Page 17

“What is this?” I ask, even though it’s obvious.

The flyer lists five dates for Grave Sinner shows—one of them even with Nightstalker.

“Five shows, boys. The dates dropped today, and believe it or not, the first two are already sold out. Think of this run as your chance. Depending on how it goes, the label will offer you a new contract and you can pick up right where you left off five years ago.”

I hear the guys arguing with Leslie, but a throbbing pain pulses in my head and thick fog spreads through my skull. I lean back and stare at the flyer in my hand.

Guess it’s clear what they expect from me.

The problem is: I have no idea if I can still deliver.

3

—

Koh

I hammer the heavy bag again and again, slamming side kicks into it and finishing the combo with a backflip. Then I start over. I can’t stop.

Jerry’s face floats in front of me, swelling and turning unrecognizable under the bruises and blood. I hear his first screams turn into dull groans, then nothing but pathetic whimpers.

No pity. Only bottomless hate boils inside me. It clouds my senses until everything is red. Blood. Slick, bright red blood. A puddle where his face used to be. Jerry’s ugly mug driving me insane.

“Koh!” a voice calls from far away.

But I’m in a rage and unstoppable. My body works like a machine. Every punch vibrates through my knuckles and shoots lightning through my muscles. Each impact hits like an electric shock that jolts me and feeds me fresh energy. Blind with fury, I keep punishing Jerry.

The image flickers. Jerry’s bloody pulp of a face dissolves, and I’m suddenly punching my own reflection.

What felt like a trance flips into full madness. I lose it completely. Self-hatred takes over and fuels the fury I feel toward myself.

I know it’s just helplessness—the kind that hits me so often I can barely breathe. The only thing that helps is channeling it all into the bag.

“Koh!”

Ever since Jerry, I sometimes slip into this destructive mode. The world goes numb. I feel nothing. My father once proudly called it “destructive tendencies.” He only found out a few years ago how far they actually go.

As long as I train two or three times a week, I stay mostly balanced. More fight training turns me into an angry Rocky. No training at all turns me into a nervous wreck.

Just thinking about what happened a year ago makes me so furious I hit even harder. I see my own imaginary face explode in a spray of blood.

How the hell did I let myself lose control like that?

The thing with Jerry is ancient history—statute of limitations and all. But the bastard left something broken in my head. Something that turned me into my ex-boyfriend Luke’s personal toy.

Luke.

I walked right into his trap. Blinded by what I thought was love, I didn’t see how I was disappearing. How he wrapped me in his web and made me doubt myself so badly I couldn’t even trust my own mind anymore.

“Ugh…!”

“Koh!”

The voice is right next to me. Two strong hands yank me back.

I flinch and shout, feeling like I’m about to lose my balance. Levi holds me steady and steps between me and the bag like he’s protecting it.

Well, it is his gym.