Chapter 13
JACK
The fifty-pound bag of mulch hits the ground with a satisfying thud.
Calvin’s at the community college teaching his summer writing workshop, so Maren recruited me for garden duty with the promise of lunch.
Which really just means I would have helped anyway, but now I get food too.
Plus, Maren makes these sandwiches with some kind of fancy aioli that’s basically crack in condiment form.
“Thank god you were free,” she says, kneeling by her raised beds with a trowel, blonde hair already escaping from her ponytail. “I was too impatient to wait for Calvin to get home from work, and these beds need to be prepped before the rain comes tomorrow.”
“Happy to help,” I say, hefting another fifty-pound bag like it weighs nothing. Training six days a week has its advantages. “Besides, you had me at ‘food.’ I’m easy that way.”
Maren laughs, shaking her head. “The way to a man’s heart, apparently. Even Formula One drivers aren’t immune to good sandwiches.”
We work in a comfortable rhythm for a while. Maren’s one of those people who doesn’t need to fill every silence with conversation, which I appreciate. She hums while she works, occasionally muttering creative threats at weeds that dare to exist in her carefully planned garden beds.
“So,” she says after a while, sitting back on her heels and wiping her forehead with her arm, which just smears more dirt across her face.
“You excited to get back to Miami and get out of Dark River for a bit?” She gives me a look, and I’ve interacted with Maren enough over the years to know she always has this way of seeing through people’s bullshit.
I smile, setting down another bag. “Do I seem that miserable here?”
She laughs, brushing dirt off her knees. “Not when you’re with Lark.”
“Yeah well, she makes Dark River bearable,” I say. Not a lie. “And it’s not that I hate it here, I guess I just loved my life before all this and, I dunno, it’s…” I trail off, not sure how to explain the restlessness that’s been eating at me.
“Not home?” She looks up, her eyes too perceptive, seeing more than I want to show.
“Yeah, exactly. Not like it is to Calvin now, or Theo or Dominic. Even Alex to some extent. They’ve all found their place here, put down roots. I’m just passing through, killing time.”
“I get that,” Maren says, digging up another stubborn weed with focused determination. “Hopefully you’ll get the contract stuff sorted soon and get back to where you belong.”
“Thanks, I like the being-around-family part,” I say, moving another bag of mulch into position. “Just Dark River itself isn’t quite right for me anymore, or maybe never was. Not that Miami is home either, but at least it’s back in my world. Back in racing.”
“I’m happy for you,” Maren says. “And for Lark, too, with Miami coming up. She’s always wanted to travel more. And I know she’s still thinking about the open mic night and being so nervous about future performances, so a bit of travel and distraction is great to take her mind off it.”
“You know her performance was incredible,” I say. “Her songs and her voice are something special. She has that thing, that presence that you can’t teach. It was just at the end I think her nerves came through.”
She attacks a particularly stubborn weed with renewed vigor. “Ugh, tell me about it. God, when she told me what happened I wanted to go and key his car that night!”
A cold feeling settles in my stomach, realization creeping over me like ice water. “Whose car?” I ask carefully.
Maren pauses mid-weed-pull and looks up at me, panic crossing her face. “Uh, what?”
“Whose car?” My voice is deceptively calm even though everything inside me just went still and dangerous.
“Shit. I thought she had told you already.” She drops her trowel, looking distressed. “If you don’t know then she probably didn’t want anyone else to. Fuck.”
“Brandon was there?” I ask, voice level. “At her performance?” My jaw clenches. “And that’s what threw her off?”
“I mean, yes. But I think it was more that it brought back all that stage fright she’s had before.
” Maren’s words come faster now, apologetic.
“She gets nervous when Brandon is there or not, but I think she thought maybe she could push through it this time, and then he showed up and sat right in front and just… yeah. But you can’t do anything, okay? Ugh, I can’t believe I said that.”
My hand tightens on the bag of mulch I’m holding. Fucking Brandon. At Lark’s performance. The first time she’d gotten up on a big stage in years, and that asshole showed up.
“It’s alright, really. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” I force myself to sound casual, like the information isn’t making my blood boil. “I just fucking hate that guy.”
She snorts, going back to her weeding. “Well, there’s something we can definitely agree on.”
We go back to working in silence for a few minutes, me hauling mulch with more force than necessary, her meticulously arranging her garden beds. I try to keep my movements measured, my expression neutral, but inside I’m already planning. That’s the last fucking time he messes with her.
“Jack,” Maren says, watching me too closely, “promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid about Brandon. He’s a scumbag, but he’s not worth getting into trouble over.”
I nod, trying to hide the rage building inside me like a pressure cooker. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice carefully controlled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to do anything.”
“You better not be lying to me, Jack,” she says, pointing her trowel at me like a weapon. “I know that look.”
“Don’t worry, Maren. Scout’s honor.” The lie slips out easily. Too easily.
We finish up the gardening work with conversation about her and Calvin’s plans for the rest of the landscaping, about the Miami event, about anything but Brandon.
Maren keeps shooting me worried glances, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral, my movements measured and controlled.
Inside, I’m already calculating. I’ve seen Brandon’s truck at a construction site in town where he’s been working on the new retail development. I know exactly where to find him.
“Thanks for your help,” Maren says as I’m packing up to leave, wiping her dirty hands on her jeans. “You sure you don’t want to stay for lunch? Those aioli sandwiches I promised?”
“Rain check,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Just remembered I’ve got some errands to run.”
I’m on my bike and halfway to the construction site before I even really think about what I’m doing. The rage that’s been simmering since Maren’s revelation is now a full boil.
Maybe Lark’s not really my girlfriend, but that doesn’t change the fact that she deserves better than having her piece of shit ex-husband showing up to mess with her head. Lark can fight her own battles, but some people only understand one kind of language.
And I’ve always been fluent in making sure bullies understand exactly where they stand.
The construction site is easy to find. New retail development, supposed to bring jobs to Dark River or whatever bullshit the town council said to get it approved.
I park across the street and check the time. 11:47 AM.
When noon hits, workers start streaming out toward their trucks, hard hats in hand, ready for their lunch break. Brandon’s easy to spot even in the crowd. Still has that same walk—shoulders back, chin up, strutting like he owns the place.
I get out of my car, but before I can approach him he stops beside a kid who can’t be more than seventeen, new to the crew, judging by the clean boots and wide eyes.
Brandon’s barking at him, voice sharp enough to cut through the air.
“What’d I tell you about dragging your feet?
You screw up one more measurement and you’re done, you hear me? ”
The kid mutters an apology, cheeks red, and Brandon waves him off like he’s garbage.
That’s when I cross the street. “We need to talk,” I say.
Brandon turns, already pissed, eyes glassy and mean—like maybe he started his lunch break early with something stronger than soda. “What the hell do you want?” he growls, stepping in close. Then he shoves me in the chest hard enough to make it clear he’s looking for a fight.
I don’t give him another chance.
The punch lands clean. Right on his jaw, exactly where I aimed. His head snaps to the side and he stumbles backward, crashing against his truck with a metallic thud. Blood immediately starts pouring from his split lip, running down his chin.
“What the fuck!” he sputters, hand flying to his face. His fingers come away covered in blood and his eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ, Midnight!”
My knuckles throb, already starting to swell. Completely fucking worth it.
“We need to have a conversation,” I say, closing the distance between us before he can recover.
I’m taller than him by a few inches, and I use every bit of that height now, stepping into his space until he has to tilt his head back to look at me.
He’s pressed against his truck, nowhere to go.
“About you showing up to Lark’s performance. ”
His eyes widen. “It’s a public venue,” he says, blood dripping from his lip. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, smearing red across his skin. “I can go wherever the hell I want. It’s a free country.”
“You can go lots of places,” I agree, my voice deadly calm.
I plant my hand on the truck beside his head, caging him in.
“The grocery store. The hardware store. That shitty sports bar you like. But Lark’s performances?
” I lean in closer and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Those are off limits.”
“You can’t tell me—”
“I can tell you whatever the fuck I want, you little shit,” I interrupt, and my voice drops even lower. “You’re done showing up to watch her perform. You’re done showing up at the Black Lantern. You’re done with whatever pathetic little game you’re playing.”