Page 28 of Heimlock

The one thing that makes it worth it is picking up gossip for amusement.

Today’s no exception. After a dozen boring fares, I’m rewarded with a wild tale of failure.

The fare is a male Orc wearing a pristine chef’s outfit, looking a little too green for my liking. Having people puke in my seating saddle is always a nuisance. He climbs up on shaky legs, barely casting me a glance as he provides the address.

He’s ranting into the phone held to his pointed ear, sounding desperate. “You need to ask them to reschedule. It was an absolute fucking debacle, Democles. Mid-presentation, I almost shit myself. I don’t know what happened, but none of them are willing to invest now.”

I nearly choke on smoke. The visual of an Orc chef shitting his pants is almost too amusing to contain my laugh.

“I need those investors! My restaurant is going to shut down otherwise.” A pause, then, “I didn’t eat anything out of the ordinary, but it was definitely food poisoning.” He snarls with frustration. “Never in my whole life has something like that happened. You need to explain to them that I will not shit in customer’s food, like that goddess-damned Vampyre fuck implied.”

Unfortunately, I can’t hold back my laugh. This form can’t fully laugh, so it comes out sounding like two boulders grated together.

The Orc stops speaking mid-sentence. “Is there something funny, Dragon?”

Not at all. A bug flew into my nostril.

“Uh huh. Mind your own fucking business before I mind it for you.”

Brave words toward a creature that could swallow him in two bites. At least he recognized I’m sentient. Thankfully, I learned years ago how to clamp down my irritations and let people think they’ve won.

Understood.

The Orc hangs up shortly after, presumably fuming in silence. When I land in front of an apartment complex, he hops off and points a sausage-thick finger at me. “Say a word and I’ll report you to your boss.”

Okay, that’s taking it a little far. My Dragon pride can’t let him get away with this silly threat. I’m a fucking Dragon, for goddess sake. My long neck bends so I can look him in the eye. When I snap my jaw, he flinches.

I am the boss. So, best of luck. Why don’t you go change your pants?

His purple eyes light up with fury, and he stomps off without paying. Normally, I’d chase him down, but I allow him the tantrum. He’s spoiling for a fight, and it pisses me off that I can’t give it to him.

Heading back to headquarters, I request being unsaddled and stalk into my office. Frustration hums under my skin, making it hard to think. When I sit at my desk, the urge to move hits immediately. For a split second, I consider going home to play video games. But there’s simply no way I can sit still right now.

The solution is the battle gym.

After informing Fynn where I’m going, I speed through the skies, eager to punch something repeatedly.

Landing in front of the battle gym, I shift back and storm to the front door. Yanking it open, I scan the inside for a tangerine head of hair.

Exhaling when the coast is clear, I walk inside to my locker. I pull out wraps, gloves, and my water bottle. The gloves are for show — what I crave are split knuckles. Pain will be a welcome distraction.

Once I’m in the main training area, I find an empty punching bag. Ripping off my shirt, I toss it onto the ground. Barely taking the time to wrap my knuckles, I eye the punching bag like it has a red scaled face topped with blue hair.

The first slam of my fist ricochets up my shoulder. Gritting my teeth, I focus on my form as I engage my imagination.

The older I get, the worse everything becomes. Anger isn’t intended to fester; if allowed, it rots into hate. Inside of me is so much hate, so much fury, I don’t think even Orliana — a talented Siphon who can alter emotions — can remove it all. At this point, it’s a permanent resident, fed by loneliness, shame, and fear.

With each thrust of my arm, it whispers more!

When one knuckle splits, I grin. Adrenaline amps up my strength. Again and again, I treat this punching bag like it’s my father’s face. Maybe it’s a cop out, but it’s easy to blame him for everything wrong in my life. The fear of relationships. My seemingly innate ability to find women who don't want anything serious. Creating my instinct to bolt if they do. During sex, I can barely stand their touch.

I’m a broken, bitter man.

A part of me hopes that one day everything will click into place, and voilà! I’m healed.

The other part of me knows damn well that’s not how it works.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Life has clubbed me over the head so many times, there’s only one truth: every disappointment, failure, and hurt is my destiny.