Anger

Grant grunted angrily as he laid into the heavy punching bag. He would have loved nothing more than for that bag to have been a real person, someone who could fight back, so he could really have a reason to let loose.

He pretended that the source of his anger was what Rappaccini did to him back at Boca Caliente. An entire week of his life gone; he very nearly didn't have a life to lose a week of, if not for Simmons. He owed the girl a few dinners. Maybe he'd take her out, just to show up May. Wait, what? No, to repay her for what she did. Her being Simmons. He honestly didn't care that she broke up with him, or cut off their relationship or whatever the fuck it was. He honestly didn't. It was getting too risky anyway.

Besides, there were plenty of single ladies around SHIELD who could jabs stood to partake in a casual sexual relationship with a single Level Seven Specialist. She didn't want him anymore, fine. Fuck her. Fuck her hard. On top of a soft mattress inside a hotel room so she could scream as loud as he could make her. God, I want you, Meli – He cut himself off by punching the bag again.

She didn't have to be such a bitch about it. He swore, it was like everything she said had to feel like a dozen red hot daggers out of nowhere. She didn't even know the definition of the word tact, and… and… it hurt. What she said hurt, and he didn't know why.

Well, he did, but he wasn't going to admit it. Especially not now after being emasculated by her. Just a bedmate, she said. He should have marched into that cockpit, drug her into her bunk and showed her how a bedmate voiced their displeasure. But no. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that she got to him.

"Agent Ward," Coulson called from behind him. He sighed and halted his punching.

"Yes?"

"I have some good news. I just got off the phone with Director Fury. He though it a good idea to give us a week's reprieve, starting now. We'll be landing at the SHIELD base in Nevada in a few hours."

It was literally music to Grant's ears. Even though he missed most of the mission, it was still a rough week for him. "That… that sound great. Though, I won't be stepping foot into Vegas, if that's what you're insinuating."

Coulson smiled. "I hear May has a place out of the way. Maybe she'll let you stay there."

His expression almost soured. The last thing he wanted to be anywhere near her or anything that belonged to her. "Nah. I guess I'll find a hotel somewhere. Besides, I doubt she'll let me anywhere near her place."

"You're probably right. Still, wouldn't hurt to ask."

He shrugged. "Where are you head to?" he asked in a desperate bid to change the subject.

"Portland. I have some business up there to see about."

Grant didn't bother to ask him what he meant and followed him to the bunks to pack.

They touched down thirty miles outside of Las Vegas hours later. Grant, duffle bag in hand, walked down the ramp to the assortment of cars lined up for their choosing. He chose an ivory Mercedes and threw his bag into the back. He looked up and saw May climbing into a sleek red Lamborghini. Goddamn it, she was so beautiful. Her black hair was straightened out and draped over on shoulder of her loose black blouse. Her white pants hugged her hips closely, drawing his eyes to their shapely figure. He couldn't take his eyes off of her.

She also looked up, and they made eye contact. Grant's heart jumped around in his chest, and for a few moments, he wanted to ask if he could go wherever she was going.

But he didn't. Because he wasn't some lovesick sap who would crawl on hands and knees for the woman he loved. He had pride, dammit.

He nodded once curtly climbed into the driver's seat. He sighed and gripped the wheel tightly as he watched her move into the car. Why is she so beautiful? And why can't I let her go? Grant was pondering over that question for the entire time he was on the road. The empty desert road provided much time to let his mind wonder without fear of accident.

He was hurt by her words. But why was he hurt? If what she said was true, if they were only bedmates, as intended all along, then it shouldn't have mattered that she decided to end things. It shouldn't have made him as angry as it did, as hurt as it did. But it did, and he feared he knew why.

The words were right on the tip of his tongue, goading him to be a man and face the truth.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Really, the first warning flag should have been when they slept together that second time. Once was enough to allow him to work out his frustrations. The second time was just them taking a leap into the unknown together and hoping that it didn't end up badly.

But it did. It did end up badly, and it was too late for them to the way things were. Things would forever be marred by the first time he pushed himself inside of her. He wanted to feel that, to feel her so badly and only felt angrier that he couldn't.

He threw his bag onto the bed of his cheap hotel room and flopped onto the bed. The partially white ceiling was foxed in some areas and stained in others. The ugly floral wallpaper design made his eyes hurt. That was fine; he didn't plan on spending much time sober, anyway.

"I love her," he said with so much disgust toward himself that he felt like he was going to be ill. How? When? Of all the times for him to realize this, it would have to be now, when there was nothing he could do about it. It was even worse, since he didn't even want to call and tell her how he felt. It wasn't fair, as immature as that sounded.

His phone made a noise. It was a text from none other than May. First Coulson, now this. It was like the world was rubbing it in his face. He checked it and sighed. "Call me."

"What the hell do you want, Melinda?" he asked, wincing at the amount of rancor in his voice. He touched his phone and brought her number up. His thumb hovered over the call button, but backed out and turned the screen off instead. He didn't want to hear whatever she had to say, at least not while sober.

Breaking up was painful to do. And the only thing to calm that pain was a tall glass of whisky and sad country music. He looked at the bottle, and frowned when she wasn't sitting at the table, waiting for him to crack it open. He hated this, the control she had over him.

He opened the bottle and poured himself a glass. Time to wash it all away.