Into the Storm (Signal Bend #3)(75)

“Up you go, *. We’re taking this outside.”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry!”

“Too late.”

Show dragged him through the office, the front room, and out the door. He wasn’t a little guy, maybe six feet, looked like he worked out, but Show knew the guy was no match for him, even in his still-compromised condition. If he hadn’t been choking the life out of Shannon, Show would probably have gone easy on him for the rest of it. But he had been. Not the first time that somebody had sought to do harm to somebody he loved, but it was the first time Show had been there and able to deal with it. And Keith was getting all of it.

He pulled him down the porch steps and threw him onto the lawn. The guy kept his feet and turned around with his fists up. Show grinned.

“Good. You can have the first go. Fuck, I’ll give you two.” He spread his arms wide. Keith pulled in as if he were going to jab…and then bolted for his car, a big black Mercedes Show hadn’t even noticed when he pulled up. Show had a long reach, and caught him by the collar as he tried to dodge past him.

“No, man. You don’t get off easy. You hurt mine. You pay for that. You pay for it all.” He threw him to the ground, and then dropped down himself, straddling him.

With the first punch of his beringed fist, he went into the zone, cognizant of nothing but the feel of wet flesh and softening bone against his knuckles. He didn’t even see Keith’s face. He heard nothing but the locomotive roar of eighteen months of unexpressed rage, of impotence finding its power.

When he felt strong arms hooking under his arms, he tried to pull away, but thought no more about them. But then he was being pulled backwards, and the world surged back in. Shannon was screaming hoarsely. His hands were dripping wet and aching sharply. The man on the ground before him was unrecognizable. And it was Isaac who’d pulled him back. Isaac hadn’t even been there when he’d started.

“Jesus Christ, Show! Jesus Christ! Badge—check him for a pulse.”

Then Badger was in Show’s field of vision, kneeling down at the side of the unconscious bastard. He turned to Isaac, looking distraught. “I can’t—I can’t find one! I don’t know if I’m doing it right!”

Show shook Isaac off and crawled forward, finding the pulse point in Keith’s neck. “He’s alive. It’s strong. Here, Badge. Right here.” He grabbed the kid’s hand and put it on the pulse. “Got it?”

Badger nodded, relieved. All three conscious men rose to their feet. Show then saw that both Shannon and her daughter were outside—Shannon standing a few feet away, her daughter on the porch, near the door. Shannon looked like she was about to break into about a thousand pieces. Show couldn’t discern much of an expression on the daughter. She met his eyes, then turned and went back inside.

Isaac turned to Shannon. “I’m gonna use the inn van and take this guy to the clubhouse. I’ll call somebody to patch him up, then we’ll talk to him, smooth this shit over. Who is the guy? He somebody we need to worry extra about?”

Shannon was staring at Show, her eyes wide. Show said, “Shannon, answer him.”

With a mechanical stiffness, she turned to Isaac. “My ex. He’s—he’s an attorney in Tulsa.”

“Fuck,” muttered Isaac. “What kind of attorney?”

“Defense. Criminal defense.”

Isaac laughed. “You’re shittin’ me. Well, then, probably not his first beating.” He nodded at Badge.

“Come on, brother, let’s clean this up, then you hang around, keep an eye out, make sure everybody stays cool.” Looking at Show, he said, “You clean your shit up, too. Then get back to the clubhouse. We need to talk.”

Show nodded. He didn’t otherwise move, not when Badger and Isaac hoisted a still-unconscious Keith and carried him to the truck, not when Isaac pulled away in the van, leaving his bike behind. Show stood on the lawn, eyes locked with Shannon, both of them frozen and silent, until the dust had long settled from Isaac’s departure along the wide, quartz gravel drive.

She looked awful. Her hair was a snarled mess, her makeup smeared, mascara making smudgy tracks down her cheeks. She was wearing yesterday’s clothes, her top wrinkled and askew. She’d had a rough night. And a rough morning. Her neck was swelling and banded with red marks—fingers. Show might need to put some more hurt on that slick son of a bitch.

Finally, she spoke. “You almost killed him.”

“He hurt you. I told you that I’d protect you. I told you what I’d do.”

“I’m not running, Show. I love you. Please…please believe me.”

He nodded. “I do.” He didn’t think he had a choice. He loved her. He couldn’t leave her.

CHAPTER TWENTY



Shannon couldn’t look away. Even that felt like too much distance from him, but she couldn’t move closer, either. She was stuck on the lawn, staring at Show, her head both spinning and entirely empty. She was exhausted.

But he’d come back. He was here. He’d come for her, and he’d defended her. She glanced at his hands, where they hung at his sides.

“Your hands are bleeding.”

He lifted his hands and looked down at them, then gave them both a hard shake. Blood flew off in thick glops.