“Easton...”
“Looks like the i***t at the entrance doesn’t know how to follow orders,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
The veins in his neck stood out prominently, and his body was drenched in sweat.
“Why are you so angry?” I asked.
The leather of the punching bag he had been hitting split open, and all the sand spilled onto the floor. His strength was superhuman. I couldn’t imagine how devastating it would be if he did that to a person. Easton simply moved on to the next bag and continued delivering the same barrage of punches.
“Get out,” he repeated.
“I heard the conversation you had with your mother in the parking lot.”
At my words, he went very still.
“After you left, I talked to her for a while.”
“That woman is not my mother,” he said before launching himself at the punchi
