"Stop overthinking this, Angel... and just feel me!"
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Erika Ricci, 24, never expected a patient like him to knock her off her high horse.
Brandon A. King, 26, was immediately attrac...
It was about time we heard from our boy. God, chapters that don't include him are so hard for me to write.
I just want them together already, your Honor... If it weren't for the angel and demon on each shoulder, things would have been over and done with until now... kinda.
Without further ado, yours truly.
___
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Brandon's POV:
The chains protested against the metal ring; each fist delivered on the punching bag stronger than the one before.
Minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into days. Their dragging momentum weighed down on me, as each day was a reminder of the promise I didn't keep.
Always.
My body was tense, soaked in sweat, as the wrapping around my knuckles came loose again. I didn't care, though. I welcomed the pain, the physical kind, over what I was feeling day and night.
The pain was a catalyst and an inhibitor at the same time. The pain meant, only thoughts in my mind were those of the moving punching bag in front of me, evading the force of my fists rhythmically; just like what I was doing with my reality. So, I welcomed the burn of my knuckles and the numbness that consumed me.
As long as I didn't have to think of her in pain, bleeding in my arms.
As long as I didn't have to remember the warm feeling, the pungent smell of her blood on my hands.
As long as I didn't think of her sad expression every time she looked at me after that.
"Brandon, for the last time, we need to talk," came James' voice for the up tenth time that night.
He was right, I knew. But why wasn't the asshole taking a hint? I didn't want to talk. I didn't want to hear anything about schemes and drug money and exploitations. None of it.
God knew I was only itching to punch real flesh right now.
But he was pretty persistent, the fucker, as he pushed my shoulder to face him.
"Leave the poor punching bag alone. It sure needs a break, and so do we. We need to find a way out of this, goddammit, and your testosterone-filled-anxiety is not helping."
"One more word from you, and I swear to God-"
I took a step towards him, my fist raised, aiming for his fucking face, when my wrist was pulled back.
"Give it up, champ."
Pops stopped me in my tracks, and with an arm around my shoulders he pulled me away from the still swinging punching bag. With a sigh of defeat, I allowed him to guide my movements, but instead of sitting on the bench he and James previously occupied, I sat on the floor in front of them; the cold wood soothing against my burning skin.
