“You should try it.” She shot him a knowing look.
Tommy waved a hand. “That’s okay,” he said. “I’m good.”
She peered at him so intently he cringed. “I’m guessing you accepted the beer not just out of politeness but to also take off some of the edge from what’s turning out to be kind of a messed-up day.”
He shrugged. She might be right, but he was under no obligation to admit it.
“Are you actually going to pretend you’re not angry at me for hijacking your Rolling Stone interview?”
He turned on her.
“The interview was real. I simply got lucky and decided to take advantage of an opportunity that was presented to me.”
His mind raced to catch up with her words. “I stood up Rolling Stone magazine?”
She handed him a bat and took a step back.
He gripped the handle and glared. “You sure you want to give me this right after admitting that?”
She lifted her shoulders. “People always have the capacity to surprise.”
Their eyes met.
“Go ahead,” she urged. “Show me how mad I’ve made you.”
Tommy pressed his lips together and tightened his grip. He really was mad. Actually he was angry in a way words could never express. Once she’d confirmed her true identity, he assumed the interview was faked too. Discovering it wasn’t left him enraged, and there was no telling how Malina might react.
His shoulders tensed. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Madison’s face. She looked pale, fragile, tragic, and vulnerable. But in her gaze, he caught a glimmer of unmistakable excitement.
Facing the padded wall, he swung the bat so hard a loud whack reverberated throughout the room. His biceps juddered in response, and his pulse raced as a rush of endorphins coursed through him. He longed to do it again, but with Madison watching, he lowered the bat to his side. “This is fun and all, but we need to talk. You have a lot to explain.”
“I do,” she agreed. “But not until you’ve worked through your anger. C’mon,” she chided. “I know you can do better than that. What’re you so afraid of, Tommy? This isn’t just a rage room. It’s a safe room.”
Tommy hesitated, torn between looking foolish and smacking the hell out of that wall until he felt better. He closed his eyes, squared his shoulders, and widened his stance. The first swing had felt good, the second even better.
He swung again. And again. He swung for Detective Larsen, the paparazzi, for the faceless douche who’d slashed his car tires. He swung for every hater who’d sent a death threat. He swung for Trena Moretti, who dragged his name through the mud in a bid for higher ratings. He even swung for Layla because he liked her, and she drove him crazy in ways both good and bad. And because deep down inside, he knew they’d probably blow up before they could even try to make it work. He swung for Ira Redman, his piece-of-shit father. And he kept on swinging until he’d swung so many times he could no longer remember what he was swinging for or how he even got there.
Exhausted, he dropped the bat to the ground and turned to face Madison. His face sheened with sweat, his shoulder throbbed in a raging dull ache. Still, he felt more alive than he had in ages.
Madison pushed away from the wall and slowly walked toward him. “You have no idea how beautiful that was.” Her eyes glimmered. “One of the most authentic displays I’ve seen in a while.” She moved so close there was merely a hand’s width between them. “How do you feel?”
Tommy’s gaze rested on hers. “Good,” he said, his voice hoarse as he fought to steady his breath.
“Good, like spent? Like you let it all out? Or is there a part of you that still wants to throttle me?”
He nodded toward the row of paddles. “What are those for?”
Madison’s violet eyes flashed, and her grin grew wider. “I thought you’d never ask.”
TWENTY-THREE
HEY, JEALOUSY
Layla spotted Tommy’s car in the drive and stared dumb-founded at the sight.
What the hell was Tommy Phillips doing at Madison Brooks’s secret address?
Just how long had he known Madison was alive?