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I pull my keys off the hook beside the door and sit long enough to shove my feet into my shoes.

“He grabbed her arm when she tried to walk away.”

Just saying it makes another surge of anger hit me. I keep seeing some asshole I’ve never met putting his hands on her while she’s trying to get away from him, and every instinct I have wants to find him and make sure he never does it again.

Colston sits up. “He put his fucking hands on my Goldie girl?”

“Yeah.” I pull one lace hard enough that I have to loosen it and start over. “Goldie said they handled it, whatever that means.”

His jaw clenches. “Good.”

I love that he’s just as protective of her as I am.

“All I can think about,” I say, my hands shaking enough that I fuck up the knot again, which only pisses me off more, “is how much I want to break his fucking hand.”

“No shit.” Colston pushes himself off the hard-ass couch. “I could hear her crying from over here, man. I don’t blame you.”

“There’s something else,” I say.

“What?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me over the phone, just said she needed me home.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

My mind’s spinning with possibilities, and none of them are good. I finally get the second shoe tied and stand.

Colston reaches for the sneakers he kicked under the coffee table earlier. “I’m coming with you.”

“It’s fine⁠—”

“I’ll stay out of whatever she needs to tell you.” He drops onto the couch long enough to pull on his shoes. “But I’ll be there if either of you needs me. I’m coming.”

He finishes tying his shoe, stands, and holds out his hand.

I look at it. “What?”

“Keys.”

“Jenny.”

“You’re pissed off, your hands are shaking, and your brain’s probably already come up with six different ways to kill Grant.” He wiggles his fingers. “I’ll drive. You can sit there and work through the murder fantasies. Don’t make this a thing, Shamu.”

I drop the keys into his hand.

“And if you decide you need to go find Grant afterward,” he adds, “Goldie won’t be sitting there alone while you do it.”

Asshole knows me too well.

Right now, I need to get to Goldie.

“Let’s go.”

Colston grabs his phone off the coffee table, and we’re out the door.

By the time Colston turns onto Goldie’s street, the muscles across my shoulders ache from holding them tight. He’s kept his mouth shut for most of the drive from Tampa, which might be the smartest decision he’s made in the entire time I’ve known him.