Jab. Cross. Uppercut. Every hit sends a jolt up my arms, sweat stinging my eyes and dripping down my back. My fist connects with the bag so hard that pain shoots up to my elbow. Good. I welcome it. Another hit. And another. Anything to drown out the images my brain keeps conjuring; Kayla smiling at someone else, Kayla touching someone else, Kayla…
“Jesus, Roman, what did that bag ever do to you?”
I don’t pause, don’t look up at the voice. It’s Mason, one of the newer prospects. Kid’s built like a linebacker but has the face of a twelve-year-old. He’s been hanging around me lately, probably hoping some of my reputation will rub off on him.
“Fuck off,” I grunt, landing another combination.
“Seriously, man, you okay?” Mason steps closer, hovering just at the edge of my peripheral vision.
“He’s fine,” comes another voice, deeper, with an edge of amusement. “Just working through some feelings.”
I glance over to see Gunner leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The Inferno’s sergeant-at-arms watches me with a knowing smirk that makes me want toredirect my punches to his face. Behind him, a few more brothers file into the gym, probably drawn by the sounds of my one-sided battle with the bag.
“What’s up with Sullivan?” asks Wrench. “He’s been in here for hours.”
Gunner’s smirk widens. “His ex has a new boyfriend, and our boy here is taking it real well as you can see.”
“That right, Roman?” Wrench asks, his voice taking on a teasing tone that sets my teeth on edge. “The little lady’s moved on?”
I strip off my gloves, tossing them aside, refusing to engage. My hands are shaking, whether from exertion or rage, I’m not sure. Probably both. I reach for my water bottle, taking a long drink, trying to cool the fire building in my chest.
“Heard his name’s Kirby,” Timber calls from across the room, where he’s started loading weights onto a bar. “Some accountant or something, right? Real straight-laced type.”
The gym erupts in laughter, and I feel my face burning. Kirby. What the fuck kind of name is Kirby?
“I heard he’s a real smart guy,” someone else pipes up. “Wears glasses and has a bunch of fancy degrees and everything.”
“Sounds like a hell of an upgrade from our boy here,” Wrench says, grinning now, “No offense, Roman.”
I focus on unwrapping my hands, trying to tune them out. It shouldn’t matter. Kayla can date whoever she wants. We’re done. Finished. I signed those divorce papers. I watched her drive away. I have no claim on her anymore.
So why does it feel like I’m being gutted with a rusty knife?
“Hey, Roman,” Sledge calls from the weight bench, his voice carrying over the others. “How’s it feel to be replaced by a vacuum cleaner?”
The gym explodes in laughter again, and something in me snaps. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve crossed the room and grabbed Sledge by the throat, yanking him off the bench. His eyes widen in shock as I haul back my fist, blind rage coursing through my veins.
My punch never lands. A viselike grip catches my wrist mid-swing, and I’m yanked backward with enough force to make me stumble. I whip around, ready to take on whoever intervened, only to find myself face-to-face with Gray.
The VP’s expression is stone cold, and the look in his eyes would make most men back down. I’m not most men, especially not right now.
“Let go,” I snarl.
Gray doesn’t budge. “Outside. Now.”
“I said let go.” I try to wrench free, but his grip only tightens.
“And I said outside. Don’t make me ask again, Sullivan.”
For a moment, we stand locked in a silent battle of wills, the gym suddenly quiet around us. Then, slowly, I feel the red haze of rage beginning to recede. My breathing is still ragged, my heart hammering against my ribs, but the blind impulse to destroy is fading.
Gray must see the change, because he releases my wrist, though he doesn’t step back. “Move,” he says, jerking his head toward the door.
I throw one last glare at Sledge and then stalk out of the gym. Gray follows close behind, his footsteps quiet but deliberate. We make it to the empty hallway before he grabs my shoulder, spinning me around to face him.
“Calm the hell down,” he says, his voice low but razor-sharp. “This shit ends now.”
“They started it,” I mutter, immediately hating how childish the words sound.