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It’s a good ache, born from exertion, sweat, and the deafening impact of the punching bag.
After the day I’ve had, it’s the type of hurt I need. A way to forget about the check, the deal, and playing dirty.
Most folks see pain as something to cope with and minimize. I decided early on I wouldn’t do that. I chose to use it as a coping mechanism instead.
What choice do I have?
About as much as I did the minute I walked into that bakery and realized Juniper Winkley’s iconic grandmother was standing there.
Yes, I’ve done my homework.
I’ve dredged up the articles about the amazing Jo Winkley, how she took an unremarkable bakery and turned it into a temple of all things cavity inducing. It’s an impressive story.
I’m not such a stone-hearted bastard that I’m immune to admiring her rave success, especially at a time when women entrepreneurs had every obstacle stacked against them.
If the sugar addicts in this city still worship the elder Winkley, then that goes a hundredfold for her own granddaughter, who’s clearly trying to fill grandma’s very big shoes.
Juniper Winkley won’t forgive me easily for the shit I pulled, that’s for sure. If she hadn’t played so damn hard to get, maybe I’d regret it.
I circle the punching bag, my chest heaving and sweat pouring down the back of my neck in rivulets.
I’ve had the same bag since I came back to Kansas City. It’s showing its age, along with about a million impacts.
The frosty light in my gym highlights the scarred material, the way it’s suffered over the years for my sanity.
So maybe I have a soft spot for this old thing. Mainly because when I punch it, it hits right back.
The pain snaps up my arms as I keep going with bone-jarring force, pushing my body to the limit, straining until my muscles scream.
Again.
Harder.
Fucking faster.
My arms are numb mush when the intercom buzzes and I stagger back to catch my breath.
Stopping to wipe my face with a towel, I glare at the screen.
Who the fuck could that be? It’s past nine.
Patton and Archer always call or text to say they’re dropping by first. No one else typically comes except my cleaner, and that’s never at night.
I’m used to my solitude and I like it that way.
But the damn thing buzzes again and I swear loudly as I cross the room to answer it. “Yeah? Who is it?”
“Can you open your gate?” a woman’s voice says, oddly cheerful.
“What for?” I frown, suspicious as hell.
By now, everyone’s heard about the scams where some schemer comes to the door asking for help. They always show up with three beastly guys on standby, ready to split your skull open and steal everything you’ve got the minute they’re through the door.
“Delivery for Mr. Dexter Rory,” she says. Does it sound a little like she’s trying not to laugh or is it just my imagination? “I’m sorry it’s so late. I have paperwork from a Mr. Haute’s office. High priority.”
Shit, shit.
I should’ve known Forrest Haute would find a few more ways to be a massive pain in the ass.
