Page 161 of Quinlan

Tomorrow is for tomorrow.

Tonight, being engulfed and warmed by legs and arms and hands, is all I need.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Rome

Jab, jab, cross. Left hook and three quick right ones. Right’s my strong side.

I twist my body to the left again.Jab. Jump in place. One, two, three, hops. Light on my feet before the uppercut. The contact with the punching bag has my teeth gritting.

The contact is a balm to my shot-to-shit nerves.

Throwing one blow after another helps. The scrapes on my knuckles are raw, leaving red stains on the leather I hurl myself at. My shoulders ache the harder I go at it.

Don’t care.

This, this is all mine. The outlet to the never-ending rage simmering in my blood.

Again. Again. Again.

Always on the offensive. Never the other way around. Not even when I practice.

Fuck going on the defensive.

Putting my arms up? Fuck that. No ducking or sidestepping, either.

I couldn’t destroy Joseph Langford when I was a skinny kid. When I lived under his roof. When heownedme.

Couldn’t touch him or Elaine after Anne was born, or they would’ve used her to punish me.

Images of my sister’s prominent collarbone send me into another fit of rage. Another relentless, breathless storm that I unleash on the punching bag.

Not like I needed the extra push. Not like I was anywhere near calm when I came down here, after everyone went to bed. After I heard the true story aboutthatnight straight out of Quinlan’s mouth.

No. I was furious on my way down here. Had to smother the need to punch the wall of the elevator. I was this close. Didn’t do it.

My bare fists connect to hard leather over and over and over. Sweat drips down my forehead. On my naked chest. I lost my shirt some time ago. No idea when.

Jab, jab, jab. Two more crosses.

Pain shoots up my arms. Detonates in my shoulders.

This. Isn’t. Enough.

More.

More so I don’t get eaten alive by Quinlan’s words. Her tears. The guilt that’s been forced on her for years.

The little girl left in the pool. The kid who grew up believing her brother’s tragic death was her fault.

A thunder cracks inside me, an electric shock zapping through me.

This feeling won’t go away until I leave every ounce of my anger on the gym floor. So I don’t stop. Don’t even wipe the sweat that drips into my eyes.

Let it run down my eyes. Let it burn.

Better than starting the car, driving downtown and waking Rex up to my fist to his nose. I’d start there, take my sweet time with him. Blow after blow, I’d make him bleed. Make him pay.

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