Page 61 of Quiet Obsession
Stealing a glance at Millie, I imagine, not for the first time, what Evan looks like. I have nothing to go by save for a few details from Hyde. Rich boy, hockey player, both parents are lawyers. I honed the image, borrowing from teen college movies. A stereotypical hunk. The popular kid in a varsity jacket, shades pushed high into his beach-blond hair.
I ram my fist into the bag over and over until sweat breaks out across my back and blood stains the white wraps.Millie’s panting beside me, chest heaving, sweat glistening in the valley between her breasts, her wraps as bloody as mine.
I drop my fists and catch her bag, calling a break.
She collapses onto the bench, pulling two bottles of water from her bag. She hands me one and I drink half, then splash the other half over my head, shaking it off.
Millie yelps, shuddering all over as water droplets hit her skin. Her hand flies over her mouth, mortified that she made a sound.
Pumped by my murderous thoughts, her reaction only boils my blood further. She said my name yesterday. I’d hoped for more words today.Hi,yes,no.
Eli. Eli. Eli.
I blew my load all over my stomach, recalling how my name sounded on her lips... soft, quiet, fucking perfect.
And now she’s mute again and it grates twice as badly.
“You’re starting to really piss me off,” I grit out, dropping the empty bottle in the nearest trash can. “You speak to Hyde, Noah, Dash, Abby... but not me. What’s that about?”
She starts tearing the label off her bottle.
“What the fuck are you punishing me for, Millie?”
Her eyes snap to mine, confusion and a hint of nerves clouding her features. She pinches her lips and swallows hard, then lets out a shallow, shaky breath. She holds my gaze, refusing to give me anything. Not even a fucking gesture.
It’s clear she won’t speak, so I grab my t-shirt and pull it over my head. Normally, I’d stay another hour, alternate between proper exercise, weightlifting, running, and throwingmy fists, but this space is too suffocating for us both.
I don’t even bother unwrapping my wrists. I’m in a rush to get the fuck out of here as I sling my gym bag over my shoulder.
“I’m here every morning from five-thirty to six-thirty. Unless you want to explain what I’ve done to deserve this silent treatment, make sure you’renothere.”
I don’t wait for anything else. It’s not like she’ll talk to me. Something unpleasant coils in my chest as I move toward the exit, every step beating loudly against the floor.
Before I push the double door open, the sound of her small fists ramming against the bag reaches my ears.
I make the mistake of looking back. She’s throwing punches like she’s deranged, posture and stance forgotten, chin trembling.
She’ll fucking hurt herself.
Growling under my breath, I turn around, crowd her back, and grab her wrists before she throws another punch.
“Stance,” I say, kicking her feet apart. “Elbows in.” I uncurl her fist and curl it the right way. “Thumboutor you’ll fuck it up. I don’t give a shit how pissed off, sad, or overwhelmed you are.Thinkbefore you throw your hands.”
Shaking me off, she spins and slams her open palms against my chest, tears dancing in her eyes, anger twisting her features.
She’s a mess.
From smiling to fuming to crying and murderous.
I can’t keep up. I doubtshecan, either, but I won’t justfucking stand here and take it. Grasping her arms, I forcefully turn her back toward the bag.
“You’re not using meas your outlet, Millie.”
I crowd her further, my back flush to her chest, the top of her head level with my collarbones. I curl my fists around hers and guide her hands, throwing punches. My fists thud against the leather with much more force than hers did, but she doesn’t stop me. I do, afraid I’ll crush her delicate bones.
“Hit it,” I clip. “Harder.”
She rams her right hook into the leather.
