*Cole

The second Jordan rolls off to work, I have one purpose in mind—find Brandon and make that bastard pay for what he did to her. I managed to cage my anger, keeping it fully locked in a small space at the back of my mind the whole time she was here, but now there's only me and my desire to smash in his face. I wipe my hands one last time with the rag and stack the tools I've been using nice and neat on the workbench. Some habits are too strong to break. Then I'm pushing my car as fast as is reasonable on the twisty, back road towards town.

When I reach the populated edge, I slow to the speed limit and at a stop light, I call Javier.

"Hey," I say, when he answers. "You busy today?"

"I've got the kids, as usual. Are you going to the park, do you need me to push you on the swing?"

"Not exactly. If I need you to get me out of jail later, would you be up for it?"

"I'm going to have to be honest and say no. I've got two four-year-old hellions clinging to my legs, sucking the life and energy from my bones. The last thing I need to do is introduce them to a life of crime and have them explain to my wife they got to visit the county jail with daddy's friend."

"And I appreciate your honesty," I say.

"Here's a thought, don't do the thing you are thinking of doing that's going to get the cops called on your ass."

Which leaves me with the Roberta option. She probably knows her way inside and out of the county jail, anyway. "No worries. I can call another friend to bail me out, should it be necessary. I'll talk to you later."

"No, wait—"

I hang up and don't reply when he calls back. The light had turned green, so number one, it isn't safe to answer, and number two, he won't change my mind. I reach the old-fashioned city square with a miniature park in middle of the four streets that made up the town's center. There is an obligatory statue in the middle of it, this one of a Native American, which is really a sick joke. We killed them off, took their land and then put up a statue to remember them by? Fucking hell. The people who commissioned the statue were the same kind of people who are mayors, run the school board, sit on the judge's bench, and have a dozen family members in the sheriff's office. People like Brandon's family. People like my mother and her wonderful husband, Leroy.

Memories of my family aren't my only demons in this town, though. That grey, lifeless face, the strings of greasy hair, the blackened pool of blood—the sight of the dead man haunts me from the alley behind the old pizzeria. I should have been stronger. My last major fuck-up before I lit out of town.

Rolling my shoulders, I banish that memory. The others are bad enough. I can't get out of this place soon enough, the only thing that is holding me back is Jordan. I understand she has to organize the sale of her house and figure out the logistics of moving...but hell. I walk past the Brave with his hand shading his eyes, his bold stance filling the park with a sense of forgotten glory.

No one even bothers to look at him anymore, myself included.

I came here one night and sat at his feet until the deputy found me and took me home. I huddled at the statue's feet, wishing it would come alive and scalp my enemy, then take me off to the forest to be free and wild. I was weak and afraid and no one helped me.

The deputy who took me home didn't ask why my face was bruised or my lip was bleeding. I was eleven. He didn't care. My mother didn't care, except that she was embarrassed I ran away. She came storming out of the house, crying as if she was overjoyed to have her little runaway home safe and sound. The instant we were inside and the door was closed, she slapped me and sent me to bed. Oh, and she called me a fucking drama queen.

Leroy was already asleep. He hadn't even stayed up to see if I came home or not. Beating up a kid must have tired him out.

My hands flex, an old habit, and I keep walking for the diner on the corner. It's a different one than Jordan goes to. For one thing, it's nicer. On the surface, at least. This is one for lawyers, small-town bankers, businessmen and women, dentists, insurance agents, and tourists go to for lunch or a quaint dinner. This is the diner my mother used to take me to on Sundays when Leroy wanted some peace and quiet at the house. She'd dress me up and pretend it was a special mommy-son date.

Yeah. Special times.

But it wasn't because she wanted to spend time with me that we went. No, she wanted to show off to all the women who had slept with my dad. She wanted to show them that she was ultimately triumphant over them, because she was the only who had gotten a ring and a kid out of him. While we ate during those meals, she wouldn't look at me or talk to me, she would talk at me about how ugly and old the other women her age were growing.

Why am I letting this bother me today? Why am I thinking about her?

I find a rare, working phonebooth and pull up the number I found on my own phone. I dial. He grunts a hello.

"Brandon, hey. Meet me at Harrison and West."

"It'll take me while, I got up ten min—"

"Let's move it. Be here in five."

I hang up. I know where he lives, but I don't want to be seen going there. I want him to come to me, but I'm not sure what I'll do to him yet. What can I do? Kill him in the town square? Toss his body at the feet of our proud statue? It's tempting, Ill admit. I'm mad enough to kill him, and knowing that Jordan can't rely on the cops to help her burns me alive. But I can't do that to her. He might deserve it—hell he definitely deserves it a hundred times over. I remember him from high school and the shit he used to try to do to girls, he should be a red smear on the concrete for that alone. But I can't abandon her now.

For all I know, she could get pregnant from what we did this morning.

Fuck.

Fuck, I want to rip him into pieces. And I can't.

Maybe that's why I'm in the middle of town. My subconscious is preventing me from be able to go too far. This place has always made me think twice.

What would Uncle Pete do? The question sparks to life and I can't let it go. I flip through my contacts and before I know it, my thumb is on the green phone to call Roberta. Because I have no fucking clue what Uncle Pete would do and for the first time since I was a scared kid, hiding next to a statue at the middle of night, I wish I had some kind of motherly person who would tell me which direction to go.

My thumb hovers for half a minute.

No. I pocket my phone. I can't bug her with my problems. I can't drag her into this, she's dealing with enough grief and problems as it is. I could have called Pete, but I won't dwell on his death now.

I head for the diner. At the counter I order a coffee and the waitress tries to flirt, asking where I'm going, what I'm doing later. I'm not calm enough to be polite and pretend nothing is wrong, so I don't really answer. After a minute she wanders off, leaving my coffee steaming on the counter in front of me.

It's cheap and has a burned aftertaste. I grimace. And this place is supposed to be the best home-cooked food in town? Fuck these people. The beat-up Taurus pulls into a spot across the street. Its door opens and Brandon steps out, bleary-eyed and hair greasy. He must have thrown on jeans and jumped in the car. He scans the intersection, looking for me.

My fists are already clenched at the sight of him, and I've got dark smudges on the edges of my vision. I want to fight and kill. I force myself to stay calm long enough to drop a five on the counter for the coffee I didn't drink.

The second I walk out of the diner, he sees me and nods cheerfully. That asshole is actually happy to see me.

The hell? Did he not think I'd notice him beating up my girlfriend? What kind of crap ran through this guy's head? Did he think it wouldn't matter to me? Hitching my head, I motion for him to follow me. I turn to the side of the building, in the small, clean alley with the restaurant's dumpsters. For a second, I truly regret not calling Roberta for advice.

Kill him or catch and release with one hell of a warning?

He rounds the corner, cheerful and stupid looking and my body decides for me. I drive me fist into his gut, angling up to knock the air from his lungs. He drops instantly and I catch his collar.

I could bash his head in the wall and leave him. Tempting. So tempting.

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