Cowgirls Don't Cry(117)

He’d taken off his shirt to inflict the most possible damage to his body. His neck and chest and abs were coated with a mixture of sweat and blood. When Jessie found the guts to look at his face, she couldn’t withhold a gasp. His hair was plastered to his head. His face was bright red, the muscles in his jaw flexed with every punch he threw. The veins in his neck bulged to the point she could see his pulse pounding. His forehead and cheeks and chin were wet, but she couldn’t tell if it was from sweat or tears. But it was his eyes that stopped her. She recognized the rage and grief. She didn’t recognize the feral light that made him look like a wild animal, incapable of rational thought.

He’s hurting himself. Stop him.

But Jessie was frozen in that place between logic and fear. What if she stepped in and he was so far gone he somehow hurt her? Without knowing what he was doing? Brandt would never forgive himself.

Can you forgive yourself if he has an aneurysm and you stood by and let it happen?

No. That snapped her out of her trance, watching Brandt beat the heavy bag and himself to a pulp.

“Brandt.”


No response.

She said it louder. “Brandt.”


Still no response.

Jessie moved closer. “Brandt. Stop. You’re hurting yourself.”


Without missing a punch, he said, “Go away. You don’t want to be around me right now.”


Left punch, right punch, left jab, right jab. She stood there long enough to memorize the pattern. Her gut tightened into a knot when she noticed the skin peeling back from his knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere. Talk to me.”


He grunted and nailed the heavy bag harder. “Get the f*ck out of here, Jessie. Now.”


“Why should I leave?”


“Because I’m pissed off.”


“You think I haven’t dealt with a pissed off man before?”


“Not like me. Never when I’m like this.”


“So? I can handle—”


“I’m not Landon, throwing a little boy tantrum.”


“You sure?” she shot back.

“Don’t f*ckin’ push me.”


“Don’t f*ckin’ shut me out.”


Brandt made a roaring noise and started whacking his forearms into the bag. Left, right, left, right each blow harder than the last. His need to grit his teeth to deal with the new pain he was imposing upon himself was the last straw.

Jessie lost it. Angry tears, frustrated tears, scared tears all poured out at once and she screamed at him, pulling the canvas bag away from him. “Goddammit Brandt, stop! Stop it! You’re hurting yourself. You’re hurting yourself and it’s killing me. My God. Please. Just stop.”


The flying arms slowed, then stopped. Brandt leaned forward, chest heaving with every ragged breath, his body shaking as he rested his forehead to the heavy bag and wrapped his arms around it to keep himself upright.

She stumbled behind him, pressing her face into his sweaty back, molding her body to his. Holding him as he vibrated with rage, holding him as he bled, trying to hold them both together.

Brandt’s voice was a whisper of pain. “I hate him. I f*cking hate him. I never…” His voice broke and once again they were locked in hellish silence. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”


Jessie understood him not wanting to show weakness to others, but she thought they’d gone beyond that. “So why did you come here, Brandt? To my house?”