***James***
Eight months ago, I would be reading a book, plucking an acoustic guitar, listening to new music or gazing through my telescope at eleven o'clock at night.
These days, I am wide awake in the knowledge that two or three hours is all I really need to function. I am now beating the crap out of a combat dummy that Richie procured for me and put in an old storage room. I'm imagining that Louis' smug, Italian good looks are where the dummy's vacant face is.
This activity feels good.
"Whoa, where did this James come from?" I hear Richie's voice say behind me. I throw one more solid punch at the dummy before I turn around to face him.
"I had no idea you had such hidden rage. But with the week you've had, I'm surprised you're not beating it more."
"Yes, this week I would not call
