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23
If Bud thought Grace Simon was crazy, he kept it to himself—and Lord knows he had every right to. He showed up with a smile, grabbed her bag and tossed it into the back of his van. He didn’t mention the fact that he’d dropped her off less than two hours earlier. Maybe he didn’t like to gossip. Maybe he wasn’t all that interested in the reasons why a person would decide to leave town and then come back without leaving.
Whatever it was, Grace was grateful that he made no mention of any of that and she settled in for the ride to Matt’s. They chatted about the things that interested Bud—the weather (cold as hell for this time of the year); the Buffalo Bills (an ongoing concern); the state of the economy (doing better in Bud’s opinion) and the fact that the Grill served the best damn chicken wings in all of Michigan.
Bud was horrified to learn Grace hadn’t had the pleasure as of yet, and she made a promise to him that she’d rectify her mistake the next time she was at the Grill.
“You do that,” Bud said with a grin as he pulled into Matt’s driveway. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
Grace slid from the van and walked around back to retrieve her luggage. She paid Bud, he thanked her profusely for the generous tip, and then waited until he left to turn back to the house. Matt’s truck was parked in its usual spot. So he was home.
Lights burned from the inside, the glow warm and inviting, yet it did nothing to make Grace feel any better. She had no idea what she was walking into. Would his mood be any better? Did he even care that she’d left? Was he mad that she’d left? She supposed mad was better than not giving a damn, but still…
“Only one way to find out,” she muttered.
Grace scooped up her bag and headed to the house. The door was unlocked and she let herself inside. It was silent.
“Matt?”
No one answered and she made her way to the back of the house, only to find the room empty as well. She took a moment to say hello to Rosie and her pups and then a quick check of upstairs showed her the same—empty. No one home.
Maybe he’d gone to Dory’s? Taken the sled?
She checked her phone to see if he’d left a message, but the stupid thing was dead so Grace headed downstairs. Undecided, she took a trip to the back of the house again and peered outside, her stomach lurching when she spied lights on inside the barn.
“There you are,” she murmured. Rosie barked and Grace stepped back from the window. She glanced at the dog. “Okay. I’m going.”
She followed Matt’s footprints through the snow and paused at the door. Her stomach churned, her face was hot, and she felt more than a little sick. She couldn’t let her nerves get the best of her. Too much was at stake.
She opened the door, walked inside, and immediately found Matt. He was in the far corner, past the cars, where his workout equipment was. And was he ever working out.
Wearing only a pair of shorts and looking like a professional boxer, he punched a bag over and over. Methodically. Hard. Each slam of his fist against the bag was a loud, dull, thud, and Grace winced as he continued to hit it.
She made her way toward him and stopped a few feet away. Sweat gleamed across his shoulders and back as he grunted with each punch, and as seconds turned into minutes, the punches became harder. More violent. And the guttural noises he made with each swing scared her.
“Matt,” she said softly, taking a step toward him.
But he didn’t respond. He kept hitting the bag and that’s when she spied flecks of blood on the floor.
“Jesus, Matt. What the hell are you doing to yourself?” Grace took another step and spied his earbuds. Shoot. He couldn’t hear her. He pounded the bag again—so hard that she winced—and the sounds he made were awful.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Grace couldn’t stand the sound of his pain. She took the last few steps just as he let go another flurry of hits, but waited to tap his shoulder until he was done.
“Matt,” she whispered.
He whipped around so fast she had no time to react and his right fist clipped Grace’s shoulder, sending her to the ground. Her head slammed against the concrete floor and for a moment she saw nothing but stars—heard nothing but white noise.
And then the pain. Holy. The pain. Blinking rapidly, she tried to get up, but it was impossible on account of Matt who, swearing a blue streak, fell to his knees beside her.
“Goddammit, Grace. What the hell? Are you okay?” His hands were everywhere, touching her face, her shoulder, and then gently feeling the back of her head. “Shit,” he muttered. “I don’t know what happened…I didn’t mean…” His hands dropped to her arm and he looked so lost…so very lost that Grace’s heart turned over.
She struggled to sit and winced because the pain along her skull was sharp. “Matt.” She blew out a long, shaky, breath. “It’s okay. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that.”
He sat back on his haunches, his chest heaving, and she glanced down at the hand that still held her prisoner. His knuckles were raw and swollen, with fresh blood oozing from the punishment they’d been given. She reached for him, running her fingers across his damaged hand.
“What have you done?” she whispered, glancing up into his eyes. The pain she saw was incredible. It was big and raw and so intense that she dropped his hand and cupped his face. “Matt. What…why are you like this? What happened?”
His gaze swept away and the muscles on his shoulders stretched, the sinewy skin rippling—she knew he was strung as tight as an elastic.
