“Baby,” Drake said but I was in a blind rage. I was pacing.
“I need to hit something.”
“Angel, come here.”
“No Drake, I need to hit something and I need to hit it hard.”
“Let’s go run. Running is good. It’s better than hurting your knuckles. C’mon, baby.”
Rage was bubbling, boiling over. I was having trouble thinking straight.
“Let’s put on your running shoes and run. C’mon.” He grabbed my hand, reached into the suitcase on the floor and grabbed sneakers for me and put them in front of me. He was dressed in jeans and boots. He kicked his boots off and got into a pair of sneakers, too.
I got the shoes on and then I started stretching as we descended the stairs and he grabbed two bottles of orange Gatorade and then we went outside and we headed toward the forest behind the farm and we
