Page 70 of Pucking One Night Stand
But that’s it. Line. Crossed.
He doesn’t even see it coming.
BANG.
My fist cracks straight into his nose with the kind of force that makes my knuckles sing. The sound is wet and awful, and blood sprays across the front of his smug face like red paint. His head snaps back, his arms flailing.
Davis is on his feet instantly.
“NO, NO, STOP IT!”
He rushes over, trying to wedge himself between us, hands out like he’s refereeing a bar brawl.
Bishy loses it. He doesn't even pause. He shoves Davis sideways like he weighs nothing and comes at me, wild and sloppy.
The first punch lands right on my nose, sharp, exploding pain, hot and blinding rushes through me.
Then he slams his palm into my chest, knocking me off balance, and follows it with a right hook to my cheekbone that sends a jolt of pain through my jaw.
I stumble back, steady myself, and drive a fist straight into his ribs.
He buckles. Grunts like a gutted animal, doubling over.
“Have you had enough?” I yell, my chest heaving, fists still up.
But he looks up at me like something’s snapped. His eyes are wide, his pupils blown, and his mouth open. He charges. “FUUUKKK YOUUUU!” He slams into me, both palms on my chest, his full weight behind it.
I stagger, my back slamming into one of the weight machines hard enough to rattle the plates. My spine lights up with a shock of pain, but I don’t get time to breathe.
He lunges again, fist coming for my head. I duck.
Pop.
My uppercut connects clean to the side of his temple. He reels, legs swaying, but stays up. We're not done.
We go at it, slamming, grabbing, fists flying. His shoulder cracks against mine. I slam him back. He lunges. We collide, and while Davis is yelling at the top of his voice, the gym door slams open.
“What the fuck is going on?!” McCullum roars as he charges in.
He doesn’t hesitate, throws himself between us just as Bishy shouts, “I’ll kill the son of a bitch!”
“Pack it the fuck in, you two!” McCullum barks, trying to split us apart.
But I’m lost in it, rage, blood, and adrenaline. I throw another punch meant for Bishy’s jaw.
I miss.
My fist smacks squarely into McCullum’s face.
His head jerks back, and for a second, the whole room freezes. His jaw shifts as he grits his teeth, both hands up now, planted between us.
Davis grabs Bishy’s arm. McCullum growls at them through clenched teeth, “BOTH OF YOU. OUT. NOW!” Then he glares at me. “MITCHELL DON'T YOU FUCKING MOVE!
Bishy wipes at the blood running down his face, glaring at me. “This is not over…asshole!”
He and Davis storm out, the door thudding shut behind them like a death sentence.
I’m breathing hard, my chest burning, blood on my shirt and hands. I glance at McCullum, who’s wiping the corner of his mouth with a towel that’s now streaked red.
