Hard as You Can by Laura Kaye Page B

turned, and chucked them at him again. Hard.
    This time, Shane caught them before they made impact.
    “Look, I know a firearm is your first weapon of choice. But as I don’t need any more holes in my head, and I’d like to stay on this side of the great white beyond, you’re going to have to make do with the gloves. You need this, Shane. We need this. So could you just put the fucking gloves on already and stop being a pain in the ass?”
    “Right. I’m the pain in the ass,” he muttered, his hands making quick work of lacing up without really telling them to do it. Nick was right, though. Shane did need this. For a whole lotta reasons. But the other man was a few rounds shy of a full clip if he thought throwing a coupla punches would clear the debris field between them.
    The minute the second glove was secured, Nick was right in his face. “No holds barred.” He slammed his gloves on top of Shane’s, and Shane hammered right back.
    And then it was on.
    Shane threw the first punches, catching Nick in the jaw and the ribs, and blocked the uppercut aimed at his gut. Facing off again, Shane jabbed with his right, forcing Nick to cover himself in a way that exposed his left side—and the lingering injuries from his gunshot wounds that still gave him back problems. Shane jammed his knee into Nick’s side. The deep groan that erupted from his opponent’s throat tempted Shane’s guilt, but then he wasn’t the one who insisted on this, was he? And now that Nick had invited Shane’s lizard brain out to play, it liked their little game here too much to back down.
    Nick recovered quickly and came at him with a back kick that had broken ribs written all over it. Shane managed to rear back at the last possible second, but the action threw him off-balance, allowing Nick to take his feet out from under him. Shane slammed to the ground, his breath whooshing out and pain radiating up and down his spine. But even before gravity had all its fun, Shane was forcing his ass to move. He rolled and sprang to his feet, ignoring the dizziness that threatened.
    And it was a good goddamned thing he’d found his feet again.
    Because Nick was now full-on pissed off. He came at Shane like a freight train, swinging, kneeing, kicking. Nick’s fury fueled his own, and Shane gave every bit as good as he got. Body impacts, grunts, and the scuffs of shoes on concrete echoed around the cavernous space. Man, but Shane was going to be feeling this little dance for days.
    They circled, attacked, and retreated over and over, neither man holding the advantage for long. Nick clipped him in the mouth, and Shane felt the skin split and the metallic tang of blood on his tongue. So evenly matched, their fight turned into a war of attrition that threatened to go on and on. Exhaustion making his arms heavy and his responses slower, Shane used the memory of the train of unanswered calls and emails, each one leaving him feeling more alone and isolated, and found the will to keep going, keep fighting, keep exorcising the demons in his head that never let up for five fucking seconds.
    It was just . . . all . . . too . . . goddamned . . . much. Wham . His fist connected with Nick’s cheekbone like a sledgehammer. Nick’s head whipped to the side, and his whole body spun as if in slow motion.
    Nick caught himself just before he face-planted, though he stumbled until he crashed into the bench press.
    For a long moment, Nick braced his gloves against the leather-covered bench and seemed to gather himself. He rose and faced Shane, and it was clear from the stiffness and slowness of his movement that he was hurting.
    Shane didn’t take a lick of pleasure from that fact.
    Just the opposite.
    The sight of his best friend bloodied and injured at his own hands drained the fight from him. Becca was going to have both their asses in a sling when she saw that the nearly healed cut on Nick’s cheekbone was open again. The initial wound wasn’t Shane’s doing—that had