Page 2 of Mountain Beast

Shattering glass whines from the security feed behind my desk, interrupting my morose walk down memory lane.

Sounds like someone is using the outdoor rage park.

I created it a few years ago, since I have acres of useless shit lying around. Rusted cars, dented appliances, and a multitude of other items deemed no longer useful.

Why not get a little bit more life out of them, earn some extra cash, and help people at the same time?

Not that anyone would call my rage park particularly altruistic, even if it is a form of therapy.

Fuck, I wish it was me out there breaking shit and releasing the swell of frustration caused by thinking of Ashley and the tension with Cormac.

My lawyer wasn't a fan when I pitched the rage park. There was a list of potential problems a mile long, but we've done what we can to mitigate liability. A signed waiver and online payment allows a patron through the password-protected gate to prevent kids from walking in and injuring themselves.

People show up at all hours of the night to use it since it's open 24/7. Another no-no my lawyer warned against, but you can't plan when you need a release. So, the space is always available for a fee and some signatures to release me from liability.

Every week, two employees clean out the area and add new things to crush—an easy enough task when our inventory changes daily.

Crack! Another crash of broken glass.

I usually don't monitor the video and audio feeds. Too focused on working rather than spying on what a High Ridge local needs to get out of their system, but some time between my third or fourth mug of coffee, the emotions wafting off the woman on the screen grabs my attention.

Maybe because she's not my usual customer.

I don't get a lot of women on the property in need of discharging their rage. Or maybe it's just that they are too afraid to venture into my domain.

But this woman didn't let my bad reputation stop her.

She hammers a mallet against a window pane and splinters the wooden panels. Again and again, she swings as tears streak down her cheeks, gleaming under one of the security lights.

I shouldn't watch.

This is a private moment.

An intimate liberation she wouldn't want witnessed, but I can't look away.

I'm impressed by her stamina. She's been at this for a while, and it doesn't appear like she's slowing down. Nor does her crying appear to be lessening.

At this rate, she's liable to get hurt—either by overexertion or accidentally hitting herself because she’s blinded by tears.

And while it wouldn't be my fault, I don't like the possibility.

Setting my mug down on my desk, I stand and stretch before snagging my phone and heading outside.

No one else is here.

I should have gone home forty-five minutes ago, but it's not like anything is waiting for me there, and at least I have work to do in my office.

My long strides eat up the gravel path between mounds of garbage that lead to the rage park. The sound of metal meeting metal echoes in the air. She must have destroyed the window frame and moved on to something else with a different weapon of choice.

Pausing behind a burnt-out SUV, I study her before she can see me. Wild curls have fallen out of a previously tidy bun. A bright yellow cardigan has long been abandoned, thrown over the chainlink fence. Her generous breasts swell beneath the thin cotton of her shirt with each heavy breath.

No, she's not the usual type to come here.

At all.

And she's definitely not dressed for it.

Even if I appreciate the way those dark jeans cling to her ass.