So there he was, climbing off his bike at a farm that looked like no one inhabited it for over a hundred years. He’d thought his abandoned house had been in bad shape, but a pricy cleaning company and a few days of grueling yard work had brought it back to life. Razing this farm might be the only way to make this property worth something. Off to his left, the large, faded barn had a gaping hole in the roof as well as three smashed-out windows. The wood boards were warped and rotted from lack of care. A silo could be seen in the distance, crooked and neglected. Straight ahead, the large main house seemed to be in slightly better condition, but even that needed a serious pressure washing and few coats of paint at the very least. What once had been a sprawling white colonial-style home was now a dingy gray with a sloped second-story porch and cardboard over two of the front windows. Who knew what the inside looked like, and if the foundation would hold up much longer.
“Prick’s done well for himself,” he muttered with a snort as he strode toward the house.
Though he’d dreamed of this moment, the second he raised his fist to knock on the door, all words fled. He’d long gotten over the impulse to pound Prick to a bloody pulp as soon as they came in contact. The main reason for this visit was to let the fucker know he was back and he wasn’t going anywhere. Lithia would become Hell’s Handler’s territory. Prick would have no choice but to respect that no matter how much he fucking hated it. Curly was older, wiser, more intelligent, and wouldn’t fall prey to a devious plan this time around.
Squaring his shoulders, he pounded on the door. Flecks of faded blue paint flittered to the ground along with a thick cloud of dust. Seconds ticked by without anyone opening the door. Curly couldn’t hear any movement or activity inside either. He sighed. Guess it would have been too easy to have Prick open the door and bow down to Curly’s presence.
As he began to head back to his bike, a faint yelp had his spine snapping straight. He strained his ears and held his breath. This time the bark of an unhappy dog caught his attention. The sound came from behind the barn. Then there was another yelp, definitely human, definitely female. As the barking began in earnest this time, Curly took off in jog toward the barn.
The barking grew rowdier with each step until a voice he’d recognize anywhere shouted, “Shut the fuck up!” A chain rattled, followed by a dog’s whimper.
Fucking Prick seemed to be as big a piece of shit as ever.
“Hey!” yelled a female voice. “Stop that!”
Curly’s eyes narrowed. She sounded familiar. He pressed himself against the short side of the barn and crept toward the edge. Hopefully, the entire barn wouldn’t crumble to the ground.
“If you kick that dog again—"
“You’ll what? What the fuck’re you gonna do about it, bitch?”
“B-back up.” The words sounded like they came through clenched teeth. Forceful despite the slight tremor of fear.
Time for Curly to step in. He rounded the corner of the barn to find Prick crowding a woman much smaller than him against the side of the barn. All he could see were two bare legs and beat-up Converse. Prick’s wide body blocked the rest of her. At the other end of the barn, a large tan and white pitbull tied to a metal post with a thick metal chain sat quiet and quivering.
“The fuck you doing on my property? You come here for me? For this?” One of Prick’s hands disappeared between his legs.
Fucking charmer.
Curly widened his stance but kept his posture relaxed. Ready for whatever might come, but not showing aggression. Then he cleared his throat.
Prick whipped around then froze. His bloodshot eyes flared wide. “Holy fuck,” he whispered. As though staring at a ghost instead of his old president, his face went deathly pale. Then again, when he’d betrayed that president and expected them to spend the rest of their life in a cage, having him pop up at your house fourteen years later had to be shocking.
Curly couldn’t keep the satisfied smile off his face. Felt damn good to have the upper hand back. “Hey, brother,” he said, mockery dripping from the word.
The woman shoved Prick with her shoulder. “Get the hell away from me,” she muttered as she freed herself then came to a standstill as well. “Curly.”
Brooke.
No wonder the voice rang familiar. He should have known she’d be the feisty type that would confront a psycho on her own. The reminder of the position he’d found her in had him scowling. “Get behind me, Brooke.”
“I’m not done with him yet,” she growled as she turned to face Prick as though she’d stood a chance of intimidating the man.