Why the hell did I bail like that? The guilt is starting to pile on when Sam interrupts my brooding fit. “Stop tormenting yourself. You’ve done enough of that, it’s time to move, Mel. Holden and I can ride your bike down in a few days when we close up the shop. We were planning a mini vaca, anyway.” She smiles at him, and my chest constricts.
One day, I might have that kind of communication, that kind of understanding, the way they do. And I might already have it with Boone…if I haven’t already ruined everything.
I grit my teeth and nod. “All right,” I say, even though my soul is screaming. Last time I let someone else ride my bike, it ended…it just ended. Panic flares inside me, but I tamp it down, demanding my fears to relinquish their maddening control over me.
I have to trust. Really trust. I have to let people who I know care about me actually in. As much as I loved Darla, and as much as she was a part of me, I still held back—even with her. This change thing isn’t going to come easily, but dammit, it’s going to come.
With that final release of will, I follow Sam and Holden through the door. We’re outside and making our way toward Holden’s truck before I can give myself the chance to back out.
Boone
Mend and patch, the fissure travels on
WITHOUT CHECKING THE NOTIFICATIONS, I power down my phone and shove it into my bag. The messages from Jacquie were starting to weaken my resolve. I’m surprised she hasn’t sent someone to hunt me down, not that I have mandatory meetings anymore, but the pre-trial hearing to settle the Miata Guy incident is this week. And I haven’t checked back in with her once.
I don’t want to hear the worry or the fear in her voice.
Stoney hasn’t seen my face since last week, either. Good thing, too. I wouldn’t be able to get through my speech with all those eyes scouring the purple bruises and cuts. Hell, I wouldn’t be able to stand for long, anyway. Not with the beating I’ve taken over the past few days.
Better to hold off until things settle down. Soon, I’ll be too whipped to think, then the peace will come, the acceptance. And then the rebuild. I’ll drag ass back to Stoney, I’ll apologize to Jacquie, and I’ll take whatever punishment comes my way.
But right now, I’m ducking under that rope and swinging until my arms burn. Get the crazy thoughts knocked around my head until they’re battered and broken, before they slice my head clean open. I’m so sick of thinking about Mel, Hunter, a fix…about everything.
I just want it to stop.
Turner taps the rope and cocks his chin; my cue to start my march toward the ring. The announcer in the middle of the mat shouts over the crowd, “The Hunter!” and the whoops and cheers, money-fisted hands raised in the air, all bleeds into the background of my mind.
My hands flex, testing the tape, as I climb into the ring. The guy on the other side with the hood draped over his face is enormous. A beast. Hunched over on his chair, I can just make out his six-foot-three frame, wide as fuck. When he stands, I realize I was short by a few inches. Damn.
This is going to hurt.
I stretch my arms, swinging them before me and to my sides, back and forth. Getting loosened up. Popping my head side-to-side, I feel the pull of tension stringing my neck tight. My body has been pushed to its limit before—but not this hard. Not so many fights this close in a matter of days.
Just one more.
The ding sounds, and the fighter is coming at me before I’ve put up my guard. My arms come up over my face a fraction of a second too late, and the fist flattens against my cheek. My head snaps sideways, and I hear a pop in my neck. Feel the excruciating scorch race down one side of my body.
I’m frozen in place. The pain a splintering web of white-hot fury traveling my veins. Then, the rage catches a whiff of defeat, and I spring forward. Leaving the pain crumpled and bleeding on the mat.
My fists take action. One, one two. Temple, jab. Rib, uppercut. I’m a machine without thought process. But instead of numbers and binary code racing across my screen, my vision focuses in on the meaty flesh of my opponent, demolishing. Raging. Destroying.
The cheers whoosh in and out of my hearing, fading farther into the scenery, as my line of sight zer
os in on the beefy fighter. His face tight with frustration as he bobs and weaves, trying to evade my blows. Seeking the perfect strike to back me off.
And when he finds it, he digs in. Hard.
His fist meets the already tender spot just under my left rib cage. Twice. Two quick succession, back-to-back punches send me reeling. A grunt escapes my mouth in a harsh curse that follows me to the ground.
He sends his foot to the same place, knocking the rest of the air from my lungs. I gasp, sucking in fire-hot air, trying not to black out. But I’m not through yet. The rage won’t let it end like this—I’ll take my beating. Shit, I welcome it. Only first, I’m going to release all the fucked up warping my brain in a violent, purging eruption.
Cleansing.
Rolling to my side, I block his next kick with my arms, then push away from him with my feet. I inch toward the edge of the mat and reach for the rope, pull myself up. Fuelling my limbs with the bitter aftertaste of resentment, I crave that blackness now, for the void to swallow me.
The guy shakes his head, as if I’m some crazy motherfucker for wanting more. I suppose I am. Because right this second, I’m barreling toward him, fists locked and loaded.
My fists descend, two quick jabs to his stomach. His oomph speeds the next round of blows to his ribs. He stumbles, sidesteps, and catches his balance, before I’m on him again. He mirrors my stance, dancing in time as I land punch after punch, his arms blocking. My frustration mounts, needing one more, good round of blows before I tap out.