Page 19 of Lure

“Where do you want to do this?” I asked Bones. “Downstairs or our barn?”

Our barn was also empty, but it would put us away from the house.

“Downstairs,” Bones said. “I don’t want to compromise security.”

Fine by me. Once we were down there, I stripped off my shirt and set the coffee aside before I began to wrap my hands. The gym down here had everything we could need for rehabbing or staying in shape.

“I’m not fighting you,” Bones said with a sigh.

“Okay,” I told him as I pivoted to face him. “Stand there while I beat the shit out of you. That works for me too.”

Chapter

Seven

BONES

“I’m not fighting you.” The fact I had to repeat it should have told him everything he needed to know. Not that Voodoo paid a damn bit of attention to me.

“I heard you the first time,” he said, flexing his hands in the wraps. “My answer is the same. Now get your ass over here. If you don’t burn off some of that aggression, you and Alphabetaregoing to come to blows.”

The fuck we would. “I’m neither a child nor a man under your command.” If I needed to remind him that I outranked him, this would go even worse.

“We're also retired,” Voodoo said with the faintest of smirks. “You get to call the shots only when weletyou call them.”

Throwing my own words back at me was dirty pool.

“So, any more chicken-shit excuses to duck this beating you deserve?”

Chicken-shit…

I glared at him. “You want a fight.”

“You’re damn right I do. So get your ass over here.” Hostility edged every single word. It was as much a request for help as it was a demand for action.

The problem, however, lay in the fact… “I don’t think I can hold back.” My temper had been fraying in the pitched silence, with both of my hands wrapped around its throat to strangle the life out of it.

“Then don’t.” He gave me the barest of shrugs.

“Bryant…” I exhaled.

“After,” he said, the crack in the pair of syllables offering zero negotiation room. “Let’s go. You need to purge.”

I needed something, but lashing out at my team was not an acceptable way to handle my temper. Fuck…

Yelling at civilians wasn’t either.

Rolling my head from side to side, I soaked in the sound of the crack. It might have relieved some of the tension, but really, it just highlighted how stiff and unyielding I’d become.

“Fuck it,” I muttered, then moved away to strip off my own shirt. I toed off my shoes. His were already gone. We were both in jeans, not ideal, but then we weren’t going for finesse or points.

The only concession I made was to wrap my hands. Frankly, bare-knuckle brawling would feel too goddamn good. As much as I craved the pain, I needed to maintain some semblance of control.

Once I was ready, I faced one of my oldest friends. The patience in his expression and the ease in his stance decried the very real irritation he’d demonstrated earlier. I’d pissed him off. This was how we resolved it—for the most part.

“Bryant… Don’t let me hurt you.”

With a roll of his eyes, Voodoo just jerked his head to the “ring” we used for sparring. It didn’t actually have ropes, but the padding on the floor was thicker. Made movement more of achallenge than you might think. The walls closest to it were also padded. Training didn’t mean breaking.

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