“Don’t.” The word was loud, abrupt as a gunshot. “Don’t you dare fucking pity me.” He sounded like he was talking through clenched teeth.
“I—” She started to deny it.
“Don’t bother to lie. I can fucking smell your pity.” His voice shook with emotion—anger or anguish. She couldn’t be sure which. “Fear me. Hate me. But don’t pity me. Never pity.” He sidestepped her without facing her and went into a small room off the kitchen.
Almost instantly he returned.
“I’ll take you home.” His gaze focused on the floor, he avoided looking at her and held out her clean clothes.
“I don’t want to go home.” Heat burst across her face. She shouldn’t have said that out loud.
He set her clothes on the table and headed for the door. “I’ll get the bike.” The door slammed behind him.
In less than three minutes, she was on his motorcycle, wind slicing across her legs, burning and freezing her skin at the same time. He’d given her a heavy jacket to wear before she’d climbed on, but she had no protection for her legs. She squeezed her eyes closed and spent the ride wishing she’d stayed upstairs—hidden from the world, from horny truckers, and especially from Junior.
The bike slowed, then stopped. Lathan cut the engine. She clung to him without opening her eyes—her last ode to denial. The soft whoosh of a single car passing alerted her that she wasn’t at Morty’s.
Her eyes popped open. Gray-painted garage. Two oversized bays protected by giant metal-and-glass doors. Tow truck parked next to the building. In neat letters across the front, Robert Malone, Junior. Mechanic and Towing Service.
She read the sign again, certain something inside her brain had malfunctioned. But the words said the same thing. Lathan had brought her to Junior. Her heart squeezed into a tightly packed snowball full of shards of ice.
Lathan was probably friends with Junior. How could she have forgotten for one moment that everyone in Sundew loved Junior? Everything that had happened was probably a scripted and choreographed play produced by Junior’s sick imagination. Maybe they’d drugged her, made her think she was crazy, then made her think she was safe—fucking her mind worse than Junior ever could her body.
An invisible icicle pierced her soul. She wanted to fall down on the ground, scream, and cry, but that would have to come later.
Fight, flight, or freeze? Flight—escape. From both of them. She shoved hard at Lathan’s back and leaped off the bike.
“Honey. It’s okay. I won’t let him hurt you. I promise.” The sincerity in his voice stopped her from reaching for her shoes to pry them off her feet—to run.
She half expected to see Junior’s evil in his expression, but his face was all innocent freckles overlaid with a scary, beautiful tattoo.
“Why’d you bring me here?” Her voice trembled with hope.
“I told you I’d help you get your things back.”
He had. Last night. In their quick departure, she’d forgotten.
“I always keep my word.” He climbed off the bike and reached a gloved hand out to her. “I should’ve told you. Reminded you.”
Junior emerged from the shop, wiping his hands on a towel dangling from the pocket of his coveralls. Why didn’t anyone in Sundew, Ohio, ever wonder why Junior hadn’t followed in his daddy’s footsteps? Everyone would be surprised to learn that he couldn’t pass the psychological exam to get into the police academy.
Lathan stepped in front of her, but reached behind with one hand. She grabbed on to him, lacing her fingers with his, and knew he’d keep his word. He wouldn’t let Junior hurt her.
Part of her felt ashamed and weak for not standing up to Junior herself. Another part worried she wasn’t strong enough to handle him—mentally or physically. And another part was relieved she didn’t have to face him alone.
“Get her keys, her money, her apron.” Lathan’s voice was a command.
“Darlin’” Junior’s voice sung out in a way that hit her right in the stomach. “I told you I’d be seeing you. And I just spoke to your momma. She’s dying to talk to you.” His words were a dirty finger jamming into an open wound.
Everyone in Sundew knew Rosemary Malone cared more about her stepson than her own children.
“You talk to me now. Get her stuff.” Lathan’s tone was in the homicidal range.
“There wasn’t anything in the car.” Without seeing the smirk on his face, she could hear it in his inflection.
Lathan spoke over his shoulder. “Stay here.” He dropped her hand and started toward Junior. Maybe she should be worried about him. Junior could be unpredictable, but he was no stronger than a pencil-necked geek compared to Lathan.
Junior retreated a step and then withdrew a large wrench from his coveralls.
“Your toy doesn’t scare me.” Lathan didn’t falter, didn’t stop.
Junior swung the weapon, aiming for Lathan’s left cheek. Lathan caught Junior’s wrist and then drove him back against the wall of the shop. Junior’s body whonked against the concrete. Lathan angled himself, using his far-superior weight and height to pin Junior against the wall. He braced his forearm underneath Junior’s throat.
A small smile tasting of revenge tugged at her lips. How many times had she been trapped like that under Junior? Too many to count. And seeing Lathan pin him so easily was satis-fucking-fying… If she had some pom-poms, she’d shout a cheer. Go Lathan. Go. Go. Go. Lathan.
“You’re dead. You have no idea how dead you are. You’re going to jail. Prison.”
Revenge started to taste bitter. Junior wasn’t a threat to Lathan, but his dad was even more demented than Junior. Like father. Like son.
“Lathan, maybe you should—”
“Where’s her stuff?” Lathan shouted the words, his voice so loud she cringed.
“I don’t have it.” Junior choked out, his face turning a magenta shade of anger and oxygen deprivation. “What are you doing?”
Everything was silent for a beat.
“Evanee.” Lathan spoke her name without glancing away from Junior. “Your stuff is in the red toolbox next to the workbench. Top drawer.”