No Perfect Hero(76)

Because next thing I know, I’m on my feet and Blake’s voice is distant, behind me through the white-hot roar of rage.

Warren don’t, he's warning, you don’t want to do this.

I know damn well that I do, and before I can let my good sense take over I shake off Blake’s hand on my arm and stalk across the bar.

The whole room goes quiet.

It’s no secret how I feel, never has been, but it’s always been a look-the-other way thing because nobody knows the truth of what happened except me. So everybody kept their noses out of small town business for once, letting me avoid Bress and Bress avoid me.

Now it’s like the calm before a tornado comes twisting down out of the sky. Every eye follows me across the room.

And when Bress looks up, the expression of resigned dread that crosses his face might as well be a confession of guilt.

It takes everything in me not to throw a punch. My fists clench like I’m holding on to my own leash and dragging myself back from slamming full force into that hangdog face of his.

The fact that he looks like he’s pleading with me for something.

Fuck him if he thinks he’ll ever get absolution from me. If he thinks I'll let this go.

He should just be grateful I’ve let him live this long.

“Stay away from Wilma Ford,” I bite off without an intro. “I’ve had enough of you fucking with my family.”

And I can’t stand it if Grandma turns up dead under suspicious circumstances.

Just like Jenna.

That’s what happens to Ford women who get too close to Dennis Bress.

The suits facing him start to get up, but Bress calms them with a negligent wave of his hand, then rises, stepping closer to me. He looks at me long and thoughtful with a gaze mournful enough to make that raging boil turn into bubbling loathing. I can't believe he'd even dare.

“Look, I know you want to protect your grandmother, son,” he says, reaching for my shoulder.

Son? Has he lost his fucking mind?

Snarling, I knock his hand away sharply, stepping backward.

“Don’t ever call me that.”

“Habit.” He smiles wanly, weakly. “There was a time when you almost looked up to me like a father.”

“That was before I knew what you were.”

“Maybe so,” he says quietly. “Or maybe you're confused.”

I don't know what's happening.

He's trying to wind me up, or there’s something he’s not saying.

Something that makes me uneasy, but he could be trying to throw me off. Screwing with my head, playing on our past relationship, those old emotions of trust and friendship and camaraderie.

Especially when he continues. “I thought you might find me eventually. I know you’re still angry. And I know this time of year brings those feelings up again. I’m proud that you’ve managed to hold it together this long. That every year you move a little closer to closure. But you’re still eating yourself alive with fury, Warren. If you keep it up, there’ll be nothing left.”

I swear to God if we weren’t in public, Dennis Bress would be dead right now.

How dare this twisted fuck.

How dare he take his fake, paternal tone with me.

How dare he act like he has the right to tell me how to handle my feelings, my loss, my pain – when every last one of those emotions comes down to him and his cowardly, self-serving –

I don’t even realize I’m drawing my arm back with my fist clenched, all my rage bunched up and ready, until something catches on my shoulder.

It draws back on the tight-coiled spring of my bicep. Blake.

He’s got me by the arm, dragging me back with my fist still raised, my face feeling like a frozen mask of hate with ridges of anger carved in my flesh, my teeth hurting from grinding them so hard.

Bress just stands there, looking at me with resigned calm, as if he’d let me punch him right in his droopy, evil face without even flinching if Blake wasn’t holding me back.

“War,” Blake says softly. “C’mon, man. He’s not worth it. Not here. Not now.”

Not here.

Not now.

Not in public, with all these people watching.

These people who don’t have a fucking clue they're sharing air with a monster. These people who adore Bress, who buy into his quiet, patient image, who think he’s just this father figure bringing fresh blood to our town.

I’d be the bad boy gone rogue, and suddenly everyone’s talking about what I’ve been doing since I left, who I’ve been getting mixed up with, what kind of criminal I’ve turned into.

I’d be playing right into Bress’ hands.

Because suddenly he’d be the martyr, and I’d be the villain going after my former mentor, my former team leader, my former friend.

Fuck.

Yeah. Whatever. I guess once I did see him as a father figure.

And that’s why the betrayal hurts so goddamn much.

I let my arm drop, my hand goes lax, and I rake Bress with a once-over.

“We’re going to talk,” I promise, low and just between us. “Soon.”

“Yeah. We probably should, s—Warren.” Bress glances over his shoulder, then drops his voice. “There’s something I need to tell you, anyway. But not here.”

Christ, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear his secrets, his confessions, his excuses.