Page 47 of Brazen Mistakes

I grimace at him, hating that his analogy is so close to the feeling I have of something vicious living inside of me. And it scares me more than anything else. Fear of not just being out of control, but of being violently out of control.

It’s not the Clara I know. That Iusedto know.

Lining up my feet the way he taught me, tightening my fists, I start with solid punches at his pads, but he steps back after a few hits. “Not enough, Crash. Give me violence. Give me rage, give me a fucking volcano or some shit.”

“I don’t have a volcano, Trips.”

“Like fuck you don’t. Again.”

Five more punches and he steps back again. “Not enough. More. Fury. Fucking fire and brimstone.”

“I’m not a biblical demon, Trips.”

“Yes, you are. You’re just not trying.”

I take three more swings, my gaze locked on the pads, the hint of my hidden beast coloring my intensity, or as Trips would call it, my intention.

“More. Hurt me, Clara. Fucking hit me. It’s not like I don’t deserve it.”

My knuckles are tingling as I hit the pads with more force. “It’s fucking Bryce that deserves this, not you.”

“Then pretend I’m that asshat. I sold sex tapes of you on the black market, and I fucking got away with it. Barely a slap on the wrist. The cops don’t give a damn what that’s doing to you. And now I’m waiting outside your window, more pictures, more violation. I’m always there, always watching, and you’re never going to feel safe again.”

Fire burbles from deep inside, tears stalled in the corners of my eyes, as I shift my gaze from the pads to Trips’ gut, three sharp jabs at his torso, all blocked, followed by a wild swing at his face which he dodges, before a scream escapes me.

It’s like that beast I was afraid of needs to sing her rage, to announce to the whole house that she’s here. She exists.

And she doesn’t fit in her cage anymore, no matter what I wish.

I scream and shake, the sides of my fists pounding against his chest, and he lets me, a grin creasing his face.

This is what he wanted.

But fuck if I know what I’m going to do with my anger now that I’ve found it.

“That’s it, Crash. Feel it. Learn it. Fucking honor it.”

With a strangled growl I go to punch him again, and he catches my wrist, stepping behind me and locking my arm behind my back, his other arm pinning my free hand to my thigh. I thrash, the anger needing a target now that it’s free, and he’s taken control of me, locking me in right after he forced all my rage out.

“Breathe through it. You let it out, now you have to control it, not let it control you.” His grip doesn’t slacken, despite my best attempts to break from it. “Breathe, Clara. Focus. Keep the rage, but not in a cage. Keep it on a long leash you can let go of when you need to.”

The squeeze of his hand on my thigh distracts me as I squirm, a familiar place to focus my emotions, but the touch all wrong, lighting me up when it should cool me down.

But I breathe, doing as he instructs, until the fire lives in my chest, vibrating with the same intensity I feel when I jump one of the guys.

With another breath, he lets go, his fingertips trailing my thigh for a second longer than necessary before he returns to my front. “Good. Now punch.”

This time, when I slam my fist into the pad, the sound reverberates around us. Each punch burns inside, the rage simmering, but not dissipating.

Again and again, I slam my fists into his pads until my arms give out, and I stumble forward into him, resting my sweaty forehead against his t-shirt, hoping he’ll wrap me in his arms, soothe the roar that still hoversunder my damn ribs.

Instead, he steps back, stumbling over the legs of his desk chair and careening backwards, me tumbling headfirst on top of him, too much of my weight shifted forward in expectation of comfort.

We go down in a flurry of limbs and bumped elbows, my shoulder slamming into his ribs, a breathless puff coming from him at contact.

“Fuck, Clara,” he groans, trying to twist out from under me at the exact moment I roll in the same direction to get off of him, and I end up pinned under him, one foot planted, and my knee held wide in anticipation of a continued, stalled, turn.

The urge to apologize bubbles up in me. Only, Trips’ silence stops me from my spiral.

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