Chapter 40 Violet
VIOLET
The steady thump-thump of fists on heavy bags reverberates through the air as I tiptoe down the hall.
It’s late. Or early, depending on how you look at things.
I woke up alone and didn’t like it, so I climbed out of bed in search of a certain man who decided to ditch me while I was asleep.
Peeking into the gym, I find a very frustrated Jagger beating the shit out of a punching bag hanging from the ceiling.
I guess it makes sense. The fact that he’s in here alone.
It’s not even five in the morning. The anger radiating from his sweaty, half-naked body, though?
I can’t explain it. He was fine all night.
We made dinner, took a shower, screwed each other’s brains out, then fell asleep to Tangled.
So what happened between when our heads hit the pillows and right now?
Apprehension gnaws at me, and I can’t help but feel like something’s…wrong, or at the very least, off. Part of me wants to sneak back to Jagger’s room so he can get back to exorcising whatever’s bothering him. The other part? I can’t help but want to…help.
“Jagger?” I call from the doorway. “Hey.”
Sweat clinging to his bare torso, he throws another punch against the heavy bag. “Hey.”
I step around the mat at the center of the room, making my way through the various weight machines and gym equipment as he continues his assault.
I’ve never seen him like this. Even when he was fighting Ethan, he was never so…
lost in his own head. When I finally reach him, I murmur, “You want to come back to bed?”
“Can’t sleep.”
“Oh.” I hesitate, staring at the muscles along his bare body as they bunch and flex with his every move.
So much anger. So much outrage. How long has he been down here?
Taking out his fury on the poor punching bag as if it has personally offended him.
The man’s like a boulder, and he’s tumbling down a hill, gaining more and more momentum with every passing second until there’s nothing I can do but watch.
The question is, what gave him the final push?
Licking my lips, I whisper, “What happened?”
“Dad’s.”—thump-thump—“A fucking.”—thump-thump—“Asshole.” He pounds the punching bag even harder, his chest heaving more and more with every swing of his arm.
“Jagger, stop,” I murmur.
Thump-thump!
He hugs the weighted mass against his chest to stop it from swaying from his hits. “Sorry.” He swallows and clears his throat as if fighting the darkness he’d been wading through. “I’m just, uh, I’m just worked up after he called me.” Peering over at me, he asks, “Did I wake you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Good.”
“Yeah.” I smile but sober as I take him in.
The gloves I’m used to seeing when he spars with his brothers are absent, and the tape he chose instead looks like it was applied by a novice.
Add in the damp hair and unsteady rise and fall of his chest, and I’m officially concerned. “How are you really doing?” I ask.
“I don’t know.” His forehead constricts. “Fine, I guess.”
“Liar.” I keep my tone light and reach up, dragging my hand along one of his wrists still wrapped around the heavy punching bag.
I continue my exploration to his forearm, bicep, shoulder, then along his back until reaching his opposite side.
“Gotta admit, I never thought I’d fall for a fighter, but…
” I whistle. “This is a girl’s wet dream. ”
“Is that right?” He lets go of the punching bag and wraps his arms around me instead, pressing his sweaty body against mine. Let’s be real. If he were anyone else, I’d probably scream and run away. But Jagger? I don’t know. Maybe I like being marked by his scent. How gross is that?
“What?” he asks.
“Hmm?”
“What were you thinking?”
“Just how weird it is that I like you all sweaty like this,” I admit with a quiet laugh. He starts to let me go, but I squeeze him back. “No, seriously. I like it.”
“You sure?” he asks.
“Mm-hmm.” I press a kiss to his chest, then lift my chin and look up at him. “Tell me how you started fighting.”
“Anger issues?” He chuckles, but there isn’t as much humor in it as I’d like. “I guess…I guess there’s something about being able to channel everything pent-up inside of me into kicking the shit out of something else. It…grounds me, I guess.”
I want to ask what’s pent-up inside of him.
What he feels like he can’t let go of without kicking the shit out of something.
But I have a feeling I already know. There aren’t many topics Jagger evades.
His parents are two of them. I’ve never questioned it, though.
Why would I? It’s a no-go zone for me, too.
Not if I can help it. His mom’s gone. His dad’s an ass.
In this way, we’re two peas in a pod. But watching him like this?
Seeing the way he’s hurting? It makes me want to take his dad out back myself and kick the crap out of him.
“Makes sense,” I offer. “I’d kill to be able to pummel something when I’m hurting.
” Letting him go, I move around him and make a fist, imagining what it would be like.
To be able to channel that kind of power.
In slow motion, I press it to the bag, forcing it to move a couple of inches back, then dropping my arm to my side.
Feeling Jagger’s stare, I glance over at him and smile. “What?”
“Wanna learn?” he asks.
I frown. “Learn what?”
“How to throw a punch.”
With a light laugh, I say, “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, why not? Besides, I could use the distraction.” He strides toward the closet and returns with a pair of boxing gloves.
“First, we gotta protect these pretty hands.” He slips them on me, his fingers grazing my bare skin as he wraps the elastic band around my wrist to keep them in place.
“There,” he says, eyeing his own handiwork with a glint of approval.
“You like this, huh?”
“It’s kind of hot.” With a smirk, he presses his hand to the small of my back, urges me to face the punching bag, and nudges my elbows with his hands. “Put your hands up.” I raise them into the air, and he shakes his head, positioning them closer to my face. “Like this.”
“Oh.”
“You want to protect yourself from your opponent. This helps block any punches they're going to throw.”
I nod again, keeping my hands closer to my face.
“Perfect. Now, you want to keep your muscles tight.” His hands find my waist, and I squeeze my abs on instinct. “There you go,” he murmurs. “A punch comes from the whole body, not just the fist.”
“Got it.”
“Now, I know you’re wearing gloves, but let’s say you aren’t.
You want to curl your fingers into your palm, keeping your thumb tucked beneath your second knuckles.
Like this.” Lifting his hand, Jagger shows me a proper fist. “If you tuck your thumb against your palm and wrap your fingers around it, you’ll break your thumb on contact.
If you keep your thumb on the outside of your forefinger instead of tucking it beneath your knuckles, you’ll also hurt yourself,” he adds, showing me what he’s talking about by lifting his taped hand and demonstrating all three positions. “Understand?”
“Yup,” I answer.
“Good girl. Now, like I said, you’re wearing gloves, which helps your form, but since we’re starting with the basics, I figure we should probably run through it.”
“Got it.”
“Depending on the punch you want to throw, you’ll either do a jab, cross, or a hook. Understand?”
I blink. “You’re cute.”
With another sly smile, he says, “Okay, so a jab is a fast, non-power punch.” In a flash, he demonstrates the motion, and my eyes widen. “You throw it with your lead hand, so whatever foot is forward determines your jab hand. Left foot forward? Left-hand jabs. Right foot forward?” He waits.
“Right-hand jabs,” I answer.
“Good girl.” He smiles. “Your cross is a more powerful punch. You throw it with your rear hand, and you use your body’s rotation for maximum force.
Like this.” He steps in front of the punching bag with his left foot forward.
With a quick jab of his left hand, he cocks his right arm back and twists his hips, thrusting his fist forward and into the punching bag with such force it makes me flinch back.
Whoa.
Satisfied, he looks at me. “See? Now, no matter the punch, you want to keep your core engaged, your arms up, and your balance centered. If you don’t keep yourself stabilized, you’ll fall on your ass and wind up in trouble. Let’s see what you can do.”
He steps aside so I have the punching bag to myself.
Not going to lie, it’s a little intimidating.
Feeling Jagger’s stare as he waits for me to throw a punch.
I’m probably going to look like an idiot, but at least he’s back.
The real him. Instead of lost to his demons.
The realization causes a sense of peace to fall over me, and I take a deep breath, remembering his instructions.
Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I shift back, then swing my arm forward, punching the heavy bag before bringing my wrist to my chest. “Okay, ouch.”
He laughs. “Sorry. I probably should’ve mentioned you want to keep your wrist in line with your forearm. If you bend, all the force you built by using your whole body goes into the joint instead of the opponent. My bad.”
Snickering, I shake out my hand. “Gee, thanks, Coach.”
“Try it one more time.” He steps back, giving me plenty of room to make a disgrace of myself, but I’m too stubborn to back down now.
Repeating the process, I throw another punch, making sure to keep my wrist straight and my core tight.
As soon as the hit lands, the bag sways a bit more, and I turn to Jagger, practically preening. “Like that?”
“Not half bad, Little Thief,” he muses. I don’t miss the tenderness in his voice. “Let’s go again.”