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I’d like to say this is the first time I’ve seen this situation, but it’s not. It’s all too common of a sight when you are in the families.
“Again,” I bark at Fernando, and he coughs slightly.
“Fran,” he says this time, and I furrow my brow.
“Fran?” I repeat back, and he gives a small nod before his mouth opens on a silent cry. “Is Fran someone we know?” I ask Geo.
“The only Fran I know is his sister,” Geo replies.
Fernando’s eyes widen, and he tries to nod again.
“This is about your sister?” I ask, and he coughs. A slight nod of his head. “What about your sister then?”
“Here,” he grits out on a whisper, and I glance at Geo.
“Here? Your sister is here with you?”
Fernando shakes his head. I’m missing the message.
“She’s—” he says and then stops.
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Has he had any water? Will that help his throat?”
“No. I’m afraid to give him anything before Peterson gets here.”
“Fuck,” I say, standing and running my fingers through my hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. Do you think this has to do with us? Or his sister? Or is it all the same? Fuck, why can’t you talk?” I yell the last part, not really meaning it.
The culmination of everything in my life lately is hitting me at once, and I need to channel it into something productive.
“Fuck!” I yell again. “I’m going to the gym. Call me once Peterson has a diagnosis.” I stalk past Geo, throwing the door open.
I hate feeling helpless. It’s not something I’ve felt a lot in my life, except in the presence of my father. Usually, I’m the feared one, the one others look up to.
I pass the doctor coming down the hallway, and I nod to him, gesturing to the room that Fernando is lying in, and then I take the stairs two at a time and throw the door to the kitchen open.
“Oh my God,” Brigette says, clutching her chest at the loud bang as the door slams into the side of the industrial refrigerator.
“Sorry,” I mutter, stalking through and exiting before she can say anything else.
As soon as I’m in the gym, I shed my shirt, wrap my hands haphazardly, and start in on the bag. I throw jabs, kicks, one-two punches, and combos until I’m pouring sweat.
It helps to shut off my brain. I don’t think about anything but the way my hands strike, how my muscles work together to put force behind each hit. I relish the mental break, the pure adrenaline that courses through my body as I beat the fuck out of this bag in front of me.
My mind races, wondering who could’ve done this to Fernando. There hasn’t been an attack on someone in the families in a few months, so either this is random or it’s in connection to me, and it might mean I have a mole.
The hits keep on coming, and I’ll be damned if I let anything compromise me or mine.
I stop, reaching up to wipe the sweat from my brow, and I meet eyes in the mirror. Wryn stands there, watching me, and I stare back at her. I remember the file I left in the room downstairs, and now, I wish I had read it. I can’t trust anyone now, especially not her.
“What the fuck do you want?” I ask, my chest heaving.
She picks up a towel from the pile against the wall and brings it to me. She stops about three feet behind me and holds it out. I turn, grabbing it and wiping it down my face and then my torso. Rivulets of sweat drip in between my pecs and abs, and I wipe them up, all while fully aware of her watching.
“Nothing. I was in the library next door and now heading to the kitchen. I stopped to watch. I’ve taken a few classes before, but you were on another level.”
I throw the towel down on the ground and fiddle with the wrappings around my hands, working on tightening them. I don’t want to talk about me right now.
“You are going before the review board tomorrow,” I say, glancing up at her.
