25. Cash
CASH
I’m still driving when the background check finally comes through from Miranda. The phone is in my hand, screen glowing against the dark interior of the truck as I try to read and keep between the lines at the same time. My foot is heavy on the gas. I know I’m speeding but I don’t give a fuck.
Zachariah Mercer. Three prior arrests for domestic violence. Two different women. Both before he ever married Halle. The cases were dropped by the women so there aren’t any convictions.
Which means no fucking consequences for being a coward of a man.
My jaw locks.
I continue to scroll with one hand, eyes flicking between the road and the screen. One woman had a broken wrist, the other had bruises around her throat and a busted lip. He walked away both times because they were too scared to see it through.
My stomach turns.
This is the man who married Halle.
This is the same man who made her feel so insignificant that she packed up her whole life and ran back here like she had something to be ashamed of. Like she was the one who did something wrong.
If I find out he’s ever laid a finger on her, he’s a dead man.
Either way, he’s better off a dead man.
I call her. It rings twice and goes to voicemail. I call again. Same thing.
I try Colt next. Nothing. Rhett. Nothing.
Nobody’s picking up.
I press harder on the gas, the truck surging forward. The road blurs; I can barely focus on the lines. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to move faster. My chest feels tight, like I can’t pull in a full breath.
I keep thinking about that pink bike sitting alone in the dark parking lot behind the bar.
I keep thinking about how many nights I’ve sat out there in my truck, headlights off, just watching until she locked up and got in safe.
I told myself it was nothing—just making sure she was okay. Just a habit.
Bullshit.
I’ve been doing it because I can’t fucking stay away from her.
And right now, every single part of me is screaming that something is wrong. That I spent weeks trying to drink like a goddamn idiot while this piece of shit was circling closer.
I glance down at my phone again, reading the same lines over and over like they might change. Arrested three times. Two different women. Dropped charges. No consequences.
I throw the phone into the passenger seat and grip the wheel with both hands, pushing the truck even faster. The engine roars. The road’s empty—no other headlights for miles. Just me and the white line and seventeen more minutes, if I keep my foot down.
I’m coming, Halle.
Just hold on.
Please.
When I pull into the lot behind The Bar, I see a car I don’t recognize parked near the back. It’s not one of the regulars, and it’s not Halle’s. Something about it sitting there makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
I park farther down and cut the engine. I don’t go through the front. I move around the side of the building and slip in through the back door, as quiet as I can. The stockroom is dark and smells like beer and cleaning supplies. I move through it slowly, listening.
“Halle?” I call out.
No response.
That’s when I hear voices.
I step into the main room and stop cold.
Halle is standing near the bar with the shotgun in her hands, pointed straight at Zach’s chest. He’s got that same smug, ugly look on his face I remember from the day I slammed his stupid fucking head against the hood of his car.
My vision tunnels.
I don’t think. I just move.
I step out where they can both see me.
Zach’s head snaps toward me first. For half a second, surprise flashes across his face. Then that ugly smile comes back.
“Well, well. Look who decided to show up—the little redheaded boyfriend.”
I keep walking, slow and steady, eyes locked on him. “Funny, coming from the guy who’s got a gun pointed at him.”
I glance at Halle. She’s still holding the shotgun, but her hands are shaking. Her eyes flick to me, wide and shocked, like she can’t believe I’m really here.
Zach lets out a short laugh. “You think this changes anything? She’s still my wife. She’s still coming home with me. You’re just some kid she’s using to feel better about herself.”
“She’s not your wife anymore. And she’s sure as fuck not going anywhere with you.”
Zach’s eyes flick to Halle, then back to me. His smile turns meaner.
“You really think she wants you?” He sneers. “She’s just using you to piss me off. The second she gets bored, she’ll drop you just like she’s dropped everything else. You’re nothing to her.”
I stop a few feet away from him, close enough that I can reach him if I need to.
“She doesn’t drop people, she escapes them. And you’re the one she ran from.”
Zach’s face twists. He takes a small step toward Halle, but I move with him, cutting him off.
“Don’t,” I warn, voice dropping. “Don’t you fucking take another step toward her.”
He laughs again, but it sounds strained now.
“Or what?” he spits. “You gonna play hero? You gonna save her from the big bad husband?” He looks at Halle again. “You really gonna let this kid fight your battles for you? You’re pathetic.”
Something cold settles in my chest.
“Halle,” I say, still watching Zach. “What did I tell you about fucking hesitating?”
I start moving toward Zach, ready to grab him and drag him the fuck away from her—I don’t care if I have to break every bone in his body to do it. But before I can reach him, the shotgun goes off, the sound deafening an already quiet bar.
Zach stumbles backward, eyes wide with shock, clutching at his side, blood already soaking through his shirt.
For a second, he stays on his feet, swaying, like he can’t believe what just happened.
Then he lunges at me anyway, but he doesn’t make it far.
His legs give out as he crashes to the floor, gasping.
Blood spreads fast across the old wooden boards.
Halle drops the shotgun, and it clatters to the ground as she backs up, eyes huge. She looks like she’s about to be sick, then her legs give out. She doesn’t fall, but she has to grab the edge of a barstool to stay up.
“Fuck,” she whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
She turns and disappears toward the back, probably looking for something to stop the bleeding.
He’s on his back now, one hand pressed weakly against the wound in his side. Blood is already spreading fast beneath him, soaking into the old wood. Every time he tries to push himself up, his arms shake and give out. He coughs, and bright red bubbles at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes find mine. There’s still hate in them, but it’s drowning under fear now.
I walk over to him slowly.
He looks up at me, chest heaving. “You … you can’t do this,” he rasps.
I lift my boot and press it down hard on the wound, grinding the heel in deep. Zach’s whole body jerks, and a raw, wet scream tears out of him. Blood spurts between my boot and his shirt, soaking into the floorboards faster now.
I lean my weight into it.
He screams again, the sound turning into a choked, gurgling mess as blood floods his throat. His hands claw at my boot, fingers slipping in his own blood as he tries to push me off. He can’t. He’s too weak. His legs kick weakly against the floor, heels scraping across the wood.
I press down harder.
“She may have been yours first, but she will always be mine.”
Zach’s eyes are wide and glassy, rolling with panic. He tries to speak, but all that comes out is a thick, wet choke. Blood pours from the corner of his mouth in a steady stream now, running down his jaw and into his neck. His fingers twitch against my boot one last time before they go slack.
I keep my boot there for a few more seconds, just to be sure. When I finally lift it, a thick, dark pool of blood stays behind, spreading slowly across the floor. Zach’s eyes are still open, staring at nothing, and his mouth hangs slightly open, more blood leaking from the corner.
I step back and notice the blood everywhere—on the floor, on my jeans, on the sole of my boot.
I don’t care.
When I turn around, Halle is standing a few feet away, a stack of bar towels clutched in her hands. She’s staring at Zach’s body, at my boot, at the blood spreading across the floor. Her face is pale, eyes glassy with shock. She hasn’t moved since she came back.
I walk toward her slowly, then reach for her, taking the towels from her hands and letting them fall to the floor. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused, like she’s going into shock. I cup her face with both hands, tilting it up so she has to look at me, her skin is ice cold.
“Halle,” I say, my voice low. “Look at me.”
She blinks slowly, like she’s coming back from somewhere far away. Her hands are still shaking.
I don’t give her time to drift again.
I kiss her hard, my mouth crashing against hers like I’m trying to drag her back into her body by force.
One hand fists in her hair at the base of her skull while the other locks around her waist, yanking her flush against me.
She tastes like fear and adrenaline and the faint metallic tang of blood.
She makes a small, broken sound against my mouth and clutches at my shirt like it’s the only solid thing left to ground her.
I don’t let her pull away.
I kiss her deeper, rougher, until she’s gasping into my mouth. When I finally break the kiss, I keep my forehead pressed to hers, breathing hard.
“I will always do whatever it takes to protect you,” I tell her, voice dark. “You hear me? Always.”
She nods once, shaky, but her eyes are still a little distant.
She’s going in shock, but I need her here, with me, not lost in her head.
Fuck. I slide my hand from her waist down to her hip, then lower, gripping her ass hard enough to make her gasp.
My cock is already hard, has been since I watched her pull that trigger and stand her ground like a fucking queen.
The violence, the way she looked at me afterward, the blood on the floor …
it’s all mixing with something raw and possessive in my chest.
I’m losing her—I see the disassociation in her eyes.
I grip her chin and make her look at me again.