The Sleuth Will Set You Free - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Six

"No punching, not elbowing, no flipping, no chokeholds," Macey rattled off.  "No wrestling, no Wendowskis, and absolutely no shoulders of any sort."

"I've got it," Collins said.

But Macey just plowed through as if he hadn't said a word.  "No throwing, no backhanding, and if you even think about—"

"Listen," he said, cutting her off.  Macey didn't look like she appreciated this.  Not one bit. But she must've been feeling generous, because she spared his life.  "You're responsible for her.  I get it."

"I'm not sure you do, Mr. Collins," she hissed, taking that extra step closer.  She was shorter than him, but not by much, and whenever she stared someone down like that, it didn't matter how tall she was.  The person on the receiving end would always feel small. "For every one mark you leave on her, you get five from me, is that clear?"

"Due respect," he said, leaning in close.  "Only one person in this room holds any real threat to Morgan Goode, and it's not either of us."

The tape was rough against my skin as I wrapped it around my knuckles.  I felt their eyes fall on my back and I knew that this was another one of those conversations that I wasn't supposed to hear—more of those voices that people lowered for my sake.  But Collins was an idiot, and Macey was a newbie.  Between the two of them, they didn't stand a chance at going unheard.

Macey considered his words, nodded, and found a spot on the wall, pulling out her stolen copy of Vogue and starting where she left off.  Great.  Good to know that even the newbie agreed that I was falling apart.  There wasn't anything quite like having the whole world root against you.

But Collins had always been rooting against me, which was probably why it was so easy to let him.  Why I didn't hesitate before I stepped up to the fight.

"I've been told we can only hit the bag," he said, stepping up to the opposite side of the blood-stained target.  It was already swinging which meant that he had already warmed up.  Good.  He'd need it.  "Which is a shame, because I was really hoping for that rematch."

I huffed, sounding more and more like my father each day.  "Which one?" I asked.  The words came easy with him, fueled entirely by the flame he lit in my chest.  "The one from that time I kicked your ass in the training room, or the one you owe me from Red Rover?  Or wait, maybe you mean that time I beat you at your senior final.  Or maybe—"

"You know," he said.  "If you could hit half as hard as you talk trash, you might actually do some real damage."

"I think we both know that my hits do plenty of damage, as is."

"Your hits are below satisfactory—at best."

"Your nose seemed to think that my right hook was pretty satisfactory."

"Shut up and hit the bag, Goode."

Point one: Morgan.

A shot rang out as fist hit mesh, sparking a buzz in my hand and along my arm.  That was the best thing about hitting the bag—about hitting anything, really.  It hurt.  It hurt in the best way possible.

So I did it again.  And again.

I lost track of how many times I hit that bag.  I lost track of myself.  I couldn't tell you how loud I got or how long my shoulder burned for.  In that moment, all I knew for certain was that I was finally hitting that bag—one strike after another, over and over, reminding me that I was supposed to feel pain.  That I was human.  That I was alive.

I. was. alive.

Why hadn't it been me?

Something popped in my shoulder and my entire back clamped down on itself.  For a moment, I was frozen, left with no other option but to stand there, recalling all of the doctor's warnings.  I had no movement.  No control.