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RHETT
I DON’T want to bring Oliver with me.
Other than what a friend was able to dig up for me, this Adam guy is a mystery to us. He seems harmless, but I could be wrong. And I hate the thought of dragging Oliver into a situation without knowing what we’re walking into.
But when I head downstairs, he’s already waiting by the door, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans before shrugging on his black hoodie.
I sigh. Maybe it’s for the best. He won’t sleep until I get back, anyway.
We climb into my truck, but I don’t start it. There’s something I’ve needed to say all day, but I haven’t been able to get him alone.
When he sees my face, he runs a hand through his hair. “Please tell me you haven’t been beating yourself up about this all day. You’ve been doing better, Rhett. It was just one slip-up.”
Of course he’s able to figure it out that quickly. When you’ve been with someone for over ten years, you learn them inside and out.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. “I don’t want to have slip-ups. You both—all three of you—deserve better.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. Then he leans over the console and grabs my face in his hands. “You were trying to protect her, okay? I shouldn’t’ve told her I’d be heartbroken if she decided not to stay. You were right to call me out on my bullshit.”
Not by snapping at you, I almost yell. But that would defeat the purpose of this already-failed attempt at an apology. “I shouldn’t’ve done it like that,” I grit out. “And I’m sorry.”
He touches his forehead to mine. “Apology accepted. I’m not holding it against you.”
Part of the knot in my chest unravels, but my skin still feels vulnerable and prickly. I press my lips to his before turning on the truck and pulling out of the garage.
When I pull up a couple of blocks away from Adam’s house, I let out a breath. Almost there.
“You good?” Oliver’s hand covers mine over the gearshift.
I work my jaw. Tighten my fist and then unclench it. “Just don’t let me kill him.”
He nods, and we start moving, hoods up. The snow crunches under our boots, and I keep my breaths even. When we get to his street, I pull on my gloves.
Just stick to your list. Hurt him enough that he’ll never dare to touch anyone else again. And then get the fuck out.
His front door is locked, but I kick it down with ease, gun in hand. He’s in the front room, sitting in an old armchair, an open bottle of whiskey next to him. One of his hands is clutching a gun that’s pointed straight at my head.
“Get out,” he yells, standing. “Or I’ll shoot!”
Oliver swears behind me, and I hear the shot before it’s even registered in my mind that he’s jumped in front of me.
Panic seizes my chest until I see Adam stumble backward, clutching his arm. Blood soaks his sleeve.
Shit. The neighbors definitely heard that.
“Freddy’s on tonight,” Oliver says, watching as Adam’s knees hit the floor. “There’s no way he won’t be the one who gets called to the scene.”
“Good.” That gives us more time.
Grabbing Adam’s gun from the floor where he dropped it, I eject the magazine and check the chamber. Both empty. What an idiot.
“I’ll watch the door,” Oliver says, grimacing at it. My kicking it down completely ruined it and the doorjamb.
At least it was cathartic.
I grab Adam by his hair and drag him into the back of his house. The kitchen is tiled, so it’ll be easier for whoever has to clean up the blood than the wooden floors of the front room.
I haul him up, tossing him onto the counter. Dirty dishes clatter, and I hear a few break, but I don’t care. I rip off his belt, tying it around his arm. I didn’t drive all the way over here just for him to pass out from blood loss.
