Page 51 of Collided

12

Heath

Night is the most vulnerable time of the day. The darker it gets, the more you’re open to feelings and emotions that don’t invade you in broad daylight.

It’s 3 a.m. Logic can’t justify why I’m lying on the floor of my sister’s bedroom and listening to the last voicemail she sent me.

“James! I know you’re worried but relax. You called me ten times. Geez. I feel wanted when you never call me. I’m safe. You should stop worrying about me. I promise I’m fine. I’ll be back home on Sunday. We’ll watch a movie together. I have something I want to tell you. Also, do not touch my controller just because your buttons aren’t working. I will kill you if I find out.”

The beeping sound hits, and her voice disappears, but the empty feeling in my chest stays right where it is.

I play the voicemail for the thousandth time and listen to her sweet, worried tone. Emery was fond of threatening me, yet she’s the one who left me.

It all happened because of fucking cancer.

My hands go up to my hair. I yank the strands to get rid of the God-awful headache. It’s like someone is banging a hammer on one side of my brain.

I need to get away.

Grabbing my car keys, I bolt out of the room.

“Where are you going, sir?” Derek asks from behind me. I swear this guy never sleeps. He’s always onto me like my own shadow.

I ignore him and go to the garage where my McLaren is parked. Minutes later, I drive out of the driveway when the sound of another car reverberates in the vicinity. Derek is following me.

For fuck’s sake.

Pressing hard on the accelerator, I speed through the narrow streets while also keeping track of his car.

“Motherfucker.” I increase the speed to over sixty and make several rounds of the same neighborhood. When I can’t see him in the rearview mirror, I turn off the headlights and slowly drive through a network of roads and pull up at the gym.

I find the room already bright with lights. Paul, my trainer, is punching the bag viciously as if he’s killing someone.

The noise of my footsteps gets his attention, and he looks up at me with his drenched hair and sweaty chest that’s an eight pack. At thirty-six he has more muscle and stamina than any man I’ve ever fought. From winning bronze to gold medals, he’s an impeccable fighter with no one in life, except his German Shepherd, Yale.

“Tough night?” He quirks an eyebrow at me.

“Something like that,” I mutter, not wanting to talk to him about my personal matters. He knows about Emery’s death, it’s the reason why he agreed to train me. According to him, ‘boxing is therapy.’

“Hop into the ring,” he orders, knowing damn well I hate talking about myself.

Removing my shirt, I look down at my black sweatpants. I don’t have shorts, so they’ll have to do. Putting on my gloves, I enter the ring and throw some punches around for the fun of it.

Paul tosses me a headset. I roll my eyes. He shoots me a glare. “Safety first, boy.”

With a sigh I put it on, he doesn’t. “You don’t needsafety?” I taunt.

He smirks and bumps his gloves with mine. “To hurt me you have to hit me first.”

Nobody aggravates me like Paul does, but I also know he’s the best in Bellmare.

Someone who’s a loser knows the true value of winning. That’s how Paul is. He worked his ass off to get where he is today—and picked up arrogance on the journey. That aside, he is a good trainer and knows how to kick my ass.

We spar for hours. I throw punches and hooks, but he blocks every hit. His defense is better than mine, but that’s because I’m an attacker and he isn’t.

Sweat covers my body and my breaths get heavier.

I’m frustrated.

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