Page 38 of Sin Bin Bully

"Sam, cool it," Joe's voice cuts through the haze of rage. "We've got bigger problems than Harley right now."

I release Matthew, shoving him away. He straightens his shirt, that infuriating smile never leaving his face.

"See you around, Sam," he calls as I let Joe steer me towards the conference room. "Good luck with everything!"

It takes every ounce of self-control not to turn back and finish what I started. But Joe's right. I've got a shitstorm to deal with, and Matthew Harley's sudden friendliness is just the tip of the iceberg.

Joe practically shoves me into the conference room, his hand a vice on my shoulder. The tension in the air is thick enough to choke on. Barrett's there, along with a bunch of suits I assumeare from legal. Their faces are grim, like they're at a fucking funeral.

"Sit down, Sam," Barrett orders, his voice tight.

I don't. Instead, I plant my hands on the table, leaning forward. "What the hell is going on?"

Barrett sighs, running a hand through his thinning hair. "There's a drug dealer coming forward, Sam. He's got receipts, dates, everything." He shakes his head. "I know that Joe says that the test is wrong, but with this, Sam-"

"It's bullshit!" I roar, slamming my fist on the table. The whole thing shakes, pens rattling. "I've never touched that shit in my life!"

One of the suits clears his throat. "Mr. Warwick, please-"

I whirl on him, teeth bared. "Don't 'Mr. Warwick' me. This is a fucking set-up!"

Joe steps in, hands up. "Sam, calm down. We're here to fix this."

I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "Fix it? How the fuck are you gonna fix a lie?"

Barrett stands, his chair scraping against the floor. "It's not looking good, Sam. The test results-"

"Were fucking shit!" I snarl, getting right in his face. "I just told you that. Someone's messing with them. Or did you forget I volunteered for that test?"

The room goes quiet. I can see the doubt in their eyes, the uncertainty. Good. Let them squirm.

Joe breaks the silence. "We can prove it." He turns to Barrett. "Another test. Right now. No warning, no prep time."

I nod, jaw clenched. "Do it. Take all the blood you want. I'm clean."

Barrett hesitates, glancing at the suits. They huddle together, whispering urgently. I cross my arms, waiting. My foot taps an impatient rhythm on the floor.

Finally, Barrett turns back to me. "Alright, Sam. We'll do another test. But if this comes back positive-"

"It won't," I cut him off, already rolling up my sleeve. "Let's get this over with."

As a nurse is called in, I catch Joe's eye. He nods, a silent promise. We're gonna find out who's behind this, and when we do, they're gonna wish they'd never fucked with Sam Warwick.

They dismiss me after the test, which is for the best. But my anger is still brewing when I storm into my mansion a half an hour later, slamming the door behind me. The sound echoes through the cavernous foyer, but it does nothing to quell the rage burning inside me. My fists clench and unclench at my sides as I stalk towards my home gym.

The familiar scent of sweat and rubber hits me as I enter. Without bothering to change, I head straight for the punching bag. My knuckles crack against the leather, each impact sending shockwaves up my arms. I lose myself in the rhythm, my vision blurring as I pummel the bag.

I don't know how long I've been at it when my phone rings. Sweat drips into my eyes as I glance at the screen. Joe. Fuck.

"What now?" I snap, snatching up a towel.

"Sam, we've got a problem," Joe's voice is tight. "Well, another one. That dealer? He's threatening to go to the press."

The towel drops from my hand. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me."

"I wish I was. Look, you need to call your family's lawyers. Like, yesterday."

I run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "What about the test results?"

---