22. Jackson
Jackson
I slam the paint can into Lonnie’s hands a little too hard. “Here. Get that back wall done before lunch.”
The guy flinches, nods, and scurries off like I just handed him a live grenade. And honestly? I don’t give a damn. I’ve been white knuckling my temper all fuckin’ morning. I don’t have the patience for fragile egos today. Hell, I barely have the patience to breathe.
Between what I saw in that goddamn police video, the fight with Ozzy, the brawl with Dean, and the way Ozzy still won’t look at me the same—I’ve had constant chest pain for the last three days.
I thought she’d forgiven me. After Dean, I thought… Hell, I don’t know what I thought. That maybe I’d made it right somehow by beating the shit out of the man who hurt her. That by showing her she’s safe with me now, we were okay.
That was a dumbass assumption.
I found out the next morning that I’m still firmly in the doghouse, that I “ain’t shit,” as Theo so sweetly informed me.
And now, Jensen’s pissed at me because he got his jaw rocked backing me up and because Niamh is mad at us for causing the fight outside the bar.
I get it. I do. But I still wish someone would cut me a fucking break.
“Steven,” I bark, pointing to the jagged subfloor beneath his feet. “Rip up the rest. Flooring’s due this afternoon, and I want it clean and ready to go.”
He nods with a mumbled “Yes, sir,” and gets to work, though I can feel the questions coming off him like sweat.
I see the way they all glance at my face when they think I’m not looking.
The bruise Theo gave me has bloomed into a deep purple beneath my left eye, and even my beard can’t hide the busted lip.
Let them wonder.
Dean’s not pressing charges. Not yet anyway.
Sheriff gave me that look—the one saying he’s already done me a favor and won’t be doing it again.
He didn’t do it for me, either. It was for Pops.
Those two go back decades. I’m damn sure Pops made a call, probably said something about the stress we’ve all been under with the ranch, with him… with everything.
And I hate that I put this weight on him.
Outside, the chilling air bites through my shirt, but I don’t move. I stand at the edge of the cottage—Derek’s old place—my boots on the top step, staring at what will soon be Ozzy’s home. It’s small, but solid. Quiet. And it’s hers. Or it will be.
It’s two stories with whitewashed siding; old but sound.
There’s a bay window on the second floor facing the pasture, not the tree line, and ivy is starting to crawl up one side.
The porch is a slab of cracked concrete, weather-stained and breaking at the edges.
She deserves better . I can see her already—barefoot on a new porch, coffee mug in hand, the dogs curled at her feet.
She’d have music playing, hair tangled and messy from sleep.
There’d be wildflowers around the railings. Sunlight warming her shoulders.
“You’re thinkin’ too hard,” Derek comments behind me.
I don’t turn around. “She needs a porch.”
“She needs an apology first.”
“I thought beatin’ the shit out of Dean was the apology,” I growl, jaw tight.
He snorts. “That was a statement. An apology needs to come with words. With real ones. You done any of that lately?”
I don’t answer.
Derek stands beside me now, arms folded, suitcase already packed in the bed of my truck. He’s leaving today, heading back to California. I wish he wasn’t leaving. I’ll never admit it but having him here… it’s like being able to breathe and I don’t want him to take that from me again.
He’s waiting for me to speak. That’s the worst part about Derek—he’s never in a rush. He waits you out. Makes you tell the truth you don’t want to say.
“I don’t know how,” I finally admit. “I don’t know how to fix what I did.”
“She caught you reading about the worst thing that ever happened to her. Without permission. You didn’t just mess up, Jackie. You broke trust. Trust, with someone like her?” He shakes his head. “That’s not an easy thing to earn back.”
I scrub a hand down my face. My jaw’s still sore where Theo clocked me. “She looked at me like I was… like I was nothing.”
“You’re not,” Derek replies. “But if you want to be somebody to her, you gotta show her who you are. Not with a hammer. Not with your fists. With your heart. That’s the scary part, isn’t it?”
Derek walks toward the truck and tosses me the keys. “Build her that porch. But not to win her back. Do it because she deserves something beautiful.”
“I do want that,” I say quietly.
He gives me a soft smile. “Then start there.”
The ride to the airport is quiet. Derek turns on the radio, keeping the volume low. Something twangy and old. I tap my thumb against the steering wheel the whole way, counting the seconds. When we pull into Departures, I throw it in park and finally say something.
“Thanks for coming home.”
He glances over, shrugs. “Wasn’t for you.”
“I know.”
He smiles. “But I’m glad I got to see you get punched.”
I snort, then nod. “Safe flight, asshole.”
He opens the door but pauses, hand on the frame. “Call her ‘good girl’ in bed,” he suggests with a wink. “She’ll melt. These women have a thing for the accent.”
“Get the fuck out of my truck.”
After I drop Derek off at the airport, I don’t go straight home. I take a left instead and head toward The Spur.
The bar is quiet this early in the day and upon entering, I’m hit with the aroma of old beer and lemon cleaner. Niamh’s behind the bar, towel over one shoulder, sorting glasses. Her strawberry hair piled in a loose knot, and she looks about as friendly as a bull about to charge when she sees me.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” she says, thick Irish brogue curling the words. “Come to knock more heads together, have ye?”
I take a seat at the bar. “Come to apologize.”
She raises one brow. “To me? Just yourself then?”
“Yeah, Jen is pissed at me over it.”
She slides a rag over the bar with more force than necessary. “Don’t apologize to me unless you mean it.”
“I do,” I insist. “Niamh, What happened out there… wasn’t supposed to get out of hand.”
“It always does with you lot,” she mutters, tossing the rag into a bin. “Boys and your fists, thinking it solves everything.”
I sit quietly for a moment, then say, “He didn’t mean to scare you.”
She scoffs. “Didn’t scare me. Just made me remember why I stopped lettin’ myself care.”
“You still care,” I protest gently.
She glares at me, but her face softens just a bit.
“Niamh,” I say, “I know my brother. He ain’t good with words. But if you’re asking whether he wants you? Yeah. He does. Has for years.”
She looks down, fiddling with a glass.
“He won’t say it,” she murmurs.
“Then you say it first.”
She snorts. “You think I’m daft? He’s stubborn as an ox. He won’t move till I lay it all out, and then what? I look like a fool if he turns me down.”
“Jensen doesn’t know how to want something without hating himself for it,” I explain. “But he wants you.”
Niamh is quiet for a moment. “Tell him to pull his head out of his arse.”
I stand. “You tell him.”
She smirks. “Aye. Maybe I will. Eventually.”
I smile a little. “Just don’t make him wait forever. He’s stubborn, but he’s worth it.”
She lifts her chin. “So’s she.”
My smile fades, and I nod.
“Go fix it,” Niamh says softly.
“I’m trying,” I reply, and this time, I mean it.