Page 1 of Daddy's Unexpected Gift

1

STERLING

Sweat stung my eyes. That was good. That was the goal.

I dodged and jabbed, blowing spit and sweat out with each puff of breath. Heavy metal music screamed, and the beat pounded out the driving rhythm of my workout. Left, right, feign right again, uppercut.

My fist smacked into the leather bag. It swayed before snapping back into position, held in place by heavy-duty bungee cords.

I kept the lights low and the thermostat cranked. This workout needed to be brutal, needed to push my limits. I wasn’t working out for fun. This was therapy, and it did so much more for my mental wellbeing than sitting around in a well-furnished office pretending to talk pleasantries.

I wasn’t the type to vocalize the darkness inside. That led to emotions, and emotions were not welcome. Anger was welcome, but not in polite society. I was nothing if not polite when dealing with other people. But on my own…

I pushed my body through the paces. This was my anger management, this was where I let out my rage. My sins were absolved in a baptism of sweat. I was awash in sweat.

I punished the large upright bag, feeling each impact on my knuckles. Inside the light boxing gloves, my knuckles were wrapped, but after this afternoon, they would be red, if not swollen. That wouldn’t do. I’d have to ice my hands. A gentleman didn’t have the meaty hands of a pugilist.

Gentlemen were boring. I should know. I was raised to be one. Raised to be charming, mild-mannered, to not raise my voice, to never…

I growled and attacked my opponent with a series of fast-pounding, quick jabs. The stupid bag stayed in place and took the beating of my frustration and petty annoyances of the past week that needed exorcising. There were also ghosts that needed to find their way out of my mind and thoughts.

Outside these walls, I was the man my parents raised me to be. Responsible, smart, quick-witted, but never sarcastic. I excelled at the pleasantries of small talk, knew appropriate social dances, which fork was for salad, and to always stand when a lady entered the room. I also knew the difference between a woman and a lady. It was a fine line of social nuance, but it also meant I knew when to treat a woman like a lady and when to treat her as an equal.

As I brutalized the punching bag, I was free from the social constraints that were forced upon me.

When the current song ended, I shifted from the punching bag, grabbing a jump rope. I shifted from anaerobic to aerobic, keeping the burn going, the sweat flowing. Once I found the rhythm, I was able to level up so that I practically ran in place as the rope swirled around me. I only stopped when one of the handles slipped from my hand.

Taking that as a clear sign that it was time to switch activities, I dried my hands on the towel hanging at my waist. Lifting my arms, I began working with the smaller speed bag that hung at eye level.

The lights in the home gym flickered on. Ignoring the simple request for my attention by my assistant, Wayne, I continued with the rapid rotational punches with the speed bag. The anaerobic burn seeped deep into my shoulder muscles, not that I had any fat to burn off.

The lights flickered off then on, like the silent announcement in a theater. Time to stop whatever is going on and attend the show. Wayne knew I did not like being interrupted.

I dodged right and smashed a left hook into the speed bag before I turned to glare at him.

“This had better be good,” I said as I plucked the earbud from my right ear.

“You have a delivery,” he said in his precise, clipped tones.

“So, sign for it.” I pushed the earbud back in.

“I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Sterling.” His voice was muffled behind the wall of music the earbuds created.

“What?” I pulled both out this time. “Is it a subpoena?” I couldn’t think of any reason I should be served with a court order.

“No, it is not. But it is something I cannot accept on your behalf.”

“Fine.” I pulled the towel from my waistband and wiped the sweat running down my face. Extending my arm, I gestured for him to lead the way.

I jogged up the stairs and passed him on the way to the front. “Do you have tip money? I don’t have any cash on me. They probably want a tip. Why didn’t the concierge at the front handle this?”

“I don’t believe they are expecting a tip. I’m afraid it has to do with your sister.”

I paused and let out a heavy breath. Argene. I nodded. She was one of the reasons behind today’s brutal workout. She probably would be in my mind during future weekly sessions for a while.

“She’s already dead,” I said without emotion. “What other problems can she cause?”

Wayne didn’t answer. He raised his brows and lifted his hand, indicating that I would find out soon enough. I tightened my abs, expecting that this could be the final delivery, her ashes. The autopsy had been completed weeks ago. The level of alcohol and other substances in her system had been off the charts. The cocktail indicated she was only trying to have a good time, not kill herself.

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