26. Hunter
Hunter
She'd been gone too long.
Stephanie was between sets. The jukebox was playing something I wasn't hearing. Clay was talking, but I wasn't tracking the words because my eyes kept going to the hallway at the back of the bar.
She'd said bathroom. She'd said one minute. Her hand on my shoulder. Her smile warm from the wine.
That was ten minutes ago.
My thumb was tapping the table. My jaw was tight. The bar was loud and warm and full of people. None of them Jess.
"Hunt." Clay's voice. "You listening?"
"Yeah." I wasn't.
Five more minutes. The hallway door didn't open. Something was tightening in me. My hand was flat on the table, and the tap had become a press — my fingertips white against the wood. Garrett was across the room with the blonde. His booth was —
His booth was empty.
My chair scraped back. I stood. Clay looked up. I didn't explain. I walked across the bar. Through the crowd. Past the stage where Stephanie's guitar was resting between sets. I pushed open the hallway door.
The back door was closed.
I walked toward it. My boots on the floorboards. My heart rate climbing. My hands curling at my sides.
The back door slammed against the wall, and Jessica came through it at a run, not paying attention to where she was going, but behind her. Her weight crashed into me hard enough to stagger me back a step.
"Jess — what —"
My hands caught her arms. Steadied her. Her body was vibrating against my palms. Her breath came in short, ragged pulls that wheezed on the inhale. Her eyes wide and wet and darting — bouncing off my face, the wall, the ceiling, back to my face, unable to land.
Then I saw the handprint on her cheek. The bruises blooming on either side of her jaw. The tear in her dress.
My stomach dropped. My vision sharpened. My hands curled into fists at my sides. The heat started in my gut and climbed — my throat, my arms, my jaw locking down on it.
"Garrett —" She was gasping. Sobbing. Couldn't get the words out. Her fingers white on my shirt. Her body heaving. "The alley — he — he kissed me —"
She didn't finish the sentence.
She didn't need to.
My hands released her arms. My body moved. I was past her and down the hallway and my hand was on the back door before the thought caught up with the action. The door opened. The alley light hit my face. Cool air. The security lamp. The dumpster.
Garrett was by the dumpster. One hand on the wall. Straightening up. He looked up. He saw me. And his mouth curved — a smirk. He spat blood onto the concrete. Jessica's lipstick was on his mouth.
"Your girlfriend's a fucking whore, Blackwood. She was gagging for —"
My fist connected with his jaw before he finished the demented thought. The impact ran up my arm. His head snapped sideways. His body hit the brick wall. He staggered. Caught himself on the dumpster. Blood on his lip. His eyes wild.
He didn't shut up.
"Fucking Blackwood." He spat blood. Straightened. His fists came up — loose, sloppy, the stance of a man who'd never been in a fight in his life. "You think you're better than me? You think she's yours? She's a fucking tease, Blackwood. She wanted it. She —"
His right hand swung. Wide. Slow. I caught his fist in my palm.
Closed my fingers around it. Squeezed. His knuckles ground together, and a sound came out of him — high, sharp — and I drove my other fist into his ribs.
He folded. I hit him again. My knuckles split, but I didn’t notice the pain, just the wet mix of our blood.
He hit the wall. Slid. Caught himself. His mouth still going. "Fucking whore — she came out here with me — she wanted —"
I grabbed his collar. Hauled him upright. Pinned him against the brick. My forearm across his throat. My face close to his. "Shut your fucking mouth,” I growled.
His breath was ragged. His nose was wrong.
Face nearly covered in blood. But his mouth curved again — the smirk, even now, even with his face broken and my forearm on his throat.
His teeth were bloody and his eyes were glassy, but he looked at me and said, "You can't touch me, Blackwood. I'm untouchable."
My fist drove into his stomach. He doubled over my arm. The air left him in a rush. I let go of his collar, and he dropped — his knees hitting the concrete, his hands finding the ground, his body curling. I stood over him. My fists at my sides. Blood dripping from my knuckles onto the concrete.
He looked up. Blood in his teeth. His mouth opened again.
My hand caught his collar. Hauled him up. My fist drew back.
Boots on concrete. Behind me. Fast.
Clay's arms locked around my chest, and hauling me backward. My boots scraped the concrete. I fought him, arms pulling against his hold, my weight driving toward Garrett.
"Hunter." Clay's voice rang loud in my ear. “Hunter, stop. He's done.”
Wyatt flew past me. His hand on Garrett's collar — holding him upright against the wall, keeping him from hitting the ground. Liam came beside Clay. His hands found specific points on my arms — trained grips, precise, his weight redirecting mine from forward to back.
“Let go of me!” I roared, thrashing in Liam’s arms. I fought them — my own brothers. My arms straining against Liam’s chest. Garrett was bleeding against the wall, and I couldn't get to him, and every fiber of my body was trying.
“Look at me!” Clay's face was in front of mine. His hands on my shoulders. His eyes hard and steady. "He's done. It's over. Look at me."
I was panting, sweat slicked, and covered in blood splatter. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, my knuckles screamed.
But I still fought. My shoulders wrenching. My feet sliding on the concrete as they dragged me back.
Maggie walked straight up to me, and put both hands on my face. Her palms on my jaw. Her fingers pressing into my cheekbones. Her eyes level with mine.
"Hunter." Quiet. Steady. "Jessica is behind you. Turn around."
My breathing was ragged. My body was shaking in Clay's grip. But Maggie's eyes held mine. Her hands were warm on my face. Her voice was the only sound that was landing.
I turned.
Jessica was in the hallway doorway. Callie's hand on her arm. Stephanie behind her. Ivy beside her. Her torn dress. Her red cheek. Her eyes — wet, wide, locked on mine.
My arms dropped. The fight went out of me. Not gradually — all at once, like a wire snapping. My body sagged against Clay. My hands hung at my sides. My knuckles throbbed. My breathing jagged.
"Jess." My voice was wrecked. "Jess."
Liam was on the phone. His voice low. Controlled. "Yeah. The Silver Spur. Alley out back. We need a unit." His eyes swept the alley. Found the camera — the CCTV above the back door, the small black unit bolted to the brick, its red light blinking. He pointed at it. Nodded to himself.
Wyatt let go of Garrett's collar. Garrett slid down the wall. Sat on the concrete. His head hanging. Blood dripping from his chin onto his pressed shirt.
It wasn’t enough. It’d never be enough for what he put her through.
Clay walked me inside. His hand on my back. "Move, Hunter. Inside. Now. Before you try to kill him again.”
I went. My legs heavy. The adrenaline still surging — my heart slamming, my hands trembling, my skin hot and prickling. The hallway was too bright, and the bar was loud, but Jessica was somewhere ahead of me, and my body was already pulling toward her instead of back toward the alley.
Clay steered me through the bar. To the booth. I didn't sit.
Jessica was standing by the table. Callie's hand on her arm. Ivy beside her. My jacket was around her shoulders — someone had grabbed it from the booth. Her face was swollen. Her cheek red and rising. Her eyes wet.
I crossed the space between us. My hands found her face — both hands, cupping her jaw, my thumbs on her cheekbones, gentle, careful, avoiding the marks. My palms were bloody. I didn't care. She didn't flinch.
"Are you okay?" My voice was raw. My throat tight. "Jess. Are you okay. Look at me."
"I'm okay." Her voice was small. Her chin trembling against my palms.
"I'm sorry." The words came out broken. "I should have been there. I should have come sooner. I'm sorry, Jess. I'm so sorry."
She shook her head. Her hands found my wrists. Her fingers wrapped around them and held on. "You came. You came, Hunt."
I pulled her in. Folded her against my chest. My arms around her — my hand on the back of her head, her face pressed into my shirt. Her body was shaking against mine. My body was shaking against hers. But she was warm against me. She was here. She was breathing.
I held her. My chin on the top of her head. My eyes closed. My arms tight. The bar was quiet around us. The family was close. I could feel them — Clay at my shoulder, Maggie nearby, the booth full. I didn't look. I held Jess and breathed and waited for my heart to slow down.
It took a long time. The adrenaline didn't leave easy — it ebbed in waves, each wave leaving me shakier than the last, my muscles going from rigid to loose to rigid again.
My jaw ached from clenching. My hands throbbed.
But her arms were around my waist and her breathing was slowing against my shirt and I held on to that. I held on to her.
Clay's hand on my shoulder. "Sit down. Both of you."
We sat. Same side of the booth. She wouldn't let go of my hand and I wouldn't let go of hers.
My arm around her shoulders. Her body pressed against my side.
Maggie beside me. Callie at the end. Jack standing behind the booth.
Wyatt at the entrance to the hallway — his arms crossed, his back to the room.
Ben Alvarez behind the counter, towel still, watching.
The sheriff arrived in twenty minutes. The red and blue lights washed through the windows of the Silver Spur and painted the walls of the booth. Liam met him at the door. They spoke — low, professional. Liam pointed toward the back. The sheriff followed him through the hallway.