Zane shot a glance over his shoulder before looking back to Colt. “If you ever want a real workout though, let me know. We have floor space for striking and grappling. We also have a ring.”
The ring was hard to miss. It was an octagon-style ring that centered the room and was a real focal point. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You do that.”
When Zane walked away, Colt turned back to the bag and started punching again. Memories of his father’s fists flashed in his mind. The anger in his eyes when he was high.
Colt could almost feel the fear that had paralyzed him for so much of his early childhood. Fear of his father’s fists. And on that last night, fear of the men who’d entered his house.
“I’m going to kill you, boy!”
Colt sprinted through the living room and into the library, his heart beating so hard it felt like it might punch right out of his chest.
He didn’t try to silence the loud thuds of his feet against floorboards. Speed was more important than silence. His mother wasn’t here to protect him and his father had sent the nanny home. It was just the two of them.
But he was glad his mother wasn’t here. She always got hurt when she was, and Colt hated his dad for that.
He slammed the library door closed behind him and ran straight to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In the bottom corner, he removed the false panel before slipping into the small hole. He just fit.
His mother had hidden him here so many times. Then, when he’d gotten bigger, he’d hidden himself. Another year and he’d probably be too big.
Quickly, he pulled the panel closed behind him, then lifted the butcher knife. He couldn’t remember when he’d first hidden it here. He’d never had to use it, but he’d made a promise to himself that the next time he heard his father hurting his mom, he would.
His father wasn’t even supposed to be home. It was supposed to be just him and Anita, his nanny. But then he’d stumbled through the door, and Colt had seen his red eyes. Glassy eyes. Unfocused.
Whenever Colt saw him like that, he knew to run. Because whatever came next wasn’t good.
The library door crashed open, making Colt flinch. He closed his eyes and worked hard to control his breathing, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the knife that his knuckles ached.
“I know you’re in here, boy. I just need the details of the accounts. I know your mother shares them with you.”
He was eight. Why would his mother give him that sort of information?
But then, his father rarely made sense when he got into these rages.
Colt hit the bag harder, the memory making him want to go back and kill the man who’d terrorized the child version of himself.
Colt shut his eyes, every part of him wanting to run out there and pay his father back for all the times he’d hurt his mom. Kick the asshole’s ass. But he was too small. He was no match for his dad. One day, though…one day, he’d teach the asshole a lesson.
Then he heard something…it almost sounded like the distant click of the front door closing. Colt’s eyes flew open.
Was it Mom? No. Please. She wasn’t due home for another hour.
His stomach twisted, one hand going to the false back of the bookshelf while the other still gripped the knife.
He wasn’t going to touch her this time. Colt would make sure of it.
“What are you—”
His father’s voice was cut off by a grunt and a mechanical click. “Gordon Sharp, you owe us money.”
Who was that? The voice was deep and unfamiliar. And not really angry…but definitely dangerous.
It made Colt want to shrink back. Disappear into the wall.
“I’m—I’m getting it for you.” His father sounded short of breath.
“You see, you said that a month ago, but we still haven’t received anything. I’m losing faith in you, my friend.”
