Wicked Restless

I see him lurch toward me just before I close the door behind me. I don’t know if he followed me. My pace was swift back to my car, and I never once glanced back at the broken house and broken man I was leaving.

* * *

I cashed in one more sick day for my trip to Emma’s dad’s this morning. But my face was already returning to normal. My only class today was mathematic theory, and I’ve already completed the practice work and reading, so I gave myself permission to skip that, too. I haven’t missed one yet this semester, so it shouldn’t raise any flags with coach. It’s our off day, but I’ve been itching for the ice. Trent has a full schedule today, though, and he won’t be home until well after five. My boiling blood won’t wait that long, so after an hour pacing our apartment and throwing a racquetball against the wall to the point that one of our senior neighbors came over to ask me to “stop the partying,” I head to Harley’s gym.

The place is hopping for the middle of the day, so I work in with one of the regulars. I spend an hour not talking, only rushing my taped fists into another guy’s gloves and chest. He pops me in the jaw a few times, but the familiar heat that usually accompanies it never comes. It seems I’ve been hit so much that I’m finally immune. Or maybe, I’m so angry that it’s going to take more than what this featherweight can serve up to help me.

“Harp, I’m out,” my partner says, slicing his glove in front of his face at his neck. He’s calling it. I frown at him. “Dude, we’ve been going an hour. I come here for the workout, man. But I also have to get my ass to class.”

I nod at him, my hard breathing catching up to me as I lean on the ropes. I pull the tape from one hand and reach my palm out to shake his, pulling the other hand free of tape as he grabs his bag and leaves the gym.

My heart rate feels faster than normal—spikes of adrenaline still pushing through it. I force myself to breathe long and deep, dropping my head into my hands so I can focus and really listen to my rhythm. What a simple thing—a heartbeat.

Emma’s heart…it didn’t do this. Or not…quite like this. I looked up her condition as soon as I got home. I read about the surgeries she probably had when she was young, and then I thought back to how her skin felt the only time I touched it. It was over her bra, and in a dark car—the stolen moments of two teens in lust. I never felt a scar.

My mind is lost in the past, and that’s why I don’t see him coming. But his words yank me right out of the puzzle I’m trying to solve, and they drop me into hostile territory.

“Nick Meyers said you were a fighter,” he says. My head jerks up at the mention of his name, my hands forming fists instantly, my breathing picking up its pace, like an engine revving. Graham, Emma’s just some guy, stands on the floor in front of me, two feet lower than the ring. He’s wearing cut-off sweatpants and a tank top that squeezes his large frame.

“Nice to see you again, Graham,” I practically choke on his name. “I didn’t know they were letting assholes in here now.”

He laughs at my response, but he doesn’t think I’m funny. He doesn’t think I’m funny at all. His eyes fall to his feet as he kicks at an old, dried piece of gum stuck to the floor.

“Harley, you’re really letting this place fall to shit. You need to get an intern or something, someone to come through here and clean every once and a while,” he shouts, then glances up at me, his eyes slits as they take me in. “Maybe this guy can be your intern.”

Harley walks over slowly, and I study him, watching every nuance as I try to decide if he and Graham are friends. He never smiles, and when he stops in front of us both—equal distance between us—he folds his arms and frowns. I’m not sure what Graham is to Harley or how he knows him, but he isn’t a friend. More than that—what does Graham have to do with Nick Meyers?

“I said I’d talk to him, Graham. Let the kid cool off. I’ll catch up with you later, okay?” Harley grumbles.

Graham’s smile slides wider as he nods.

“A’right,” he says. I cough down a laugh when he speaks and Harley shoots me a look to keep my mouth shut. I can’t help it—this dude sounds like a poser trying to talk all tough and shit. I’ll give him this; he’s bigger than me, and he looks like he knows how to throw a punch. But he also wore pink pants the last time I saw him.

“Hey, I’ll say hi to Emma for you,” he winks before walking away. My entire body flexes. Harley notices, and he holds his hand up to stop me.