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The rage has nothing to do with each other. This is just an outlet for it. A way to keep it from consuming us so we can get other shit done.
We fight hard, drawing blood and leaving bruises behind. I sock Gage right in the stomach and he wheezes for a second before punching me in the face.
I taste blood from a split lip, and I lick it up, that salt and iron on my tongue, before spitting it in the dirt and grinning savagely at Gage.
He just glares back and we launch at each other again.
He manages to knock me down, and we grapple each other, rolling in the dirt and leaves and pine needles and shit. Something sharp slices into my arm with a bite of pain that barely registers.
A jagged piece of metal sticking out of the dirt, left behind by someone else who was here before us.
It hardly hurts, and I don’t really pay attention to it.
Not when there’s adrenaline pumping through me like a fucking drug, and Gage is trying to pin me down. I’m bigger than him, so it’s hard, but he puts up a damn good fight.
It goes on and on until my muscles are burning and my chest is heaving. Then Ash cuts in, stepping between us and holding up his hands.
“Not to break up the party, but our time’s up. We gotta go.”
And just like that, it’s over. Gage gets off me, and I get to my feet. We probably look a mess, but I’m grinning from ear to ear as we gather up our shit and head back to the main building.
We troop in to return our gear and stuff, and the kid behind the desk stares at me with wide eyes.
“What?” I ask, my brows furrowing.
“Your… arm.” He swallows, pointing to it.
I look, and yup, there’s blood dripping down my arm. From that cut, I guess.
The kid looks horrified, glancing between us and then back at me like he wants to ask but also really, really doesn’t. I just laugh.
A little blood has never bothered me. Hell, a lot of blood has never bothered me.
“Thank you for choosingBright Wars,” the kid says, and I know it’s just the shit his bosses tell him to say because he looks like he can’t wait for us to be out of here when we file out.
We all pile back into the car, sweaty and smeared with mostly paint and some blood, heading back home.
Once we make it back, Gage disappears to do Gage shit, and Ash probably has a line of women waiting for his dick. I go into the kitchen and look at the cut on my arm, which is still bleeding.
“Don’t do that in the kitchen,” Priest says, giving me a look.
I roll my eyes. “Like there hasn’t been worse shit in here.”
River’s dog, Waldo, barks from under the table, and I give Priest a ‘see what I mean?’ kind of look.
He just looks unimpressed, then turns to walk out.
“That’s gonna need stitches,” River tells me, peering at the cut. “It’s deep.”
I poke at it. She’s probably right. Plus, it’s still bleeding, which means it’s not going to clot on its own.
“Do you have a kit?” she asks.
“Yeah. Upstairs.”
“Come on.”
She leads the way, and I nudge her toward my bathroom. The first aid kit is under the sink where I keep it for when I need to patch myself up. It’s not like we can just go to the hospital for every little thing that happens in our line of work, so we keep the house stocked with shit to handle it ourselves.
