21. Sage

Some people compare rage to a spectrum of colors.

Seeing red.

Everything going black.

For me, it's none of those things. It's clarity.

It's purpose.

After I decided not to patch in, I set a part of myself aside. I buried my past and pretended I could reincarnate myself. I made everything so blurry I wouldn't have to look at it straight.

Drugs, booze, the revolving door of women. I drowned myself in things I didn't give a shit about so I wouldn't have to remember why I was doing it.

I was surviving, even if I was always just beneath the surface staring up at the sky through the murky lens of the water.

But as only Lyla can, she reached in and pulled me from the ocean. She cleared my vision and reminded me what I've been running from.

Seeing Ellie's body didn't mean I processed why Lyla walked out the door. I was selfish, and all I could think about was the fact that she didn't trust me enough to let me protect her. I wanted to think Ellie was the only one affected in any tangible way.

Because I'm a fucking idiot.

I didn't want to think about the fact that Lyla watched her sister die—watched her get tortured. That she probably wasn't the only one. And it didn't matter if I could protect her from future physical pain, I hadn't saved her from that moment.

I couldn't erase it from her mind.

I've been lying to myself because it's easier that way. But those two jagged scars down Lyla's back where they removed her wings woke me the fuck up.

It turns out my rage wasn't gone; I'd just buried it under enough dirt so I wouldn't have to look at it. And now I'm seeing clearly.

I strike the punching bag with enough force that it splits my knuckle open. I should have wrapped my hands, but I need to feel anything right now that isn't whatever is clawing around inside me.

Last night, Lyla cried herself to sleep in my arms on the couch.

She isn't someone who cried often as a kid because she preferred pretending shit didn't impact her. But something happened as she sat in front of me last night. She split down the middle. Those violet eyes of hers became puddles, and they leaked with everything she's been holding back since the last time I saw her.

She melted the hate bubbling inside, and I couldn't help wrapping myself around her. Knowing nothing would heal her wounds, and nothing could erase her scars. But my hands tried. They stroked her marred skin, and I wanted to wipe the hurt away.

I wanted nothing more than to take us back in time. I wanted to believe in God or her tarot cards or whatever could purify our sins. I wanted faith to be an actual cure. I wanted the answers that don't exist.

Instead, I sat there knowing my arms couldn't fix her. They could only hold her and be the walls keeping the demons out while she shook and sobbed and ripped open. I hugged her against my chest—the only girl I've ever cared about—and she soaked my shirt until she stopped crying. Until there was nothing but silence between her breaths. Until she fell asleep, and I carried her to her room.

If it wouldn't have woken her up, I would have screamed at the top of my fucking lungs when I shut her door. I would have thrown the furniture across the apartment. Done something—anything—to let out what I was feeling.

But she needed sleep, so I climbed in the shower instead. I stood under the water until it went from scalding hot to ice cold. And even then, I stood.

I thought about all the ways I've failed Lyla in her life, when I was the one who was supposed to look out for her.

I failed.

Snapping out of my thoughts, my vision once more focuses on the punching bag in front of me. It swings away with my hit and then slowly rotates back. My fist connects, and I paint it red.

Hit after hit.

After hit.

Until I can't feel my fingers—my fists. I can't see anything but the people who hurt Lyla. And I wish I could raise them from the dead just to make them suffer all over again.

Landing a solid hit on the bag, it burns, but I see clearly now. The pain stings so deeply, I embrace it.

I'm going to help Kane find out who is after Lyla—who played a role in killing her sister—once and for all. I'm going to make up for where I've failed. And if Lyla still wants to walk away once it's done, I won't blame her.

My hands ache as I grab the bag and steady it. Sweat drips down my face and chest, and my heart hammers so loud I can't hear myself think. The room is pulsing around me.

I don't know how long I've been here, just that it was dark when I walked in and now the sun is streaming across the worn punching bag.

"Thought we were meeting up at ten." Jude and Crew walk into the gym and drop their bags onto the bench near mine.

Ever since Crew told us about his ownership position in the underground fighting rings we take part in, he's been letting us use the gym whenever we like. It's empty. Quiet. Nice.

"Needed some space to think." I walk over to my water bottle and take a drink, blood drips from my knuckle to my arm when I do.

"Looks like my kind of thinking." Crew stops at my side, glancing at the split skin on my hand. "Pain therapy."

"You're fucked up, you know that?" I toss my water bottle into my bag, but he just shrugs.

Crew is known for his antics in the ring. I've never met anyone with such a high pain tolerance, and he can take a punch as well as he can dish one. Once Crew stood there and let a guy get four solid hits in before he broke his jaw and painted the ring with his blood just for the fun of it.

If I'm a twisted fuck, Crew is straight-up sadistic.

I didn't think he had a soft side at all until he finally admitted his feelings for Echo. But even if he's a punk when it comes to her, she's the only one he shows that side of himself to.

"What's going on, man?" Jude looks from me to the bag, which is splattered in blood. "This isn't like you."

I enjoy fighting as much as the next guy. Between that and fucking, they're the only two things that help me regulate my aggression. But usually, it's an escape. It's just for fun. Unlike right now, when I'm mentally snapping and not hiding it as well as I'd like.

"Things are just fucking with my head." I drop down onto the bench and wrap my hand in a towel.

"Since when did you start thinking with your head?" Crew smirks. "At least, the one above the belt?"

"Fuck you," I tell him.

But Crew just laughs, even as Jude shoots him a glare.

Fel must be getting to Jude because he's never been one to care about anyone but himself. But lately, it feels like he's constantly bothering me about what's going on.

"Let me guess." Jude glances at me. "Lyla?"

Fucking Lyla. Of course it's her. She's been the center of my universe as far back as it's worth remembering.

Jude passes a glance at Crew. I haven't said much to either of them about the fact that she's back. And even when she was around back in the day, Jude only knew what little I was willing to tell him. He doesn't know she was it for me, just that I was a different person after she left.

"I never really told you why she left town." I lean back, taking a breath. "Some guys were after Kane, and shit went south. They took Lyla and her sister to settle the score. I didn't even know she was gone until after we found her because she'd been mad at me for being an idiot."

"I remember that," Jude says.

After all, he was the one pouring me shots while I bitched about her nonstop.

"When we found ‘em, her sister was dead. And Lyla was just…" I wipe my hand over my face. "We were all fucked after that."

Jude drops onto the bench across from me. "That's the night your dad died, right?"

"Yeah." I nod. "All because I let Lyla go. I should have kept her there, made sure she was okay. But she just looked at me with that broken fucking stare, and I don't know… I lost my mind."

Standing up, I walk over to the bag and punch it again.

"Fuck!" I yell.

Crew walks over to me and plants a hand on my shoulder. I let out a breath and tip my head to the bag, steadying it.

"I couldn't make her stay even if I wanted to." Turning, I face Crew and Jude, who are both watching me. "And I really fucking wanted to."

"Sometimes people need to walk away," Jude says.

He would know better than anyone. After all, he left Fel, knowing she was the love of his life because they were both so broken, they needed time to sort out their shit before they could make it work.

"Besides"—Crew shakes my shoulder—"she's back now, right?"

Back.

Broken.

Hurt.

I don't even know where to start picking up the pieces of what we were.

"The shit she went through…" I swallow hard. "I didn't realize how bad it was. I don't know how to fix it."

"Yeah, you do." Jude stands up, walking until he's stopped in front of me. "You slaughter the assholes who did that to her, and you figure your shit out so you can move the fuck on. And then, when it's all done and buried, you don't fuck it up a second time."

"That simple?"

He smirks. "That simple."

"Thanks." I shake my head.

Jude shrugs. He's a dick of a friend sometimes, but at least he's not scared to tell me how it is.

Besides, he's right. There's only one thing I can do to make up for the time I've lost, and that's to get the revenge I should have gotten for Lyla eight years ago.

Once I do, I'll figure out how to handle the rest.

"All right, are we still gossiping and talking about our feelings, or are we going to hit something?" Crew rips his Avenged Sevenfold T-shirt off and strikes the punching bag dead in the center.

"You're complaining about us talking about our feelings?"

"Seriously." I hit Crew on the arm. "Like you weren't all emo about Echo dating your brother. Just because you've got her now doesn't mean I've forgotten all that shit."

"Careful." He glares at me, hitting the bag harder this time. "Besides, I'm not the fuckboy, Sage. You being hung up on a chick has got to be a miracle."

"You think this is bad, you should have seen him back then." Jude holds the bag for Crew as he hits it again. "Dude was fucking whipped."

"You guys done now?"

"Done?" Jude's eyebrows pinch as he looks at Crew.

Crew grins. "Fuck no."

With each hit, they continue to call me a whipped punk, like either of them is allowed to talk given how they are with their girls. But at least it's entertaining, and it helps me focus. It helps me get out of my head.

Because what neither of them seems to realize is that my smiles and jokes are a mask for a darkness I haven't let myself embrace since Lyla left.

And now, I'm going to use it. I've got her back, and I'm not losing her again.