My vision blurs with fury, my rage so loud it drowns out any trickle of logic or self-preservation. How dare he? How dare he blame my brother for Mom. Squeezing my cell with so much pressure, I swear the screen might crack, I breathe in deep through my nose, refusing to fall into his trap even if it kills me. “See you at the banquet.”
Then, I click the end button and rush down the stairs. Because if I don’t? If I don’t work out the fury burning me from the inside out, I’ll lose my fucking mind.
Just. Like. Him.
40
VIOLET
The steadythump-thumpof fists on heavy bags reverberates through the air as I tiptoe down the hall. It’s late. Or early, depending on how you look at things. I woke up alone and didn’t like it, so I climbed out of bed in search of a certain man who decided to ditch me while I was asleep. Peeking into the gym, I find a very frustrated Jagger beating the shit out of a punching bag hanging from the ceiling. I guess it makes sense. The fact that he’s in here alone. It’s not even five in the morning. The anger radiating from his sweaty, half-naked body, though? I can’t explain it. He was fine all night. We made dinner, took a shower, screwed each other’s brains out, then fell asleep toTangled. So what happened between when our heads hit the pillows and right now?
Apprehension gnaws at me, and I can’t help but feel like something’s…wrong, or at the very least, off. Part of me wants to sneak back to Jagger’s room so he can get back to exorcising whatever’s bothering him. The other part? I can’t help but want to…help.
“Jagger?” I call from the doorway. “Hey.”
Sweat clinging to his bare torso, he throws another punch against the heavy bag. “Hey.”
I step around the mat at the center of the room, making my way through the various weight machines and gym equipment as he continues his assault. I’ve never seen him like this. Even when he was fighting Ethan, he was never so…lost in his own head. When I finally reach him, I murmur, “You want to come back to bed?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Oh.” I hesitate, staring at the muscles along his bare body as they bunch and flex with his every move. So much anger. So much outrage. How long has he been down here? Taking out his fury on the poor punching bag as if it has personally offended him. The man’s like a boulder, and he’s tumbling down a hill, gaining more and more momentum with every passing second until there’s nothing I can do but watch. The question is, what gave him the final push? Licking my lips, I whisper, “What happened?”
“Dad’s.”—thump-thump—“A fucking.”—thump-thump—“Asshole.” He pounds the punching bag even harder, his chest heaving more and more with every swing of his arm.
“Jagger, stop,” I murmur.
Thump-thump!
He hugs the weighted mass against his chest to stop it from swaying from his hits. “Sorry.” He swallows and clears his throat as if fighting the darkness he’d been wading through. “I’m just, uh, I’m just worked up after he called me.” Peering over at me, he asks, “Did I wake you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” I smile but sober as I take him in. The gloves I’m used to seeing when he spars with his brothers are absent, and the tape he chose instead looks like it was applied by a novice. Add in the damp hair and unsteady rise and fall of his chest, and I’m officially concerned. “How are you really doing?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His forehead constricts. “Fine, I guess.”
“Liar.” I keep my tone light and reach up, dragging my hand along one of his wrists still wrapped around the heavy punching bag. I continue my exploration to his forearm, bicep, shoulder, then along his back until reaching his opposite side. “Gotta admit, I never thought I’d fall for a fighter, but…” I whistle. “This is a girl’s wet dream.”
“Is that right?” He lets go of the punching bag and wraps his arms around me instead, pressing his sweaty body against mine. Let’s be real. If he were anyone else, I’d probably scream and run away. But Jagger? I don’t know. Maybe I like being marked by his scent. How gross is that?
“What?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Just how weird it is that I like you all sweaty like this,” I admit with a quiet laugh. He starts to let me go, but I squeeze him back. “No, seriously. I like it.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.” I press a kiss to his chest, then lift my chin and look up at him. “Tell me how you started fighting.”
“Anger issues?” He chuckles, but there isn’t as much humor in it as I’d like. “I guess…I guess there’s something about being able to channel everything pent-up inside of me into kicking the shit out of something else. It…grounds me, I guess.”
I want to ask what’s pent-up inside of him. What he feels like he can’t let go of without kicking the shit out of something. But I have a feeling I already know. There aren’t many topics Jagger evades. His parents are two of them. I’ve never questioned it, though. Why would I? It’s a no-go zone for me, too. Not if I can help it. His mom’s gone. His dad’s an ass. In this way, we’re two peas in a pod. But watching him like this? Seeing the way he’shurting? It makes me want to take his dad out back myself and kick the crap out of him.
