Page 17 of Reese’s Protection

I hunkered beside him and slid my gun out discreetly, pressing it against the back of his kneecap. I smiled. “Go outside with me. I’m sure I am just your type.”

When he nodded, I slipped the gun away and stood, glaring down at him. The other men at the table didn’t seem to notice what had taken place; although, the twink I’d chased off was giving me wide eyes. Whatever. I didn’t need long to kick this fucker’s ass into next week. I gestured for Jeremy to walk outside ahead of me, and his friends hooted and laughed as we left.

All the colognes were beginning to clash and give me a headache. I didn’t see how anyone spent long in a place like this.

Jeremy shoved open the door when he reached it, and I followed directly after him, giving him a push on the shoulder, which made him spin around to glare at me. I stalked after him, and he backed off past a silver Mercedes out into the parking lot. Yeah, we would need plenty of room to rumble.

“You gotta let this go. Reese is mine, and I’m going to get him back, even if you make it take a week or two longer.” He rolled his eyes, then hissed as if he’d regretted the movement as his hand flew to his nose.

“You get off on forcing people to do what you want. How does it feel to have the shoe on the other foot?” I asked, stalking closer to him. My hands clenched into fists. “You aren’t even above calling the fucking pigs.”

Jeremy sneered at me as much as he could manage with half his face fucked up. “You want to get your ass kicked for a guy who is gonna run out on you in the middle of the night like he did to me? It isn’t worth it, bro. We shouldn’t even be fighting over someone as worthless as Reese.” He shook his head and tried out a smile on me.

My blood boiled. Pure acid had been poured into my veins. “Oh yeah?” I got right up in his face, so close that I could smell the fumes from his beer. “Then why do you want him so bad that you won’t leave him alone to live his life?”

He grimaced and drew back his arm. I let him land the first punch. Pain exploded on my left cheek and my head whipped to the side. I sucked in a breath at the ache that started.

“Now do you understand?” he shrieked louder than a fucking banshee. “You’re going to lose, fucker! You got one lucky shot. All the rest will be mine.”

The group of women I’d seen buying syrup earlier screamed from next to a black van nearby. They cupped their faces and clutched their hearts, but they all avidly watched. We were probably better entertainment than the men inside shaking their asses.

I winked at a lady in a pink velour jogging suit, and she gave me a thumbs-up, which had me snorting. The ladies laughed, husky rasps of amusement, and didn’t make a single attempt to get in their van and go home.

I stood up straight, and Jeremy shrank back.

“You hit me first.” I gave him my craziest grin, took the gun out of the back of my pants, and then pistol whipped him right in the fucking nose with all my strength. I did it again. By the time I was finished there would be nothing to repair. I was going in for the third or fourth hit—I wasn’t sure—when strong arms closed around me from behind. I fought like a rabid dog, punching and kicking and swinging my gun at whatever body parts were closest, but Jeremy’s friends from inside were all out here.

Four against one wasn’t exactly good odds.

I took two hard blows to my right cheek from one of his buddies before I went down on one knee, and I was shocked when the old ladies came charging over.

“You will not do this here! My grandson owns this place!” It was the woman in the pink velour jogging suit, and she used her cane to shove Jeremy away from me. He’d been winding up to crunch my nose just like his, I would bet.

“I’m calling the police!” a different lady yelled, holding up her flip phone.

There was grumbling from the men, but they left to go to the silver Mercedes.

I felt a little wobbly as I got back to my feet.

“You get out of here, kiddo,” the woman in pink said to me with a sympathetic smile. She patted my shoulder as I staggered past her and got onto my bike. I considered shooting at the dickheads as the Mercedes burned rubber out of the parking lot but instead shoved my gun into my pants.

“Well, that was not a win.” I groaned.

As soon as Reese got a look at my bruised face, he wasn’t only going to say I told you so, but he’d also decide I was too much of a loose cannon to stay with. He’d just gotten rid of one lunatic. Why would he want another one? I scrubbed my hands over my face. Maybe the ass kicking had knocked together a few of my brain cells, but the need for revenge still simmered in my gut. I knew when I got onto my bike I should call for a ride, but I couldn’t take the chance that one of those ladies had actually called the cops, so I started the bike and sped toward home—and Reese.

I had no idea what I was going to tell him. I hadn’t solved the Jeremy problem—fuck, had possibly even made it worse—but I was on my way back to him now. Granted, I’d ignored him for three days while I was chasing down his piece of shit ex, but he couldn’t be too mad, right?

7

REESE

I stared at my phone as worry squeezed my stomach, making me want to vomit. I hated that Knox had a vendetta against Jeremy. While I trusted Knox to take care of himself, Jeremy didn’t play fair. In his head, he was a saint—the most perfect human who ever existed, who could do no wrong. But he was also the victim. He could damage Layton’s house and abuse me, but when someone did it to him, then he went to the cops. He talked to everyone he knew, looking for sympathy.

A tap on my shoulder dragged me out of my thoughts, and I turned to Bower, my boss and good friend, with a smile. “Sorry. I was distracted.”

Bower tilted his head and blinked down at me. He towered over me and his rounded muscles bulged from all the time he spent in the gym. To everyone who saw him, he looked scary, but Bower was the gentlest person I’d ever met. He was quiet and could only gather the courage and will to speak to people he felt comfortable around. He’d told me that he was diagnosed with selective mutism, and his anxiety often rendered him speechless.

He leaned in to whisper, despite there being no one else in the florist shop he owned. Sometimes, I thought his own voice scared him. “Is everything okay?”