“I was hoping we’d get here before Jasper gets picked up from the after school program at five,” Junior says.
I tilt my head, replaying his words in my mind, because my brain isn’t working straight.
He must see that I don’t understand, because he explains, “I don’t know, I thought it might be easier on him if you picked him up instead of his dad. And then we just drove off. But the school might not have released him.” Junior shakes his head. “It’s probably gonna be messy, no matter what.”
My eyes prick with tears of gratitude. I can’t believe how much thought he’s put into this—his consideration for Jasper. Junior may come off as a tough-guy meathead, but he’s way more. He’s nuanced. Sophisticated.
I remember how he slipped the girl in the cafe the money. It made me jealous—which was stupid—but part of my jealousy was over the thought and effort he put into the gesture.
He pulls up in front of a brick house. “This is it. That’s Abe’s truck.” He points to an old Ford F150 parked in front of us. “Abe rents the basement.”
He parks the car and pulls a gun out of a holster next to his seat.
My brain finally kicks into gear. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you doing?”
He pauses but raises his brows like he doesn’t understand the question.
“You’re not bringing a gun in there.” I point toward the house. “My six-year-old kid is in there. And Abe is his father.”
Junior sighs.
“No. Guns,” I say firmly.
A new set of fears suddenly comes crashing around me. Junior and Abe. This isn’t going to go well. That’s part of why he thought picking Jasper up from school would be better. Junior is one hundred percent alpha male, which means he’s going to have to piss all over Abe.
Not that Abe doesn’t deserve it, but things could get messy here, really fast. And I don’t need messy. I just want to get my son and get out of here.
I want to either burst into tears or puke as we walk up the sidewalk, then down the steps to the basement door. Junior’s expression is hard, eyes dead. A shiver runs down my spine. “Maybe you should wait in the car,” I tell him when we get to the door.
He goes still, studying me, then draws back a half a step and angles his back against the brick wall. “I’ll be right here,” he says, folding his arms over his chest.
His position as bodyguard reassures me. I draw a deep breath and knock on the door.
Abe’s stupid enough to swing the door wide without looking out the peephole first. When he gets over his surprise at seeing me, he tries to shut it again, but I launch myself through the doorway. He slams the door back, and clocks me in the head and shoulder.
My vision bleeds black as pain explodes at the points of impact.
Junior surges into motion like a dark, avenging angel. I’m still seeing stars as he kicks the door open like we’re in a movie, simultaneously propelling me into the basement apartment.
“Mommy!” Jasper yells and then I really can’t see, because my vision goes blurry with tears.
Jasper and I both cry, strangling each other with hugs. It takes me a minute to realize how bad the situation got. Just feet from us, Junior’s brawling with Abe.
No, make that beating the shit out of Abe. The crack of bone on bone splits the air and Abe’s body flies past us, crashing into the coffee table with a sickening thud.
Jasper screams.
Abe groans, but tries to get up.
Junior stalks over, picks him up by his shirt and punches his bloody face.
“Junior.”
Junior ignores me, punching Abe again and again.
“Junior!” I scream.
I don’t want Jasper to see this. Any of it.
I also don’t want to put him down or out of my sight, even for a second. Ever again. But I need to stop Junior before he kills Abe.
I scream his name again, then body check him with my shoulder, my son still wrapped up tight in my arms.
When he glances at me, his expression chills me to the bone. There’s nothing there. No life at all. He’s cold. Deadly. Dangerous.
He must see the fear in my face, though, because the horrifying mask disintegrates, and then he’s the Junior I know. His brows drop, forehead wrinkles in concern.
I realize I’m still bawling. “Junior, no,” I beg. “Stop this. Right now.”
He looks at Abe who can barely move on the floor, then back at me and his expression clouds, like he realizes what he’s done. “Fanculo,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face. His knuckles are swollen and bloody.
Abe can’t seem to get up. Jesus, Junior did some damage. What if he’d brought the gun in?
Ice sluices through my veins.
I know what would’ve happened.