Page 33 of Unhitched

Chapter nineteen

Mya

What a rush. I eye the computer tower in front of me.

I can’t wait until we start smashing technology.

I’m not one for violence, but when I saw a review online about how someone felt like their negative energy was transferred straight from their body to whatever they were smashing, I wanted to try it myself.

I use the book The Energy Bus as my bible, and for the most part, it helps me keep energy vampires at bay.

Though I do think this could help the extra frustrations I’ve felt lately, I think Kace needs this even more.

I know he works out daily, but since we met, I feel like his tension and bad vibes have been compounding inside him.

If this doesn’t work, I am not opposed to getting him a Pez dispenser filled with Xanax.

He glances into the weapons bucket, his eyes scanning the options before he reaches for the crowbar. Turning toward the next bucket, he plucks out a bottle and sets it on the tee.

There was something so thrilling about the way smashing glass to smithereens vibrates through the bat and your body–something so satisfying about hearing and watching it shatter in a way it can never recover from.

Normally it would be upsetting to see anything break, especially to the point of not being able to fix it.

But, when the point is to break it, it soothes my recent anxiety.

I wonder if I’ll feel this way when I get more into my business.

I felt a similar thrill when Olivia texted me after her event last night, gushing about the success of our plan.

This music on the other hand… I’m not sure if it's just a far cry from what I listen to or a cry for help. Either way, it's angry .

Chills shoot down my spine as Kace smashes his glass so hard that the crowbar seems to go straight through the target for a moment before it flies toward the wall. Even over the beat of the music, the intensity of his hit sends a vibration through the tee, the floor and me .

He flashes his gaze my way to let me know it’s my turn, and I swear his eyes are red.

God, I hope this helps him not be so uptight all the time.

I take my turn, smashing another glass. He does the same.

We alternate back and forth, picking up speed as we cycle through our props.

The playlist provides a steady intensity that Kace continues to match.

When the bucket is empty, I turn to Kace.

“Ready for the finale?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

He stares a beat, his eyes darkening. “Don’t call me that.”

Staring back, I debate my retort. If I don’t put myself out there, I might never get a chance.

He’s told me we won’t ever date and rejected my kiss, but he’s also made it clear that he thinks I’m cute, so maybe I should make my thoughts clear too.

“I would have said, ‘Yes, Daddy,’ but that seems inappropriate for someone I would sleep with.” Kace’s eyes widen, and my every muscle tenses with his shock.

I roll my lips together, giving me a second to decide on my reaction.

I shrug. “I blame the adrenaline for that outburst.”

“Uh huh.” He smirks. The way the words flow from his lips, I’m convinced he’s feeling a little lighter–or at the very least, let that confession slide. He holds his crowbar to me, offering a trade. I hand over the bat, and after he makes sure I’m out of the way, he proves me wrong.

He must be feeling anything but lighter as he swings the bat, smashing it straight down on top of the standing TV.

It’s so sturdy that it hardly dents, and the effect of that is clearly seen in the way Kace curses, shaking out his shoulders.

I expect him to take a break, but he takes another swing.

This time, instead of striking down, he swings like he’d hit a baseball, directly at the screen.

A crater forms at the point of contact like it was struck by an asteroid, and the glass splinters like a spiderweb in every direction.

Watching his frustration loosen feels like an invasion of privacy.

He’s too in the zone to notice my staring, but in case he does, I give him space.

Firmly gripping the crowbar, I swing it at the computer tower.

The outer layer of plastic cracks, a few pieces flying in erratic directions. Oh my Lanta , this is satisfying.

I take another swing, my elbows jolting when the crowbar gets wedged perfectly in the CD slot.

An electric shock pain shoots through me like when I hit my funny bone.

Despite my tingly hands, I yank on my weapon, tugging it loose.

Shaking out my arms, I wait until the pain subsides and strike again.

After a few more hits, the casing of the tower is completely destroyed, revealing the inner workings of the computer.

Without its protective skin, the bits and pieces of the brain splinter off at an alarming rate, green and gray metal breaking off in chunks.

Out of breath, and already sore from such a different type of workout, I shake my muscles out and refocus on Kace, where his TV hardly resembles one anymore. He glances up and surveys my space. “You done?” he yells, and it feels louder because it hits right as a song ends.

“Yeah, but we have a few more minutes. You don’t have to stop.”

He shakes his head. “I’m good. ”

The next song starts, a harsh voice filling the air, hardly understandable paired with the guitar and drums. I meet him in front of the weapons bucket, dropping the crowbar into the orange plastic.

Kace glances just quickly enough to line up his bat with the bucket, and then brings his gaze to me as he drops it. He steps closer, invading my space. My heart pounds against my chest, and I’m not sure if it’s the thrill of the smash room, the vibration of the music, or my proximity to Kace.

I take off my face shield, my hand accidentally brushing against his jumpsuit-covered stomach. My heart rate doubles as he pulls his own shield off, never once taking his eyes off me.

“Thank you,” he says. His eyes flash to my lips. It’s unmistakable, and my stomach flips.

I inch forward on pure adrenaline and lust, close enough to feel his warm breath on my face. “You’re welcome,” I whisper. There’s no way he heard it over the music, but I can hardly breathe as it is.

The music pulses through my veins, a tingle flickering across my skin as my thoughts take off in a million directions before they focus on one.

All I can see is Kat Stratford and Patrick Verona in a paintball war, tumbling over–him brushing paint off her cheek before kissing her. I want Kace to kiss me like that.

He stares at me with an intensity that almost feels uncomfortable, pupils surrounded by black speckles mixed into a deep whiskey color that feels like they’re casting a permanent mark on my soul.

I lean in, ninety percent, waiting for him to commit to the other ten, like Will Smith says.

But he doesn’t touch my face.

And he doesn’t kiss me.

Instead, he clears his throat. “Our time is probably up.” My shoulders slack with frustration, and I swear he looks guilty. But it doesn’t matter. Whether he feels guilty or not, the rejection stings as bad as the first time.

“Yeah.” I nod. “It probably is.”