Chapter Fifty
Jett
Rhys had us all bent over sketchpads in his glorified porn class, pretending it wasn’t about watching her stretch and breathe and pose like temptation in soft focus.
Benji let us all into his world yesterday. The pool was fun. Even after she left and took the color with her. Like always.
And now they’re coming here.
My place. My steel and sweat sanctuary. My don’t-talk-to-me zone. My punch-it-out peace.
I don’t know how I feel about them walking through that door. Both of them. Into this.
Do I want his hands on my bar when they’ve been on her ass? His fingers under my grip when I know exactly where they’ve been?
Do I want Rhys standing here with those therapist eyes like he can unravel me?
I could’ve done without the fucking standing ovation at the pub when Rhys kissed her. First kiss. Like it was the end of a movie. Like we’re not all drowning in this together.
Fuck that.
I don’t glove up. I don’t warm up.
I just start hitting the heavy bag.
Solid leather. Sand-packed. It can take what I can’t say.
The chain rattles. My knuckles bark.
Her scrunchie clings to my wrist. Pink. Stupid. Soft. It catches the corner of my eye with every swing. A fucking bracelet made of pain and obsession.
I can do this. For her.
Because she sees me. Lets me see her in a way those two don’t. Maybe can’t. Maybe won’t.
I see the dangerous her. The cracked mirror she hides behind. The sharp smile and eyes full of static.
I hit the bag again. It jerks like it’s listening.
I see the broken her who just wants to feel something real. Even if it’s pain.
“Hurt me,” she said.
And I did. Because I get it. I fucking get it.
We understand sensation. Not safety. Not comfort. That’s not where we live.
We live in impact. In ache. In bruises shaped like memory.
I hit the bag harder. My wrist stings. I don’t stop.
What does she whisper to Benji?
Hold me. Pet me.
And Rhys?
Hear me. Understand me.
The bag creaks on its chain. My breath’s ragged.
By the time Benji walks in, my knuckles are red and my skin’s buzzing from the inside out.
He looks like he belongs here. Like the gym made him. Sweats slung low. Sleeveless tee. Broad chest. That easy kind of strong.
“Hey,” he says, strolling in like he hasn’t a single fucked-up thought in his head. “You started without us.”
I wipe my forearm across my forehead, sweat hot and slick. Of course I did.
Rhys is next. Gym clothes, yeah, but somehow he still looks pressed and sterile. Crisp. His deodorant cost more than my punching bag.
“What are we doing?” he asks, scanning the room.
I don’t answer. I just hit the bag again.
“Can we box?” Benji asks, already eyeing the ring in the corner.
“No,” Rhys says way too sharp and fast.
I turn to him, slow. “Oh? You don’t scrap, doc?”
His jaw ticks. I see it in his eyes. Not just a no. Not an I can’t. A don’t make me.
Last time I asked if he’d ever hit a man, he deflected with his whole this is your therapy, not mine routine. Today, he’s not hiding behind a desk.
“You ever hit someone, Rhys?” I ask.
His mouth opens and then closes. I see the memory flicker, fast and ugly, behind those professional eyes. He’s got that kind of stillness that only comes from barely holding back a beast.
He’s scared of what he’s capable of.
Benji doesn’t catch it. He just bounces on the balls of his feet. “I’ll go light. Promise.”
I toss gloves to Benji. “Suit up.”
Then I walk over and hold a pair out to Rhys.
He doesn’t take them. “I don’t fight,” he says.
Not can’t. Not don’t know how.
I step into his space. “No one’s asking you to go full psycho. Just spar. Benji’ll take care of you.”
Rhys glances over at Benji, who’s already taping his wrists. A human tank. Who looks like he bench presses houses for fun.
“I’m not gonna hit hard,” Benji says again, flashing a grin. “Just show me how a therapist throws a punch.”
I see it all.
Rhys isn’t afraid of getting hit. He’s afraid of hitting back. That kind of restraint’s familiar. It’s the same shit I feel in my bones. That itch. That old wiring. That little voice that says fuck it, break something.
Rhys swallows hard. His hand twitches toward the gloves.
“You won’t get a broken rib,” I say. “I’ll make sure of it.”
He looks at me. Really looks. Maybe he sees something mirrored in me, too. Then he nods, once.
I toss him the gloves.
He catches them.
“Ring’s yours,” I say, jerking my chin toward it. “Benji, go easy.”
Benji bounces up the steps. “I’ll make it cuddly.”
Rhys climbs in slower, still all tight control and poker face, but there’s a stiffness in his movements.
I move to the ropes. I’m not refereeing. I’m watching. Studying.
Because something in Rhys is coiled, waiting. And I wanna know what happens when it snaps.
Benji’s bouncing on his toes when Rhys finally steps into the ring. I have to give it to the doc, he moves like someone who knows what a fist feels like.
He lifts his hands. Doesn’t raise ‘em to his chin like a fighter. Just halfway up, like maybe if he doesn’t fully square off, he won’t become whoever he’s scared of being.
Benji grins at him, easy. “You sure about this?”
“No,” Rhys says.
Benji just nods. “Cool. I’ll keep it playful.”
First few moves are all Benji. Light jabs. Just tapping gloves. Testing the water.
Rhys doesn’t swing. He dodges. Slips. Weaves. Knows how to pivot and duck just enough to not get hit, but never enough to answer back.
Benji goes soft with him. But he’s still Benji. He’s big, he’s fast, and when he moves, the air hums.
“Come on,” Benji says, throwing another soft jab. “You’re dancing but not hitting.”
“I told you, I don’t fight.”
“That’s not true,” I say from the ropes. “You don’t fight now.”
Rhys glances at me. That’s the crack. Just a flick of attention.
Benji tags him on the side.
Not hard. Not really. But enough.
Rhys stumbles. Regains. And suddenly he’s there.
I see it in his shoulders.
He throws one punch. A right cross, clean as hell. Snaps Benji’s head to the side.
And then Rhys just stops. He jerks back like he touched fire. Drops his hands. Breath ragged. Not from exertion. From memory.
I’ve felt that before, when the rage goes out and all you’re left with is the echo of your own violence. It fucks you up.
Benji straightens, blinks once, then immediately pulls his gloves off. “Hey,” he says, stepping forward.
Rhys backs up. Hands shaking.
Benji grabs his shoulder. “Hey. You’re alright. You didn’t hurt me. You pulled it. You stopped.”
Rhys shakes his head. “I don’t, fuck. I shouldn’t have.”
“You should’ve,” Benji says, voice low. “It’s okay.”
Rhys looks at him like he’s not sure he believes it. As if that one punch cost him more than decades of being good.
Benji steps in closer. Not aggressive. Just there. Fucking safe.
“Let me take the gloves off,” Benji says. “We’ll grab water. Cool down. You did good.”
And Rhys, Mr. Control, Mr. Distance, lets him. Just stands there while Benji peels the gloves off like he’s dismantling a weapon.
I look away. Because fuck. I pushed too hard. Too fucking far.
I thought I was needling him. Cracking that cool shrink shell. Maybe punishing him a little for the kiss, yeah, I’m not proud. But I wasn’t trying to open up the vault and let out whatever the fuck that was.
Rhys sits on the edge of the bench, head in his hands. Shoulders bowed. Not saying a word.
Benji crouches in front of him, elbows on his knees, waiting. Just being there. No fixing. No pressure.
I lean back against the wall and cross my arms. “You alright?” I ask.
Rhys doesn’t look up. “I put a guy in the hospital.”
That was not where I thought this was going.
“In high school,” he says, low. “He cornered me after class. Said some shit. Thought I was soft. I don’t remember what the last straw was. Just that I couldn’t stop. I kept hitting him after he hit the ground. Didn’t even hear the teacher screaming.”
Benji doesn’t flinch.
I do.
Rhys finally lifts his head. His eyes are raw, bloodshot, red at the corners like something’s bleeding behind them. “I broke his nose. His jaw. Two ribs. He had a seizure in the ambulance.”
“Fuck,” I breathe.
“I thought they were gonna arrest me. I thought I was a monster.” He swallows. “My parents sent me to therapy. Anger management. The same shit I teach now. The only way I felt like I deserved to keep living was if I made sure no one else ever lost control like that again.”
My chest tightens. Shame’s a nasty fucking thing. It doesn’t just make you hide. It makes you hurt the people who remind you of yourself. I pushed him into that ring like he didn’t have ghosts of his own.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Rhys looks at me like I just threw him off more than the fight.
Benji touches his shoulder. “You’re not that kid anymore. You didn’t lose control. You stopped. You chose to stop.”
“I don’t want to be that kind of man,” Rhys whispers.
“You aren’t,” Benji says, firm and warm.
I slide down the wall and sit across from them. Two men I wanted to murder with my bare hands a heartbeat ago. Now I’m just breathing with them. She sees something in all of us, and maybe, we’re starting to see it in each other.
We sit in silence a minute. Just us, the gloves, and the ghosts.
Then Benji clears his throat. “You think she’d be mad if we all cried and held hands?”
I huff a laugh. “She’d jerk off to it.”
Rhys groans and covers his face. “Jesus Christ.”
But he’s laughing too, and the weight doesn’t feel quite so heavy anymore.
We shower it all away. We’re still toweling off in the locker room when I see the bags.
Three of them. Lined up on the bench like offerings. Or threats.
“Did you bring those?” I ask Benji.
He shakes his head. “Nope. But I know who did.”
We all do. The bags are unmistakably her.
Mine’s hot pink and screaming. Black skulls, angry little punk rock eyeballs, and some glitter detail that’s somehow flipping me off. The tags are literal bones. I love it. I hate it. I might fuck it.
Benji’s looks like a unicorn threw up on it. The whole thing hums with neon happiness and codependent vibes.
Rhys’s is sleek. Professional. Except for the big red lipstick print across the front pocket like she made out with it. I bet she picked a shade called something deranged like Hostile Witness or Cunnilingus in Court.
Benji unzips his first, already grinning. “God, I love her.”
Inside is a crime-scene red towel. Peach rings. A protein bar. Heart-shaped sunglasses.
He holds them up like they’re holy.
Rhys and I both look at him. He looks at the glasses. Then he puts them on.
“I’m gonna throw up,” I say.
“You know you want them,” Benji says, very seriously, with glitter on his cheek.
Rhys is already rummaging through his like he’s doing a forensic analysis. Pulls out the red towel. Lifts a single pink diamond stud between his fingers. “She gave me this,” he says. He sounds weird. Like the earring’s a relic.
“I’m scared to open mine now,” I admit, peeling the zipper back.
Inside there’s a towel. Snacks. And fuck. A new scrunchie.
Black and pink. Satin. Fucking dignified. Like a Victorian mourning ribbon went punk.
I finger the old one around my wrist. It’s fraying. Half unraveled. This one is too clean, too new, but I still lift it, hold it against my mouth for a second like a freak before I slip it on with the other that I’m not taking off.
“Glitter bomb,” Rhys warns, holding up a detonated packet. His hands sparkle like he fingered a craft whore.
Mine goes off in my face. “Mother fuck!”
Benji cackles. “Joy landmine,” he says.
Glitter clings to the sweat on my chest, the towel, my scruff. Rhys is trying to brush his off with clinical efficiency and only making it worse. Benji just accepts it, lets it settle on his shoulders like some goddamn holy ash.
We sit there for a second.
Just sit.
Red towels, sugar dust, sparkle. And her.
None of us says it out loud. But she saw us. Really saw us. And she still left gifts like we’re something worth worshipping.
Benji breaks the silence. “We should do something for her.”
“We should brace for her,” I say.
Rhys tucks the earring into his palm. “We should tell her she doesn’t have to earn us like this.”
“She’ll just do it anyway,” Benji says. “It’s who she is. I wouldn’t change a thing.”
We all nod.
Because yeah. That’s our girl. And he’s fucking right. “I wouldn’t either. You better not try to with all your fancy therapy shit,” I say to Rhys.
“Nope,” he says. “She’s Delilah P. Darling. The p stands for perfect the way she is.”
“I’m gonna vomit,” I say.