Page 51 of Checks & Bonds

"Does she think this is a game?" I snarled. "Some kind of joke?"

My fists clenched at my sides as I struggled to control the raging storm inside me.

Carmen immediately went over and started cleaning. She moved with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times before, picking up the shattered pieces and the mess I had made. My stomach twisted in guilt as I watched her.It wasn’t her fault, none of it was, and yet here she was, dealing with the aftermath of my outburst.

I could almost feel my grandfather’s gaze on me, his disapproval a tangible weight. He had always been composed, always put together. His voice echoed in my mind, stern and unwavering. He would have known how to handle this. He would have controlled his wife without breaking a sweat. A frown tugged at his lips in my memory, a reminder of how far I had fallen short.

Running my fingers through my hair, I let out a heavy sigh. What the hell was I going to do? Freya was turning me into everything I wasn't. The control I prided myself on slipped through my fingers like sand.

The dining room felt suffocating, the air thick with tension and frustration. I needed space, time to figure this out, to regain some semblance of control over my life and my emotions. Without another word, I stood up and left the dining room.

As I walked away, Carmen’s quiet diligence continued behind me. The hallway seemed endless as my footsteps echoed off the polished floors. Each step felt like an escape from the storm brewing inside me.

I stepped into the garage, the chill air wrapping around me like an unwelcome embrace. The scent of oil and rubber lingered, a familiar comfort. My car sat there, sleek and black, a beast waiting to be unleashed. I slid into the driver’s seat, the leather cool against my back. The engine roared to life with a satisfying growl, reverberating through the empty space.

Pulling out of the driveway, I drove through the dark streets, the city lights flickering past in a blur. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as my thoughts churned. Freya’s defiance was a thorn under my skin, each refusal a fresh wound. The anger bubbled just beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

The drive to the abandoned barn on 13th Street was muscle memory. I’d been here countless times before when I needed to blow off steam, when the solitude of my gym wasn’t enough. The barn loomed ahead, a shadow against the night sky, its worn structure barely standing but perfect for what I needed.

I parked and killed the engine, stepping out into the silence. The night air bit at my skin as I approached the barn doors. They creaked open under my hand, revealing the dim interior lit only by moonlight filtering through broken slats.

The barn doors creaked shut behind me, the sound swallowed by the low murmur of voices from below. I descended the rickety wooden stairs, each step groaning under my weight. The air grew warmer, tinged with sweat and anticipation.

At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, taking in the scene. The room was dimly lit, a single bulb swinging from the ceiling casting erratic shadows across the makeshift arena. A ring had been hastily assembled in the center, ropes frayed and stained from countless fights. The floor was littered with straw and dirt, kicked up by the restless crowd gathered around.

People pressed in close to the ring, their faces obscured by shadows and hooded sweatshirts. The low murmur of conversation filled the space, punctuated by occasional shouts and laughter. The atmosphere buzzed with unspoken tension, a collective anticipation for the violence to come.

I stepped inside, my presence drawing a few curious glances. A couple of guys gave me odd looks, their eyes lingering on me for a moment longer than comfortable. I ignored them, my focus on the ring and the fight about to start. This was what I needed — a place where control didn’t matter, where I could let loose and not think about Freya or my grandfather’s disappointment.

The crowd shifted as two fighters climbed into the ring, their bodies already glistening with sweat under the harsh light. They squared off, fists raised, eyes locked in determination. Theenergy in the room crackled like static electricity as they began to circle each other.

I found a spot near the back of the room, leaning against a wooden post. From here, I could see everything without being drawn into unwanted conversations or confrontations. The fight started with a flurry of punches and grunts, each blow landing with a sickening thud.

For a moment, I lost myself in it — in the raw power and aggression on display. It was primal and brutal, an escape from the chaos swirling inside me. Each punch was a release, each grunt an exhalation of pent-up rage.

The noise of the crowd rose to a fever pitch as one fighter—Damien Sinclaire—gained the upper hand, driving his opponent back against the ropes. Blood splattered across his knuckles as he landed blow after blow, relentless in his pursuit of victory.

I watched it all unfold, feeling my own tension ease with every hit exchanged in that ring.

The fight in the ring called to me, a primal urge to be up there, trading blows, feeling the raw power of each hit. I clenched my fists, knuckles white, trying to push down the desire. It wasn't my place tonight. Instead, I headed over to the makeshift bar in the corner.

The bartender barely looked up as he poured a generous shot of whiskey into a grimy glass. The amber liquid caught the light, promising a brief escape. I handed him a crumpled bill and took the glass, nursing it as I leaned against the bar.

The whiskey burned as it went down, a slow warmth spreading through my chest. I focused on the sensation, trying to drown out the chaos in my mind.

A soft laugh drew my attention. She sauntered over, hips swaying with practiced ease. Her hair was jet black, cascading down her shoulders in loose waves. Eyes lined with thick kohl sparkled with mischief as she looked up at me.

"Buy a girl a drink?" Her voice was smooth, teasing.

I took another sip of my whiskey before answering. "Depends. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey," she said with a smirk. "Same as you."

I nodded to the bartender, who poured another glass and slid it over to her. She took it with a nod of thanks and leaned against the bar next to me, her arm brushing against mine.

"Name's Amber," she said, taking a sip from her glass.

"Henry," I replied, keeping my voice steady.

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