No Perfect Hero(49)

No.

Hell no.

I crumple the letter in my fist, hissing as I stand and stalk toward the trash can.

I won’t respond to Eddy because he’s a cheating piece of crap, and he stole not one, but two relationships from me. My best friend stole my fiancé...but my fiancé stole my best friend, too.

I hope they rot in hell together. Though judging by the way Eddy's already trying to slither back, their fun together didn't last long.

Deep breath. I’m going to be fine.

I toss the crumpled note in the trash and peer into the fridge to see what I’m going to whip together for Tara’s breakfast and my dinner before I leave her with her sketchbook and her stoned cat while I catch some sleep.

But before I can pull out the carton of eggs, the sound of a roaring engine and churning tires jerks me from my thoughts. I blink, straightening and peering out the window just in time to see Warren’s truck come tearing down the front lane before slewing to a halt in front of the main house.

I can’t see much of him as he gets out and stalks across the lawn to vanish into the house.

But what I see looks pissed.

I’m not worried about that asshole. I’m not.

But I am curious, and I slip my feet into my sandals, tug my pajama shorts down enough to be decent, and head outside. I’ll just casually drop in with something about needing fresh towels.

I’m sure no one will believe I’m not being nosy, but, well...

Any thoughts of curiosity vanish as I make my way down the path and hear the sounds of angry, raised voices.

Two of them. Male. One of them Warren’s.

My heart skips a beat just as my stride skips a step. I surge ahead, jogging down the path to the front step. When I mount the porch and push the door open, I freeze in place as I stare at the insanity before me.

Warren’s got Flynn Bitters up against the wall, grasping the front of his shirt in both hands and dangling the man off the ground like a scarecrow. Flynn’s red-faced and wheezing while Warren...holy hell.

I’ve never seen him like this.

I’d thought I’d seen him angry, but apparently all I’d experienced was his grumpy scowling and sulking. This is different. Chilling.

Warren so completely stock-still it’s like raw fury has complete control over his body and won’t let him move an inch, his face a cold mask as he stares the old man down.

“You expect me to believe,” Warren says, slow and menacing, his voice a lion's growl, “that you didn’t know shit?”

Flynn spits, aiming for Warren’s face, but it ends up dribbling down his own chin as he thrashes and glares. “Let go, asshole! It ain’t my business, so I didn’t make it my goddamn business!” he flares. “Get the fuck off me, boy.”

“Boy.” Slowly, Warren tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “I’d rather be a boy than a miserable, broken coward.”

Anything else they might say is cut off by the involuntary squeak in the back of my throat. What the hell is going on here?

My hand flies to my mouth. Oops.

They both go stiff, Flynn’s head jerking toward me while Warren keeps his gaze locked on Flynn.

Yet he’s speaking to me when he calmly says my name.

“Hay.”

Just like he’s greeting me over eggs at my kitchen table.

Slowly he steps back, letting Flynn drop with a clear look of contempt, a simmering promise in those dark blue eyes. I think if he wasn’t so calm, I'd almost be afraid when Warren is an imposing man, one made for brute violence. But that calm says he's in total control.

Flynn isn’t even bruised. Just indignant as he drops down to the floor with a grumble, brushing himself off.

For just a moment, those stormy blue eyes lock on mine, and Warren sweeps past me and out the door. It’s not rage anymore in that stark, heavy gaze.

It’s pain.

Something almost like...betrayal?

I stay frozen in the doorway for a few moments longer, torn between following Warren and minding my own business. But a baleful look from Flynn sends me scurrying out.

I feel like Warren has me on a tether, drawing me after him when I can’t stand that aching look on his face, that hidden agony in his eyes, whatever deep-buried wound drove him to such animal fury.

I don’t know what I can do to ease it. I don’t even know why I want to.

I just know I can’t let him go right now.

Not like this.

He’s already halfway across the yard to the cabin before I even get close enough to call his name, but he doesn’t slow down as I say “Warren!”

Nothing. He just takes the front porch steps two at a time, and he’s half a second away from slamming the door before I catch up with a quick-burst sprint and insert myself against the jamb.

He stops, barely catching the door before it hits me. A mute simmering look flashes toward me before he grunts and Incredible Hulks his way inside.

“Warren!”

No response to his name, but he doesn’t stop me from following. After a breathless moment, I slip through the door and close it more gently behind me.

“What happened? What was that?” I ask, watching as he just stands in the middle of the room, breathing deep and slow, hands curling into fists. “You could’ve hurt him. He’s just an old man.”

“He’s a lying asshole, and he’s holding his tongue so hard I hope he chokes on it,” Warren growls, broad shoulders heaving in tight waves of muscle, handsome jaw locked tight, muscles ticking against weathered, tanned skin. His entire body’s so tense his tattoos writhe over the cut chisels of his arms as if they’re alive, these wild beasts mirroring their master’s outrage. “If he gets someone hurt, nothing I could do would be enough.”