“Is there anything you don’t know about me?” he huffs. “Apparently, I don’t know a damn thing about you except that you’re an excellent liar!”
“That back there was it for me, the only lie I’ve omitted from you. It’s possible that I was a woman scorned and not thinking clearly when I first moved into the apartment under yours.”
“No shit.”
The two of us are both silent the rest of the way until I stop the car again.
“What’s this place?” he asks, glancing at the building from the passenger window.
“Come inside and find out,” I tell him.
“No, thanks. I just want to be alone.”
That was a nice way of saying he’s super pissed at me and doesn’t want to be near me. I completely understand why, but I don’t want him to hate me.
“It’ll be good for you, I promise, even better than sulking alone. Please, Nash?”
“What fucking choice do I have? Can’t be worse than you nagging me to death,” it sounds like he mumbles to himself before he reluctantly gets out and follows me to the door.
Inside, I step up to the counter where a young guy wearing a blue bandana with his long hair pulled back in a ponytail is standing, waiting. I pull out my wallet.
“Welcome to the Demolition Zone,” he greets us. “Will it just be the two of you today?”
“Yes,” I say at the same time as Nash says, “Oh, so we’re not inviting our exes to join us?”
Ponytail guy looks between us, and I smile sweetly at him. “Just two, thanks.”
“Great. And how many items will you be needing? Our packages start at five and go up to fifteen.”
“Better make it fifteen,” I say with a sigh as I hand over my debit card.
“All right. Let me get you both to sign our waivers while I run your payment, and then we’ll get you suited up.” He offers us each a clipboard with a pen attached and a sheet of paper outlining all of the ways we could get hurt and how the business won’t be responsible.
“What are we getting fifteen of exactly?” Nash asks.
“You’ll see,” I assure him, handing him the other clipboard. “Just sign the paperwork.”
From the corner of my eye, I notice Nash starts to sign before he pauses and then scribbles something illegible on the signature line before printing “Nathan Smith” on the other line.
If he notices me watching, he doesn’t give a shit. Nash just sits the clipboard on the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. Honestly, I’m surprised he didn’t just bail on me. The fact that he’s here means something. I just hope it means that he’ll eventually forgive me.
After we’ve paid, ponytail guy shows us into the “dressing room” where we’re told to put on coveralls, a clear face mask that covers our entire face, and then a pair of Kevlar gloves.
“Did we just pay him to do some dirty work or what?” Nash asks when the man leaves us alone.
“Just get dressed and you’ll see. I think you’ll feel better afterwards.”
“There is not a fucking thing that could make me feel better right now,” he mutters.
“Well, it won’t hurt to try,” I say as I step into my coveralls and zip them up. I ignore Nash until he finally gets into his suit.
A separate side door opens, and the man tells us, “The room’s ready for you. I threw in an old tube TV at no charge. Grab a bat and go on in when you’re ready.” He nods to the wall of baseball bats hanging in a row on the opposite wall.
“Great, thanks,” I reply. “Here’s hoping you don’t decide to use the bat on me,” I say on an exhale.
“You know I would never fucking touch you,” Nash responds, indignant at what I mostly meant as a joke.
And, yes, I know he’s right. He will probably never, ever touch me again, not even in the way I may want, which sucks, but would only make everything more complicated.
“Put your face shield on and come on,” I say to him. I grab two of the bats, offering one to Nash as I head for the room. At first, I’m not even sure if he’ll follow me. Honestly, if he had done to me what I just did to him, I wouldn’t want to be in the same building as him. That just goes to show what a good person he is, warrants for his arrest aside. And while I know this place will by no means make it up to him, hopefully it’ll be a place that Nash can focus some of his anger before we sit down and talk.
“What the fuck is this place?” Nash says from behind me.
Rather than explain it to him with more words, I demonstrate by raising my bat to my shoulder and then swinging it into a chipped vase, sending shattered pieces everywhere.
“Seriously?” he asks.
“Yep. We can break everything in this room.”
“Fuck yes,” he mutters before he tees off, sending a wine glass flying across the room where it smashes against the opposite wall. And once he gets started, there’s no stopping him. I step back to the corner and watch as Nash pummels everything in sight.
After about five minutes, he even starts shouting over the rock music coming through the speakers, destroying items with each and every word.
“She’s getting married?” Smash, smash, smash. “Again?” Smash. “To that fucker?” Smash, smash, smash. “That.” Smash. “Bitch.” Smash.
I don’t say anything, just watch him. Too bad we have to wear clothes, because I would’ve loved to see all the muscles in Nash’s upper body flexing as he goes through the room like a beautiful, angry wrecking ball.
When there’s nothing left in big enough pieces to strike, Nash lowers his bat to his side and looks at me. “Now what?” he asks, his chest rising and falling with his panting breaths, reminding me of earlier when we kissed. Jeez, that seems like another lifetime ago.
“Now
