Page 32 of Unhitched

Chapter eighteen

Kace

Quietly pushing open the door to my apartment, my senses are hit with the smell of bread and butter. “Oh, hey,” I greet Mya as the kitchen comes into view. I’m surprised she’s awake. “You’re up early.”

She spins in her fuzzy sock-covered feet to face me, in nothing else but an oversized tee, and for my sake I’m pretending she has shorts on under it. “I couldn’t sleep. I thought I’d make you breakfast for after your workout.”

She turns back to the stove, and I move behind her, looking over her shoulder. “What are you making?”

“Eggs in a frame,” she tells me, cracking an egg into a circular cut out of a buttered slice of toast.

I scrunch my brows. “That’s not what that is.”

After cracking another egg into a second piece of toast, she faces me again, her brows furrowed. “What is it then?”

“Toad in a hole.”

She chuckles. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

I shrug. “Doesn’t matter. That’s what it’s called.”

“Agree to disagree.” She grins. “What matters more is if you like it. ”

“It's bread, butter and eggs. What’s not to like?”

“Exactly.” Using a spatula, she flips both of the slices of bread to crisp the other side. “I’m hoping to butter you up. Get it?” She laughs at her own joke.

I shake my head, amused. I’m still not feeling great after our disagreement yesterday, but I’m trying really fucking hard not to let my internal rage make an appearance in the real world. It doesn’t do anyone any fucking good. “What do you need?”

“I was wondering if you’re free after work? There’s something I want to take you to do.” She slides the two slices of perfectly golden Toad in a Hole onto a plate and hands it to me.

I take it from her and move to the breakfast bar. “Thank you. What do you want to do?”

“You’ll feel better if you know, huh?” She uses the lip of a glass to cut out a hole in two new pieces of bread.

Maybe she is paying attention more than I give her credit for. “Yeah.” I cut into my breakfast with a fork, the yolk oozing out. Damn, she cooked this perfectly.

“I want to go to a smash room. Have you been?”

I finish my bite. “A what?”

She places the toast in the pan and reaches for an egg from the carton beside her.

“A smash room. It’s basically what it sounds like.

A room where you smash things. I read this article about how it can provide a short-term outlet for anger.

” I pause my chewing to stare at her, not knowing if I should be offended.

Her demeanor immediately shifts to insecurity.

“I was thinking… I don’t know. Maybe it’s dumb.

I thought it might help you release some tension. ”

I waffle over the idea. I’m sure this isn’t a great long-term solution. It seems it would encourage aggression as a coping mechanism. But as a one-time thing? I could see how it might be beneficial. “Alright.” I direct my gaze back to my breakfast and dive in for another bite.

“Yeah?!” I might not be looking at her, but I can sense her excitement.

“Sure. I can probably be done with my work by four today.”

She claps her hands, and it’s fucking cute. “Perfect. I’ll make a reservation.”

A reservation? My eyes widen, tempted to be impressed. “Have you ever made a reservation before?” I arch a brow.

“Shut up.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m doing this for you.” She flips her breakfast in the pan.

“Hey.” I wait until she looks up. “Thank you.” Surprises have always been such a deterrent for me, but this reservation gives me time to be excited about another method of stress relief besides my workouts, and it’s refreshing.

She gives me a half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

Pulling on the metal handle of the warehouse door, I hold it open for Mya to walk through before me.

I hate Portland enough as it is, and we’re in one of the more sketchy parts of town.

Considering the giant black business sign says “Rage Room” with a glowing blood red light behind it, it feels appropriate.

Once the door closes behind us, we both scan the space and approach the check-in desk. A woman around our age greets us, looking terrifyingly similar to Kim Possible.

“We’re here to check in,” Mya says, peppy as ever. “It should be under Mya Holloway.”

“Yes, perfect. I’ve got you right here,” the woman says. “Have either of you been here before?”

“Nope!” Mya answers for both of us.

“Alright, let’s go over the rules then.” She reaches behind her to a shelf with stacked bundles of white fabric.

“Here are your jumpsuits. You’ll have to wear them the entire time you’re in there.

” Mya and I each take one from her. Next, she hands us each a clear plastic face shield.

“Please wear these whenever anything is being smashed. We have a camera in the room to make sure you’re being safe.

” She nods toward a screen that’s divided into six boxes, each with a view of a different room.

She goes over a few other rules which mostly consist of different versions of, “Be smart, be careful, don’t hurt anyone, and be aware of your surroundings.”

“Here’s the waiver.” She hands each of us a single-sided form that looks more like a contract. Mya takes her copy and signs it without reading a single line. I stare blankly at her. This girl.

She must feel my gaze because she glances up once she draws a heart connected to the swoop of the “y” in her last name. “What?”

“You’re not going to read that?”

“Nope.” She shrugs. “She went over the rules with us.”

“Why do I get the feeling you don’t read any fine print?”

“It’s boring and usually confusing. I call my dad if I think it’s important and have him translate for me.

That’s what dads are for.” She grins, and I feel a twinge of jealousy over the relationship she seems to have with her parents.

I can’t remember the last time I asked my parents for help with anything.

I took AP math and science classes in high school, and to them it might as well have been a foreign language.

When I got accepted to James Madison University in Virginia–which meant leaving home for the first time–I didn’t feel like I could ask them for help.

I applied to scholarships and grants daily until my eyes would burn from staring at the computer screen. Ever since, I’ve only relied on myself.

I hold my gaze on her until she nods toward my paper. “You going to sign that or what?”

Glancing at the waiver, I start at the first line, reading the entire thing. She doesn’t tease me, but it takes longer than it typically would with her eyes on me the entire time. I scribble my signature and hand it over.

“Thank you,” the woman says, slipping both forms onto a neat stack on the corner of the check-in desk. “Last thing. What music would you guys prefer?”

Mya looks at me. “You choose.”

I shuffle through my favorite rage music in my mind. “Suicide Silence?”

The woman looks at Mya for confirmation. She gives a pointed nod with a grin. “You heard the man.”

She queues up a playlist, and we thank her before following her directions to our room.

This warehouse looks like it’s been divided into the six rooms by makeshift walls.

They look stable enough, but they don’t extend all the way to the vaulted ceilings.

I can hear muffled music overlapping each other in the connected rooms. I can barely make out a weapon smashing into glass over the sound of an Ed Sheeran breakup song in the space next to ours.

Closing the door behind us, I take in the space.

Fluorescent lights hang from the high beams, illuminating the rooms and the piping above us.

The room is fairly small–the size of my living room maybe.

Along the back wall, there’s a trough full of broken glass and technology.

A metal pole sticks up from the middle of the floor, with a platform soldered to it that's just big enough to hold a glass bottle–designed to hit it like a baseball off of a T-ball stand.

On the floor to the right of the stand is a TV monitor.

It’s at least a fifty-five inch screen. To the left is an old school computer tower, and on the wall behind us is one bucket full of glasses and another full of tools–an ax, a baseball bat, a crowbar and a mallet.

The walls were originally painted black, but it’s chipping away in the places not covered by graffiti.

None of it is done by a professional, so it's mostly overlapping images and words that are hard to make out.

They must let people bring spray paint in here .

Mya finishes taking in the room around the same time I do. She unfolds the plain white jumpsuit, unzipping it and stepping inside the nylon outfit. I do the same, and reach for my face shield. Anticipation thrums inside my chest.

Mya tugs her own shield in place, the band secured around the back of her head, leaving her blonde waves the only part of her exposed. “I feel like Dexter about to do a blood spatter analysis.”

I chuckle. “You’re much cuter than Dexter.” She beams at the compliment, but right as she’s about to respond, the intro to “You Only Live Once” blares over the speakers.

“Ladies first!” I yell over the deathcore and gesture toward the weapons bucket.

Mya takes a look and pulls the metal bat from where it’s wedged between the mallet and the crowbar.

She picks a glass bottle from the bucket next to it and places it on the stand.

Glancing over her shoulder, she makes sure I’m out of striking range, then steps up to the tee like she’s actually playing baseball.

Without any more leadup, she swings. The bat smashes into the glass, and it all happens too quickly to tell if it shatters on collision with the bat or the wall above the trough. Fragments of glass splinter against the wood and clank against the broken bottles from the previous groups.

Mya glances at me, the biggest smile on her face. I can’t help but crack a grin. “Did you see that?!” she screams over the music, like there was any chance I didn’t see.

“Yeah, you crushed it,” I yell back.

She grins wider at the double meaning, and I love how easy she is to please. The smallest words and gestures bring her joy, and while it makes it easy to keep things peaceful between us, it could also be a dangerous line to tread.

“It felt so good. Like an adult version of Kick the Can.”

I grin at the throwback.

“Your turn,” she adds, stepping to the back corner of the room and motioning to the bucket of weapons.