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He grunted. “I know, but enough about that. Go take care of your best friend.”
“You do the same.”
I headed to where Cohen and Alex were still waiting.
“Hey.”
Cohen met me, hand up, and we did our half-hand shake. Alex gave me a nod, both of us sharing a look because it hadn’t been that long ago when we were having a whole different type of exchange.
“You got it?”
I motioned to the gym. “I’ll get it.” I glanced Alex’s way. “You brought your shit?”
He rolled his eyes, but reached into the back of Cohen’s truck and hauled out a whole box. The clank of bottles inside told me he followed through. “I don’t know where the fuck Clint and Ramsay got this, but yes. A whole shit ton of booze.”
Cohen was eyeing it, hungrily, angrily, but he was holding off.
I held up my keys. “One second. I’ll get the bag.”
After jogging to the building, I let myself in, turned off the security system, and opened one of the giant garage doors. Then I started rolling out one of the mobile punching bags. I nabbed some tape, though knowing they both probably had their own gloves.
Which was the case as I rolled it all the way over to them.
Cohen was gloved up, warming up his arms.
Alex was standing back, a beer in hand, and watching Cohen warily.
This was what we did if one of us needed the other.
I’d done this more with Cohen than Alex, but we’d been there for Alex a couple times last year. Course, now those nights took on a different feel because at the time he said he needed a night to get drunk and hurt something, said it had something to do with his cousin. We hadn’t asked details because we weren’t those guys. If the other one wanted to talk about it, he’d talk about it, and we’d listen. But this, we showed up.
We drank together and we hurt something.
My uncle found out about our tradition. How, I had no idea, but the next morning after the first night, he told me I needed to clean off the bag and lock up. I had locked up, but I hadn’t cleaned the bag off.
I’d make sure to do that this time.
I set it up and stood back.
Cohen was on the bag in the next instant, and Alex was holding out a beer for me.
I took it, moving farther back.
I didn’t say anything.
We watched Cohen swing on the bag through one beer.
Another beer.
I took a break.
Alex kept drinking.
He broke the silence as he was reaching for a fourth. “It’s messed up.”
I braced myself, knowing he needed this night too.
Alex started his fourth. “I want to hurt him.”
Cohen stopped, breathing hard. “Rice?”
“Huh?” Alex tipped his head back, taking a long drag.
“You want to hurt Rice?”
“Fuck no. I want to hurt Prestige.”
Cohen frowned. “Who the fuck is Prestige?”
Alex stepped forward. “How the fuck do you not know?”
I stepped between them, hands in the air. “You both got your heads in your own situations. He’s talking about the guy who hurt his cousin.”
Cohen kept frowning. “I want to beat the shit out of Rice.”
Alex burped. “Me too.”
“What? You just said—”
“He’s on his fourth beer,” I said to Cohen.
“Oh.” He wiped one of his gloved hands over his face, rolling his shoulders back. “Sorry. I got my own shit going on. My little sister.”
“I know. I’m just saying.”
I nodded at the bag behind him. “Want to let Alex have a go? Thinking he needs it now.”
Cohen considered it and shrugged, stepping back, taking off his gloves.
“Hell yeah!” Alex handed off his beer, rushing the bag, and he was going at it without his gloves.
Cohen watched him before shaking his head and handing me Alex’s beer. “I need to cool off. One minute.”
He rushed past me, hitting the dock, and a second later, we heard the splash as he jumped into the river. Or I heard because Alex had jumped up on the bag, trying to pummel it from the top.
Cohen joined me a little later, taking Alex’s beer back and sniffing it. “Did he drink this?”
“He started to.”
“Oh.” He set it down, grabbed a new one, and eyed Alex. “What the fuck is he doing?”
I shrugged. “I think he’s trying a spidermonkey version of fighting.”
Cohen narrowed his eyes. “Looks like the bag is winning.”
It was. Alex was barely hanging on to the bag, but he was still swinging with one hand. His ass was going to touch the ground soon. When it did, and Alex let go of the bag, laid back, and began kicking at it from below.
“He’s not even touching the bag.”
“Nope.” The bag began swinging from Alex’s first kick, and he was kicking up with both of his legs in an upward bicycling motion, the bag was swinging over him and he was missing every time. He wasn’t making any contact. “Pretty sure he’s drunk.”
