She puts a hand to her mouth, as though realizing I’m falling to pieces. “Slade, I don’t—just wait a second—we can—”

Lifting a hand in the air, I tell her, “Don’t talk to me.” I turn away, walking swiftly out of the room as she follows at my heels.

“Please—Slade—”

I ignore her. I can barely hear her actually. All I hear is a loud swooshing sound between my ears. Somehow, I find myself on my bike, turning on the engine. I see Lauren from my side-eye, her quickly moving mouth, but no words are coming out. I take off into the mountains, leaving her in the dust.

When I get to the base of the mountain, I pull out my gun from my saddlebag along with a flask full of liquor. Walking up the trail, I ask myself how I got here. My mind wanders to last year at Joe’s gym. That’s where it all began, I suppose. With Joe, the gym’s owner, and James, another trainer, getting punched in the face.

“How many times do I have to tell ya? These men who come in here to train with us aren’t actually trying to fight. Jesus Christ, Slade. For one seventy-five an hour, they just want to sweat a little bit and then go home to tell their friends they train at a boxing gym. They wanna tell people they box. They don’t actually wanna box.” His jaw twitches as he raises his hands in the air in an animated gesture. “All you need to do is make ’em sweat. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir.” I can feel my nostrils flare as I take a deep inhale and exhale through my nose, the black T-shirt I’m wearing stretching against my chest.

The last thing I would do is tell him that Leon, the asshole finance guy I’m paid to train, kept talking shit and asking me—no, begging me—to take a good swing at him. Idiot thought he could take it—from an ex-Navy SEAL, no less. These Wall Street types think they own the goddamn world. They want to prove their superiority every-fuckin’-where. I’ve got to keep this job. The money from the house sale has been floating me, but I need an income.

Joe is right. These guys are here for a good sweat. It’s glorified cardio, so they can look chiseled at the beach in the Caribbean or wherever these rich guys vacation. They don’t actually want to fight. God forbid they damage their pretty faces.

Regardless, I’m not a man who gives excuses. At the end of the day, I hit that asshole too hard in the face. Sure, he’d asked for it. But I did it, and now, my job is on the line.

“Can you?” he asks again angrily. “I gave you this job as a favor. I know leaving the service is hard. I remember it, son. But you cannot take out your aggression here. One more wrong move, and you’re out.” He points an old finger, crooked from probably multiple breaks, over his shoulder. “Don’t make me regret taking you on.”