Page 77 of Sizzle

The next time I look at my phone, it’s gotten dark outside. The heavy bag sways in front of me, barely lit by the streetlight outside. It’s dark in the garage too, I realize. I must have forgotten to turn on the lights.

I grab a bottle of water from the minifridge in the back corner, catching my breath. Maybe one more round will do it. One more session and I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Right. I snort.

The noise in my head screams back to life again, so I cap the bottle and toss it into the corner, advancing on the bag. Same as I’ve done about twenty times since I got home earlier. Or something like twenty. I stopped counting after the first ten.

Sweat pours down my face. I stripped my shirt off at some point after soaking it through. It should be too cold out here for me to go like this, but fuck it. Right now, I don’t feel anything but the weight of the bag.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Alex flips on the light as he comes in the garage. I flinch reflexively but it doesn’t interrupt my flow.

“What does it fucking look like?”

“You’re going to fucking freeze to death, you idiot,” he says.

“Fuck off.”

I don’t stop. I can’t. If I stop, the noise is going to drown me.

Alex is circling the bag like he’s preparing himself to walk in front of it.

“Keep going and you’re going to get hit,” I warn.

He strips off his suit jacket and keeps walking.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, pulling off his tie.

It’s true. We boxed a lot those first couple of years. There were a handful of other guys on Frat Row who liked to mix it up between their bongs and beers. Alex had been the only who laid me out on the regular back then.

He’s out of practice now.

The idea is stirring. It’d be a helluva lot more satisfying to hit him than the bag right now.

I’m not proud of it but goddamn it, it’s true.

“Fine,” I say. “You want me to lick your ass, I will.”

Alex stops cold, his hand in the process of unbuttoning a cuff.

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, asshole,” he says, pulling the sleeve free. He smirks at me. “You want to lick my ass? Fine. Bring it.”

23

Alex

Something’s wrong. Incredibly wrong.

I sense it the minute I pull into the drive. Elliot’s not supposed to be home for at least another three hours at least, but his car is parked out front. And though sunset has come and gone, I see no lights on anywhere in the house.

It’s fucking freezing out here tonight, sleeting now on top of the snow we got earlier. Visions of my friend laid out or hurt or unconscious flicker through my head and I bobble the key trying to get the front door open. My fingers shaking with the cold and fear, I drop the whole damn set when I hear it.

Noises coming from the garage.

The unmistakable sound of fists on leather. Low grunting. Harsh breathing.