Chapter 9
The door to the bag room clanged, and a voice filtered over the rhythmic thu-dump, thu-dump of Darren’s gloves against the bag.
“Are you actually planning on coming home tonight?”
Darren stepped back from the bag, chest heaving. He’d taken off his shirt some time ago and was still sweat-soaked. His hair felt damp, and he had to keep blinking the salt out of his eyes just to see. His knuckles hurt even under the thick leather, and his legs were going to kill him on shift tomorrow. Even his head felt kind of…weird. Spinning a bit, maybe.
But he felt a little less angry. A little less like he was suffocating, or being crushed into a box again by the same old psychoanalytical bullshit being spouted by a dull, fat bint who just didn’t f*****g understand. He felt…better. Kind of.
