prisoner in a life he no longer fit into, and the only person who had the key was a man who was planning his exit.