Advertisements on TV warn that heroin will get you hooked the very first time. Cigarettes have disclaimers about their addictive properties printed on the box. And everyone knows that caffeine is addictive. But Brooke Maccabe should come with a warning label.

The treadmill belt comes to a gradual halt. Once it stops, I lean against the rail while I try to catch my breath. On the machine next to me, Jason turns and glances up at the LED screen mounted high on the wall. Halfway down the list of names, it reads "DeanH, HR 107%" in bright red. As in, my heart rate is currently exceeding its scientifically calculated maximum—and not because I'm exercising.

I am in peak physical condition. Mentally, not so much.

"You okay?" Jason wipes his forehead with a white gym towel, studying me with his brow furrowed.

"Yeah." I take a swig of my water. There's a cramp in my side that feels like I'm being stabbed, but it pales in comparison to the cramp in my brain. "I'm great."

I reach over, removing the safety key from the treadmill console before hopping off. Jason does the same and follows me into the floor to find a spot to stretch. I quickly steer us towards the back, a safe distance away from the brunette in hot pink at the front of the room.

You know, the one who ghosted me yesterday morning.

I would try to catch a glimpse of her, but the floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the studio make that impossible; she'd catch me staring in the reflection. It's unnecessary, anyway—I know her face by heart.

And that was before I was buried to the hilt inside her.

Now I know every inch of her body.

"Great job, class. Let's stretch out those quads!" Meghan, our perky redheaded instructor, bends her left leg at the knee and pulls her foot behind her to demonstrate. Sweaty and red faced, the rest of the class follows suit, switching sides on her command.

My gaze finally slides over to Brooke's side of the room where she's standing beside her friend Peyton, laughing quietly over something together.

Brooke seems significantly less rattled than I am right now, and I find that even more unsettling.

We switch stretches, assuming a deep lunge position. Following the trainer's cue, Brooke takes a step forward, stretching out her hip right flexor. It is impossible to avoid looking at her ass in those black workout leggings. There is literal magnetism involved, drawing my eyes straight to her. Something inside me stirs, and I force myself to look back up to Meghan at the front.

Meghan tells the class to stand back up and reach overhead, stretching out our 'side bodies', as she calls it. Brooke has a very fine 'side body'.

"You sure you're okay?" Jason whispers, interrupting my thoughts. "You seem a little dazed."

That's because I am. But I can't risk this getting back to Brendan, which means I can't confide in Jason. While I trust him, but there's still a chance he might let it slip by mistake. I haven't seen Brendan yet, either. How am I supposed to look him in the eye when I do?

Thing is, I didn't just sleep with Brooke. I had her begging me to let her come again while she was bent over my bed, pulling off the sheets. She left nail marks down my back. I face-fucked her. Now I want to do it all over. I want to do her all over. One night with Brooke left me fiending like some kind of junkie. I've gone and gotten addicted to something I can't have.

Brendan is going to kill me. And I fully deserve it. Rule number one of the bro code: little sisters are off-limits. Especially for a one-night stand.

"Just starving," I mutter. "I need some food."

"Me too, man." He grabs an elbow, stretching out his tricep. "Let's go grab some something to eat after this. You have time, right?"

My stomach does a somersault. I have zero appetite, but now I have to commit to my lie. "Sure."

"Just let me touch base with Penny before we head out," Jay adds. "Then you and I can talk about the new location over breakfast. I got the market reports from the franchisor last week and there are a few good possibilities to choose from."

Jason is owner-operator of this fitness studio and Penny is the manager. Brendan and I have invested along with Jason as silent partners. It's a national franchise that has been doing phenomenally well, and our location is no exception. We're practically printing money, which is why he wants to expand.

Though, I'm not sure I should I be making any major financial decisions with the state my mind is in.

"Yup."

"Brendan said he's interested too," Jay adds. My stomach performs another dive bomb. I am the worst friend.

"Perfect." I lean down, stretching out my right hamstring. It's more tense than a piano wire.

Of course, in the way life tends to fuck with you, Brooke is a regular here. Her attendance began as a gesture of support for our fledgling business. Then she got hooked and told all her friends. Now, she and her three BFFs hog treadmills one through five, weekday at 7 AM, as well as 9 AM most weekends. Brooke attends like clockwork, dressed in skintight workout gear specifically just to torture me. Okay, that last part may not be true; nearly all the female members wear Lululemon. It's just that none of them look like her in it.

It's great for business when members fall in love with the studio and become regulars. This particular situation, however, is not so desirable for me on a personal level.

Today was a roll of the dice. I thought maybe she wouldn't show, and I needed some kind of outlet for the frustration I've been carrying around since I woke up to an empty bed yesterday morning. Another woman is not even an option at this point. I could not be less interested in that idea if I tried. Which just goes to show how dire this situation is, because this has never happened before.

Normally, I'd move on with my life and not think twice about the other night. But there's nothing normal about whatever this is.

Megan tells the class to lie down on the floor to stretch our glutes and hamstrings. I position myself behind a bench so that I'm partially shielded from Brooke's view, and more importantly, she's shielded from mine. Staring up at the ceiling roped with rows with TRX bands, I exhale and try to banish the tension I'm holding in my body. It fails.

"Final stretch!" Meghan's voice rings out as she demonstrates some forward and backward shoulder rolls. "You did it. Awesome work, guys! High fives on the way out."

The other attendees gather up their items and cluster in front of the glass door, forming a single-file line before exiting into the lobby area. I grab my stainless steel water bottle off the bench beside me and begin to make my way to the exit at a glacial pace with Jason trailing along beside me. I'm in no hurry because I don't want to get wedged in the crowd next to Brooke.

Until the other night, I thought that my fixation with her came from wanting what I couldn't have. Because truth be told, I'm used to getting what I want. With affluent, workaholic parents nursing heavy amounts of guilt, I wasn't exactly under-indulged as a child. With disposable income to burn and non-hideous looks, I'm not exactly left wanting for much as an adult, either. Except for her.

Jason and I squeeze our way through the herd of people over to the locker area. Brooke is nowhere to be found in my peripheral vision. I wasn't sure whether to say hi or to pretend I didn't see her, but now I don't have to decide. It's a disappointment and relief all at once.

Don't get me wrong. I knew it was just sex. That was supposed to be the entire point. I thought a quick, drive-by hookup would be my ticket out of this mess that's been plaguing me for years. Like finally scratching an itch. Instead of being the antidote I'd hoped for, our tryst was a dose of poison. It didn't satisfy my desire—it fueled it.

Navigating the crowded lobby, I yank open my locker and take a deep breath, trying to get my head straight. It's now Sunday, two days since the hottest night of my entire life, and I can't get it out of my head. Brooke, moaning my name. Brooke, coming apart beneath me. Brooke...wearing my shirt.

I don't know why the last thing even stands out in my mind. If any other casual hookup touched my clothes, I wouldn't find it endearing, I would find it annoying.

"Hey." A soft female voice pipes up from behind me.

Reflexively, I spin around to face her. Way too eager, and I hate myself for it. What in the actual fuck is wrong with me? I haven't been this inept with a woman since high school. Maybe middle school, even. Maybe never.

"Hey," I say. "How's it going?" I grab my phone and keys out of the locker, trying to pretend I'm a normal, functional human being.

A forced smile appears on Brooke's bare lips. Her skin is flushed pink and it reminds me of the way she looked after sex, which makes me even more flustered. The tight racerback tank top she's wearing isn't helping, either.

"Good. I just wanted to say hi..." She shifts her weight from foot to foot in her neon orange Nikes. Her glacial blue eyes dart around the studio, scanning for eavesdroppers. We're in the clear; Jason is over by the reception desk speaking to a sales associate, and her friends are gathering up their things by the door.

Brooke takes a step closer, lowering her voice. "You know, because we'll be seeing each other this Friday."

"Uh, no. It's cool. You know." A less than articulate response. Brooke has some kind of effect on me that is difficult to describe. It's like interference for my brain.

She clears her throat. "I didn't want it to be weird."

We're well past weird, having landed somewhere in an alternate universe. I'm still not entirely convinced the whole thing wasn't some kind of dirty dream. And seeing her this weekend for Brendan's birthday is bound to be awkward, but acknowledging that won't help my cause—whatever that is. Even I'm not sure. Forgetting about it? Getting a repeat performance?

"Why would it be weird? I mean, nothing happened, right?"

I can only assume this is what we're aiming for, given the way she completely fucking disappeared the next day.

Brooke's smile falters. "Right." She pauses, chewing her full bottom lip. "Well, I guess I'll see you Friday, if I don't see you here sooner."

"Yep." I slam the locker shut and it bangs louder than I'd intended, ringing like a gunshot going off in the lobby. "Have a good one."

"You too." With a nod, she turns on her heel and walks away. Vanishing, like she did the morning after we hooked up. I woke up and rolled over to see if she was up for round three, but she was already gone. She ghosted me like I was some random hookup from Tinder, rather than a guy she's known for nearly a decade.

I texted her after—partly concerned by her disappearance, wanting to make sure she was okay; partly trying to smooth things over because of Brendan; and partly angling for another rendezvous under the covers. She didn't even reply. Completely blew me off.

Of course, I've had three other women text me since then offering themselves up on a goddamn silver platter. Just not the right one.

I've racked my brain since then, trying to figure out where I went wrong. Trying to determine whether my interpretation of our night together was incorrect. Whether she didn't enjoy herself quite as much as I'd led myself to believe.

But here's the thing. Women's orgasms are like poker: there's always a tell. A little sound, a sigh, a phrase; something involuntary that she does right as she goes over the edge, not even aware of the fact that she does it. The tell is impossible to fake.

I know Brooke's tell. And I wish I didn't, because now it's all I can think about.

He's got it baaaaad. But don't worry, he'll get answers even if he has to resort to naughty tactics to get them.