Page 34 of Truck Stop Tempest
“Show me.”
He stood at my side, lifted my hand, and molded my fingers into a fist. “You ever throw a punch?”
“No.”
He studied my fingers, brushing a thumb over my knuckles. “Never? Not once?”
“No.”
He dropped my hand. Looked at his own, flexing and stretching his fingers. “Seriously? You’ve never been so mad that you needed to hit something? Or someone?”
“Yes. I mean, no. I mean, yes, I get mad, but no, not enough to want to hit someone.” Okay, that was a lie. I’d fantasized punching my brother in the face more than once. I’d also, at least a thousand times over the years, imagined different ways to hurt Erik, every time I’d watched him bully some kid, or the times he had wrestled me to the ground and made me kiss him, or had forced me into his lap and made me sit still while we watched movies, or until he had finished his homework, or until my father came home.
I hadn’t fooled Tito. He gave me a scolding look and said, “Liar.”
“Sure. I’ve thought about it. But I don’t like violence.” I’d seen too much brutality.
“Violence is necessary sometimes.”
“I disagree.”
“Liar,” he said again.
“You don’t know me well enough to call me a liar, Tito.”
“Tuuli. The night I met you, you had defended Aida by attacking a man five times your size.”
“That’s different. He was going to hurt her.”
“There’s no difference. Violence is violence, regardless of our motives. You could’ve run for help, or quoted him scripture, but you chose to go for the kill.”
He was right. Had I been stronger, or had a weapon even, I would’ve done anything in my power to keep that horrid man from hurting Aida. “Are you going to hit the bag for me, or what?”
“Make a deal?”
“Sure.” I refrained from rolling my eyes.
“You hit the bag once, with everything you’ve got. If you can tell me it doesn’t feel good, I’ll drop the subject.”
“You’ll drop it. Then I get to watch you?”
He nodded, chewing his bottom lip.
“With your shirt off,” I added.
He released his lip and almost smiled. “Now you’re pushing.”
“Fine,” I said, conceding. “Shirt on.” I held up my fists and stepped closer to the bag.
Tito grabbed my arm and turned me back toward him. “First things first. I don’t want you to break a bone.” He repositioned my fingers, showing me the safe way to ball my fist and the correct angle to hold my wrist. Then he stepped back, arms crossed, and nodded for me to proceed. “Make it count. Think of something, or someone, that makes you angry.”
I already pictured Erik’s face on the leather. Not his smug, fake smile, but the face he reserved for me when we were alone. The expression of domination. I pulled my arm back and thought of the time he made me stick my hands down his pants and touch him while he reminded me that I was his, and when we were married, I would have to do whatever he asked. I remembered how, when I tried to pull away, he held my arm and made me stroke him. I remembered how when my dad walked into the room, Erik shoved me off the kitchen chair, and instead of helping me off the floor, he stood toe-to-toe with my father and told him that I was a slut, and if I kept throwing myself at him, he wouldn’t be able to marry me because he was pure, and he would only marry a pure woman. I remembered how my dad patted him on the back, told him he was proud, and then took me to my room, slid his belt from his pants, and made me hold onto my dresser while he struck me, over, and over, and over.
My entire body vibrated with rage. I hit the bag as hard as I could, releasing a strange guttural noise from deep in my throat. I gave it my all, and still, the bag barely moved. My insides, however, had shifted something fierce, like there was another me inside my skin and bone frame, another me that was waking from a deep sleep, stretching and yawning, and coming back to life. God, it felt so good.
Too good.
I stepped back and inhaled, savoring the rush.