Chris slammed into Jim’s apartment. “I need a f*****g drink. And something to beat the hell out of.”
The three men looked up at him, looked at each other. Without a word, Jim got up and went to his kitchen. He poured out a shot of whiskey and handed it to Chris, who threw it back.
“Another one." Chris wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “And where’s that thing for me to punch?”
Dallas was already over in the far corner of the room, hanging Jim’s punching bag from the hook in the ceiling. Dean went to the closet and took out the boxing gloves, but Chris tossed back his second shot and waved the gloves away.
The guys watched silently as Chris laid into the bag with a ferocity that they knew he possessed, but which they hadn’t seen in a long time. Not since Tiegert had been killed,
