“Which usually comes first for you?” Andrew questions.
“Are you making fun of me?” Nicki asks with an unusual air of curiosity.
“No,” Andrew answers, softening his tone. “I just get the feeling you’ve been here before.”
“Yeah.” Nicki nods, turning his gaze on the far wall. “I come here when I don’t want to think.”
“So you must be here a lot then.”
Nicki’s expression remains defiant as ever, and there’s something in his tone that has Andrew relaxing just slightly. He’s figuring out Nicki’s tells, learning to read him already, and that makes Andrew a little less tense.
“Now you’re fucking teasing me.”
“Just a little,” Andrew confirms, fighting off a smile when Nicki grumbles about khaki wearing assholes.
“I wanna break shit,” Nicki huffs. “Let’s go.”
“Far be it from me to stop you,” Andrew replies, falling into step with Nicki as they cross the room towards John, still waiting quietly and patiently for them.
While John goes over the reason for each piece of gear he’s holding, Andrew removes his watch and stows it in the provided locker along with his cell phone, listening to the entire safety briefing before he begins putting on his own gear. Nicki, clearly used to coming here, is completely ready to go while Andrew is still struggling with pulling on his coveralls.
“I look ridiculous,” Andrew sighs, not at all a fan of the shoe covers and coveralls, or the goggles he puts on last.
“At least you’ll be safe when you break stuff.”
“I notice you didn’t deny I look ridiculous,” Andrew sighs, unsure how the addition of the gear just makes Nicki seem more badass while making Andrew feel like he should be mopping the floor. Maybe it’s the tattoos. He’d probably make a garbage bag look good.
“Well, you did tell me not to lie.”
Andrew’s mouth falls open. “You fucker.”
Nicki laughs, not a derisive or smug laugh, but something short and sharp that echoes through Andrew’s chest. “Your face.”
“Oh, shut up.”
This makes Nicki laugh harder until he’s bent in half, wheezing as he points at Andrew. He should maybe feel self-conscious or anxious, but only feels mildly amused at how little it took to crack Nicki’s shell. Maybe he’s not such a hard ass after all.
“You know,” Nicki says once he’s managed to stop laughing, “you could star in silent movies with that face of yours.”
“You couldn’t,” Andrew counters, “since you never shut up.”
“Touché, highness.”
Fighting off a smile, Andrew falters when he realizes John is still standing there watching them. He doesn’t get the chance to get caught in his head overthinking because Nicki nods towards the back door, guiding Andrew into their designated rage room. The lights are on, but dimmer than the main room, and obnoxiously loud rock music blares in the background.
Andrew’s not entirely sure what he expected, maybe something that looked straight out of a dystopian novel with graffiti and trash. That’s the only version of a rage room he’s ever seen on social media.
That mental image is nothing like what he walks into—an eerily good replica of a living room. Sure, the walls have seen better days, and it’s clear there has been a lot of repaired damage, but there’s also a couch and a dining table. There are weathered books on a shelf, along with a few empty frames and a vase of roses sits on the coffee table. There’s a television on the wall opposite the couch, clearly broken yet just intact enough to add to the air of this as someone’s house.
Without hesitation, Nicki picks up a baseball bat and takes it to the wall, hitting it with such force, Andrew can feel the echoing vibrations in his chest as the wall splinters. He knew Nicki was strong, not only because he’s a professional athlete but because he can see it in the shape of his body—the muscles in his arms and chest are defined and strong. Yet seeing the ease with which he slams a hole into the wall with his second hit givesAndrew a new appreciation for the things Nicki’s body is clearly capable of.
Oddly mesmerized by the sight, he finds himself frozen to the spot, watching with rapt attention as Nicki takes out a seemingly endless amount of aggression on the same spot. It’s only after he’s taken the bat to a vase in a spectacular mess of shattering ceramic that Nicki turns his gaze on Andrew and frowns. He says something, but with the blaring music Andrew can’t understand the words, though the meaning becomes more clear when Nicki retrieves a second bat and tries to pass it to Andrew.
“No thanks.”
“Take it.”
“I don’t need to break anything,” Andrew tells him, having to yell to be heard.
