Page 50 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
Let the countdown begin.
9: THE TIRE STARTED IT
HART
––––––––
MY FIST MEETS the empty wooden crate in the bar’s back alley. It splinters on impact.
It’s not enough.
My head’s spinning with anger. There are too many thoughts crashing together, all of them so fucking loud.
I spot the real gem, a half-rotted old tire tucked back in the corner. It’s the perfect fucking target.
I don’t even think. I just move.
My boots scrape the gravel. My hands flex, itching for something solid to hit.
I punch it.
The impact shocks through my arm, rattling my bones. My knuckles feel like they’ve hit stone, but it’s nothing compared to the clawing at my insides.
The thought of that guy touching her, pushing her, making her feel small while I was pouting in the fucking bathroom, it burns through me like fire. And worse, damn Bronx was there to save her, to put his slimy hands on her body.
She’s not mine to protect, but hell if that instinct didn’t take over like it’s all I’ve ever known. And I can’t even be mad at him, because who the hell knows what might have happened if he didn’t show up.
Fuck.
I punch it again.
Harder.
The rubber shrieks under the force, giving just a little, but not enough.
And hearing her call out my bullshit almost broke me. But I’m stronger than my feelings. I’ve had to be. That’s how I play the bad guy so well.
And I play it like a fucking god.
The third punch is brutal, a desperate swing, to unload all the years of frustration I’ve kept buried.
But then I see her face again. Her eyes, filled with something I can’t even name, and the way she walked away from me. The way she shut me down.
It’s too much.
Too fucking much.
I pull my fist back, and this time, I don’t hold back. My knuckles crack against the tire, the sound muffling by the rubber. The damn thing doesn’t even budge. It stays in place, laughing in my face, daring me to keep going.
I take the bait and hit it again.
This time, the pain in my hand cuts through everything else, sharp and raw. But it doesn’t stop me. Nothing will. Not until I can beat the fucking anger out of me, or maybe the confusion, the regret—the goddamn longing I’ve been holding onto for years.
“Damn, man,” a voice calls out behind me.
Bronx.
Dammit.
