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Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rhenn
The steel door opens and slams shut, indicating I have a visitor. I know who it is. There’s only one other person who has the key. I continue to pound my fist into the heavy bag, ignoring the sweat pouring from my brow and running into my eye. My muscles are tired, exhausted from such a strenuous workout, yet I keep beating. Pound, pound, pound. Fist meets hard bag. Heavy metal pumping through the speakers.
It’s the only thing that has gotten me through this week.
A week from hell.
Nick doesn’t say a word, just comes over and holds the heavy bag while I continue my assault. The harder I drive my fist into the bag, the worse the memories come flooding back. That only pisses me off even more. Punch, ignore, punch, ignore. But there’s no ignoring her and the recollections she evokes.
When my body is too tired to go on, I drop my arms, panting hard and sweating even harder. “You look like shit,” my asshole best friend says, pushing against the bag and hitting me in the chest.
“Thanks,” I reply, sarcastically. Sarcasm has become my friend. Well, that and tequila. “I’ve been busy.”
He stares at me from a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. Even though my friend is a few inches shorter than me, he’s a scrappy little bastard, and there’s no doubt in my mind that if he wanted to, he could kick my ass to Sunday right now. And do you know what? I’d welcome it. Maybe having my head pounded on would actually help me sleep at night.
“You’re not returning my calls.”
“Like I said, I’ve been busy.” He continues to stare, and it’s starting to piss me off. “If you have something to say, say it. You’re interrupting my workout.”
“Why’d you leave?” Okay, so he’s coming out swinging right out of the gate.
“Because the job was done.”
“Bullshit.”
I glare down at him, my heart pounding in my chest and my breathing slightly erratic. “Come again?” I ask, taking a step toward him. The tension in the room is getting thick, but I’m not about to back down.
“You heard me. I call bullshit.”
“Whatever,” I mumble, turning and tossing the gloves onto the floor and heading over to the weight machine.
“Not happening, man. I’m not going to stand here and watch you kill yourself.”
“What the fuck,” I growl, turning and going nose to nose with my best friend.
“You’re exhausted. Maybe instead of lifting weights, you should go home and sleep.”
“I can’t!” I bellow, angry at him for knowing me so well. Angry at him for calling me out. Angry at myself for not being strong enough to deal with this hurt I feel in my chest.
“So you’re just going to keep going until you drop? Then what?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, turning and heading toward the treadmill. If the bastard won’t let me lift, I’ll run. Even as dog tired as I am right now, I can still run circles around his sorry ass.
“No.”
“What?” I ask, stopping and turning around once more.
“Go home. Get some rest.”
“Fuck you,” I yell, turning and continuing my trek to the treadmill.
I don’t know he’s coming until his shoulder is planted in my back and we’re hurling to the mat. Instinct takes over and I roll to the side, grabbing at his leg and using my momentum to pin his arm. But he’s too fast, too strong. Maybe I am a little tired. It should be easy for me to overcome my friend, but suddenly, I find myself on my back, him trying to hold down my arms. I get in a gut shot and find a little comfort in hearing him grunt. What I wasn’t expecting was the solid right hook to my jaw, or the immediate left that meets my ribs.
“Bastard,” I grunt, reveling in the pain that sweeps through my body. I use my legs and throw him off me, swinging around and pinning him to the mat. My fist lands a kidney shot, but it’s short lived when his leg bucks back and takes out my knee.
We both lie there, side by side, grunting and panting. “What the fuck was that?” I ask, slowly rolling onto my hip and looking over at my friend.
