Page 2 of When The Dust Settles

“What the hell,” he roared, reaching for it as I put two fingers on his collarbone to keep him still.

“Step back,” I growled, and then keeping my eyes on him, I yelled, “Kev, get over here!”

My head bartender, Kevin Ruiz, was a little taller than me, hovering around six three and had twice the muscle. He’d followed my pickup in his Chevy Avalanche that dwarfed my ancient Dodge. I’d heard him pull up while I was crossing the yard.

“You best get off our porch before I call the cops,” Bubba threatened.

I didn’t move, just held the instrument out to Kevin until he moved up behind me and took it. “Look around for the amp,” I directed.

“Yeah, boss.”

“Who the hell do you think—”

“Shut up,” I warned, bumping him hard as I walked by, up the porch steps, and into the house.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he shouted, catching me as I stalked into the living room.

It was a horrific sight that sent a chill down my spine. At the same time I felt a quick swirl in my stomach. The desire to pivot and punch a hole through a wall, any wall, was nearly overwhelming.

Josie Barnes, born Joseph William Barnes—which I knew because when I hired her, we had to do paperwork together—was on the floor at her father’s feet. Mr. Barnes had his clippers out, and her hair, which had hung to the middle of her back in thick chestnut layers, was now sticking up in ugly uneven tufts, shorn down to her scalp. Her face was scrubbed clean of the normal simple makeup she wore, the sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks stood out in stark contrast against her pale skin. She was sitting there naked, panties and bra on the floor, holding her legs tight together and her hands clutched over her chest.

I saw red.

I charged across the room, grabbed Mr. Barnes’s neck in one hand and the clippers in the other. I hurled him back so hard he fell down onto the couch, and the clippers I turned and flung against the wall as hard as I could. They exploded in a shower of plastic and metal.

“Ohmygod, who is this man?” Josie’s mother, Miranda, standing by the mantle clutching a Bible, shrieked at me.

“I’m her boss,” I bellowed at the woman whose name I only knew because it was on the emergency contact form in my office. I was betting we’d be replacing her name before the day was out.

All Holloway men were big and loud; it’s just how we were made. We were also black haired, square jawed, hard muscled, stubborn, and rude. And even though I was the smallest of the family by far, I was just as ornery and noisy. It was not up for debate. Those were the facts. So when I roared from my diaphragm, she recoiled, slid sideways, and hugged the wall.

“You know he’s a boy, don’t you, you dumb fucker?” Mr. Barnes spat as he got unsteadily to his feet.

“I don’t see a boy,” I said frankly, and suddenly I felt a hand on my calf. Looking down, I saw Josie trembling.

I could only imagine what my eyes looked like when I turned to Mrs. Barnes. “Get me a blanket, ma’am, and I will take your child up outta here and you won’t never be bothered again.”

My drawl, normally not that pronounced, got really thick when I was mad.

“I know you,” Mr. Barnes snarled, taking a step away from me. “You’re Joey’s boss, that fag that runs The Bronc where he works.”

He didn’t know I was gay. He threw the “fag” in for good measure, but like I cared. “Yessir, that’s me.”

“So you gonna take him home and fuck him?”

The bile rose in my throat. This was the man’s child, whom he had held as a baby, played with, held hands with…. It defied all understanding and human compassion.

“Actually, no, sir,” I said hoarsely, my voice nearly bottoming out, as furious as I was. “Josie’s a girl. I only fuck boys.”

He swung at me and I put him on the ground. Mrs. Barnes was screaming when I threw Bubba down on top of her husband a moment later. One redneck throwing roundhouse punches at me or two, it didn’t matter none. I was raised on a ranch; I had been breaking horses and driving cattle and tussling with anyone who wanted a piece of me since I was a kid myself. Compared to Josie’s out-of-shape father and spindly brother, I was a god.

I took the blanket her mother shoved at me from the couch, bent, wrapped Josie up, and lifted her into my arms. The desperate wounded sobbing began instantly.

“Is there anything in this house you need? Tell me now, ’cause you ain’t comin’ back.”

She heaved out a breath. “He-hee-he broke my guitar! I can’t—”

“No,” I soothed, pivoting and heading for the door. “I got the guitar, it’s fine. Kevin has it. Where’s the amp?”