Page 32 of Wicked Scorn
My stomach grumbles a little bit, but findingthe kitchen means interacting with Penn and I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now, so I crawl into the covers on the bed and feel my eyes start to droop closed before sleep claims me.
Chapter 12
Jeremiah
Ishut my bedroom door behind me and lean against the wood separating us now. My breath comes fast and heavy, my fists clenched so hard my knuckles turn white.
I shake out my hands before knocking my knuckles against the door.
Once.
Pause.
One, two, three, four times.
Pause.
One, two, and the final knock.
One. Four. Three. A thing I saw once scribbled in Oakley’s journal after her fascination with 90s movies.
I bound down the stairs, my feet pounding against the hardwood. In the living room, Penn is still on the couch, absorbed in his phone. He looks up as I approach, one eyebrow raised.
“Keep an eye on her.” I say, trying to keep thedesperation out of my voice. “Don’t let her step outside. If she so much as tries, call me.”
Penn raises an eyebrow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Why yes, Jeremiah, since you asked so nicely instead of demanded, I would love to have a fucking bunny sleepover as if I don’t have shit to fuckin’ do.”
“Fuck off, Penn. Just do this for me aight,” I snap back, not in the mood for his games. My hands are already itching for something to hit.
“Okay, but what am I your personal hostage negotiator? Do I get a badge and little mount me hat like the wack ass sheriff’s wear?”
“I’m not fucking around, Penn.” I step closer, invading his space.
“Chill, brother,” he smirks, the sly grin never reaching his hazel eyes. “Oakley’s safe with me. Go punch some sense into yourself or whatever you pretty boys do.”
Ignoring his jab, I grab the keys to my bike and head for the door, desperate for an outlet. The echo of the front door and Penn’s insane cackles follow me as the cool night air slaps me across the face, trying to soothe the heat itching to escape from underneath my skin.
I straddle my bike, the engine roaring to life beneath me. The vibrations travel up my legs, a familiar sensation that usually brings me a semblance of calm. Not tonight. As I speed toward the boxing gym right off campus, the wind whips around me, but it does not offer me a reprieve from anything that’s bothering me.
The gym’s neon sign flickers as I pull up and throw down my kickstand. Removing my helmet, I set it on the tank and just stare at the brick building before me. A place where pain is expected, even welcomed. The gym is almost a dive, reekingof sweat and blood, but right now, it smells like fucking redemption. I push open the door, the sound of fists slamming into bags and grunts of exertion greeting me like a twisted lullaby.
The gym is surprisingly empty right now compared to usual. I clock just a few guys and squinting my eyes I see a woman in the far corner.
“Blackwood!” someone calls out, but I don’t even bother looking up. They’re just background noise. I’m here for one thing only—to drown out the chaos in my skull with the pure, straightforward pain of physical exertion.
I make a beeline for the heavy bags, my hands already curling into fists. I don’t bother with gloves or wraps. I want to feel the impact. I want the pain.
I take a swing, channeling every ounce of my anger into the blow. The bag moves wildly; the chains rattling with the force. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I hit it again and again, grunting with each impact. Sweat pours down my face, stinging my eyes, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.
Fucking Royce—where the hell is he? I’ll beat the fucking shit out of him too for not protecting Oakley like he should have. She was off limits to me because of him, and he didn’t do his fucking job.
I throw my first punch hard enough to rattle my knuckles, the impact a kiss against leather. “That’s for not being there,” I hiss through clenched teeth. Another hit, harder, faster.
My fists are already clenched, knuckles white, as I imagine the faces of those who’ve dared to hurt Oakley. Me. Her brother. The sick fuck who I’m going to castrate. They’re going to regret ever crossing paths with her—with me. Because when it comes to that girl, I don’t play by any rules. I write them. And right now, the first rule is to let the beast inside meloose. Let it wreak havoc until there’s nothing left but the wild, unrestrained parts of who we are meant to be.
The sound of footsteps behind me breaks my concentration. I whirl around, fists raised, ready for a fight.
A figure emerges from the shadows, a cocky grin plastered on his face. He’s young, probably a freshman, with the kind of swagger that comes from being too dumb to know better.
