Page 72 of Midnight Ink

“Can I ask how you have ashes if you also go to a cemetery?” I don’t want to push, but I want to know more about this.

A faint smile hits his lips. “They have a plot at the cemetery. It’s where his grandparents are. She buried half his ashes there, then she gave the other half to Anna, and Anna gave them to me.” He holds the urn in his hands. “I need to get better, Julian.”

“You are.” He sets the urn down on the TV stand then takes his towel off with a smirk. My eyes drop to his soft skin. “I was going to tell you I found something for us to do, but I kind of want to do this instead.” He laughs, but I don’t find anything funny about the gorgeous body in front of me. I grab him to me, groaning as he slides into my lap. My hands land on his ass, giving him a squeeze.

His arms circle my neck. “What do you want to do today, Jules?”

I want my lips on every inch of his skin.

It would be so easy to do. I know he’d let me. Still, I think this would be good for both of us. I don’t just want sex. Ian has always been more to me.

“Have you ever heard of a rage room?”

The place smells like dust, old metal, and turpentine.

I watch Ian take in the concrete floors and bare entryway. There’s a man at the front on a computer who welcomes us when we come in. “Hi, uh, can we rent a room? The rage room. We’re not sure how this whole thing works.”

“Sure, it’s twenty-five for the hour. You just need to fill out waivers and grab your protective gear. You have to wear the helmet and safety gear the entire time you’re in the smash zone.”

“The smash zone.” Ian laughs.

“You still want to do this?” I ask.

He nods. “Yeah, I do.”

We’re handed helmets, what look like hazmat suits, safety glasses, and gloves. Ian stares at the gear and thanks the man. I put on my helmet and safety glasses then slip on the protective suit and gloves as I watch Ian struggle with his helmet. I walk over and help him adjust the chin straps, and I smile. “I feel like we’re getting ready for a zombie invasion.”

We walk inside the room where junk is stacked like an offering—old TVs, plates, radios, wine bottles, a computer. The heavy door shuts with a clang. “This is very horror-movie adjacent,” Ian says, as he picks up a bat and holds it like he’s never seen one in his life.

“Is that how you hold a bat?” I laugh.

He flips me off. “I don’t sport, Julian!” He grips it a little tighter. “I told you I’m not athletic.”

I watch him walk carefully over to the table with various broken electronics.

I don’t rush him. I’m a little unsure myself. Everything my mother taught me growing up about not breaking shit echoes in my brain. I feel like I’m doing something wrong even though we paid to be here. “Should I just—” I nod.

Ian swings.

The bat connects with an old TV, smashing in the screen. “Holy shit,” he laughs.

“Good?”

He nods. “Feels better than it should. Grab one.” I take a bottle. Ian backs up against the wall to give me space and I smash the bottle. Glass flies through the air.

“Oh, okay. I like this. Petition to make one of these in the back of the shop for when we get shitty clients.” Ian’s laugh rings through my ears. We take turns smashing things and laughing.

Glass rains down, plastic cracks. His bat connects with a glass mirror, and it explodes from the force of the bat. Ian freezes, breathing hard.

Then he swings again.

And again.

His shoulders bunch. Jaw tightens. Each strike is harder than the last.

I stop breaking shit and watch him. Violent and beautiful. I watch him let go of everything he’s been holding onto. Something comes over him. I don’t know what or when the shift changed.

Then he stops and looks at me as if he’s coming out of a possession. “Sorry.”