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That’s never where Shiloh drags me to, though. Not unless it’s the middle of the night and he decides to give the girls who like to make out on the couch hell by putting porn on the display.
Chances are if we’re coming downstairs we’re doing one of two things: taking our laundry to the machines down the hall or taking up Shiloh’s favorite corner that has one solitary locker and a boxing bag set up.
He just showed up with it a few months ago, and when I asked where the hell he got it from, he said it had to do with his self defense class. Honestly, I think he just likes pretending it’s Corvin and punching the shit out of it.
“You good for this?” I ask as he opens the locker and pulls out his hand wraps.
“It’s either this or alcohol, and I promised Blair I’d stay sober until the adjustment period is over.”
For as much as he bitches about people telling him what to do, Shiloh always takes what Blair says to heart. He might not admit it out loud, but Shiloh has a lot of respect for his brother.
When he motions for me to get in position behind the bag and his gloves are still snug on the hook in the locker, I raise my brow.
“No gloves today?”
He shrugs. “What’s some bruised knuckles when your head is a fucking cocktail kaleidoscope?”
I hold the bag still as he gets in position, forms his fists, and makes the first swing. He starts easy, but by the time sweat starts forming on his brow, my hands ache from the vinyl material rubbing my palms raw.
“What’d he do?” I ask when Shiloh stops for a gulp of his sports drink.
“Who?”
I roll my eyes. “Who else makes you want to break shit?”
Shiloh twists on the top and clicks his tongue. “For once, not Dipshit RA.”
Just before he prepares to go again, I throw my hands off the bag and he sighs out dramatically with his whole body.
“What?”
“You gonna tell me who set you off?”
“No one set me off.”
“My nearly bloody hands would disagree.”
“They aren’t—Holy shit, Atty!”
The frustration marring his features melts away, and he yanks at my hands to examine the blisters forming.
“I’ve told you to wrap your hands, too, dingus.”
“And I’ve told you not to hit the bag so hard it tries to blow me into the wall.”
He huffs and presses down on one of the sore spots, not enough to hurt but enough to sting. “Imma blow something in a minute,” he grumbles.
It’s not even bad. A couple of little blisters on the bottom of my hands, because that’s where I bear the brunt of the weight.
“What are you so pissed about, anyway?”
Shiloh looks down, molars grinding together as he picks at the wrap on his hands. “Blair is at Dad’s today.”
I’m so used to Shiloh being strong and brash and diving head first into everything that I almost forget about the little boy who used to scream until he cried—until that barrier was forced open and he could let all those bottled up feelings pour out.
Excitement and anger he’s good at, but vulnerability only happens when it’s late, dark, and no one can see him cry.
Right now there’s a crack, a glint of sadness in his eyes that reminds me of being thirteen and Shiloh crawling through the broken window in my room to soak his tears into my chest until he passed out.
