Beyond The Roses - Monica James Page 0,50

and I know without looking who it is.

I attempt to turn around, but Roman doesn’t let me.

“Where’s the fire, Rocky?”

“No fire. The thing is, this bag looks a little like my mother’s head.”

He chuckles behind me. “Glad to hear I’m not making a guest appearance in your vision of violence.”

“No, you’re good. For now.”

He releases the hold he has on me, moving his hands low on my hips. A gasp escapes my parted lips. “W-what are you doing?” He’s exceptionally close, closer than he’s ever been.

“I’m going to teach you how to expend that anger without hurting yourself,” he replies into my ear.

“I’m not angry,” I pathetically argue, holding back my shiver as his warm breath trickles down the length of my neck.

“I’m sure your bruised hand begs to differ.” To accentuate his point, he removes his palm from my waist and runs his thumb along the crease of my pulsating wrist.

“Fine then, show me what you’ve got.”

It’s a challenge, one he happily accepts. He tightens the hold around my waist, the heat from his fingers warming the flesh beneath my thin cotton tank. He coaxes me to pivot my body, rotating my hips so I bow backward, leaning into his chest. At the same time, he draws the arm he holds back, so my body is angled and pressed against his.

His heart gallops strongly against my back, the uneven rhythm hinting he’s as anxious as I am. My breathing accelerates, and a tremor passes through me.

“Okay”—he squeezes his fingers around my wrist—“you’re going to keep your balance and ground your feet when you punch. When you punch, put your entire body behind it. Keep your arm level with your shoulders. Your thumb needs to be on the outside of your fist. Otherwise, you will break it.” I automatically adjust my fist and do as he instructs. “Make a tight fist and aim to punch with your first two knuckles, so you don’t break your hand.”

“Keep my balance. Ground my feet. Make a fist. Don’t break anything. Anything else?” I ask, clenching and unclenching my hand to get a feel of my new stance.

“Yes.” He leans in close, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. I hold my breath. “Imagine every single thing you loathe, absolutely detest, and all the wrongdoings that have been thrown your way over the years and use that as your ammunition to deliver a punch that will chip away at that anger. That bag is your enemy, and it’s your turn to show it who’s boss.”

His amped-up speech has a fire burning in my belly, and a course of adrenaline sears through me. I begin to shake but for an entirely different reason. My eyes narrow on their own accord as Roman’s words invoke a fierce need to drive out this malevolence inside me. The bag suddenly becomes my worst enemy, and all I can see, hear, and taste are bitter memories, ones which fester within and plague me every day.

I see my mom and her apathy toward me. The countless times I was ridiculed for being different. I see the brain tumor eating away at my years. But at the forefront, I see Georgia, lying in her casket, her young life ripped out from under her because life just isn’t fair.

I shake in rage as a war cry comes bubbling up from my belly, exploding out of me in a gut-wrenching scream. I barely feel Roman release me as I pull my arm back, ground my feet, and force everything behind my movement and hit the bag. I’m expecting to hear bones break, followed by a blinding pain, but I don’t. All I feel is a release so great that tears sting my eyes.

I pause for a moment before the need to do that again overcomes me, and I give in to my primeval instincts. This time I hold back, afraid that it was a stroke of luck I actually connected with the bag. I also feel stupid, knowing I probably look like a stark raving lunatic.

“C’mon, you’re not even trying.” Roman appears disappointed by my effort, which infuriates me.

“I am too!” I hit the bag but forget his advice about the positioning of my thumb and wince in pain when I almost break it.

“Seriously? My grandma can hit harder than that…and she’s dead. Put some muscle into it, Van Allen!” He’s baiting me, and it’s working. I scream and punch the bag again, harder this time, but still not hard enough for

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