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“Yeah,” he says as I go to my closet and slip on my old Vans. “She kicked my ass in Monopoly, and now she’s got your mom playing Pictionary.”
I snort softly at that, and grab my hoodie, shoving it over my head, before following Shawn downstairs. We let Mom know where we’re headed, and she just nods and waves us off with a simple, “Be careful.” The fact that she doesn’t put up a fuss about it, not to mention how suspiciously quiet Phoebe’s being, speaks volumes.
Am I really that obvious?
Gritting my teeth, I burrow deeper in my hoodie as I make a run for it through the rain and toward the barn doors.
Once inside, on autopilot, I head straight for the corner where Mom’s old boyfriend left his heavy bag swinging from the rafters.
“Here.”
I glance over to find Shawn extending me boxing gloves, and I shake my head.
“There’s no tape here. Let’s not bust your hands, yeah?”
Grousing to myself, I rip them from his hands, and shove them on. Shawn flips on his phone flashlight, propping it up on a shelf, providing just enough light to illuminate the bag.
Not wasting a minute more, I get in position, just like he taught me back when we got out of rehab. Hands raised by my face. Knees bent. Limbs loose.
I bounce around a bit, jaw working furiously as I summon forth that hungry beast inside me, seducing him to the surface.
The one starved for release.
Relief.
Problem is, in order to do so, I have to open my mind to all the things I typically hide from.
The grief over Izzy that I hide away.
The confusion still swirling from earlier, combined with truths I’ve avoided for years.
All the messy, ugly guilt that comes with them.
They don’t make a full break for it—I won’t let them. I can’t. I let just enough slip through to taunt addiction’s greedy paws, because I know if I don’t, it’ll just bite me in the ass later when I least expect it.
Like this, I wield the control.
I’m vaguely aware of Shawn drawing near enough to intervene if needed, but otherwise he gives me a wide berth.
When I throw the first uppercut, a roar wrenches from my throat.
And that thing inside me—that bloodthirsty, impulsive, ravenous beast inside me who’s been in some way, shape, or form a part of me since I was a kid; calling on my biggest fears and weaknesses…
It purrs. Yessssss.
And then it’s all blind sensation and reflex as I throw one punch after another. Pummeling the bag like it’s the face of my worst enemy.
“Of course you would. They’re her eyes.”
“Just ’cause she’s not here…”
It’s all leather colliding with leather, clanging chains and primal grunts—a storm of my own making, one that echoes the one still clinging to Shiloh like it’s afraid to move on.
And all the while, I’m lost to a torrent of images flashing through my mind—itches and cravings, and fragments of moans, pleas, and bitter words that fire off with seemingly no rhyme or reason.
Thwap.
Thwap.
