Page 176 of Always Love You More

The man pulls his head back. “What’d you—”

“I’m not listening to shit you have to say until you step away from her.” He moves toward us. “I don’t care what she did.”

The man drops his hold on me, and Jameson is at my side in an instant.

“You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “You? When I heard the …” I shake my head. “I thought …”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m sorry.”

He wraps his arm around me, and I press into his side as he turns his attention to the man.

“We good here?”

The man stares him down, flitting his eyes to me before drifting back to Jameson. “You better lock this shit down,” he mutters. “The way she came storming in here …” He shakes his head. “She was lucky.”

Jameson steps forward, his body moving in front of mine. “That a threat?”

“Just letting you know she might not be as lucky next time.”

“Go wait in the car,” Jameson forces out.

“No,” I say, reaching for him. “Come on; let’s just go.” When he doesn’t move, I tighten my hold on his hand. “Please.”

My plea seems to snap him out of his rage, because he jerks his chin into a nod and begins to turn.

The man barks out a laugh. “Damn, never thought I’d see the day.”

Jameson stills, looking over his shoulder. “What was that?”

“Bitch has got you leashed, doesn’t she?” Assessing me, he drawls, “But with a body like—”

“Don’t finish that fucking sentence,” Jameson cuts in, dropping his eyes to the gun in the man’s hand and pushing me behind him. “You wanna say that shit to me without hiding behind a gun, huh?”

“He took yours, too,” I whisper shakily. “He has your gun.”

“You think I’m scared of you?” the man scoffs. “You’re just some punk kid who thinks he’s tough ’cause of who your old man was. Everyone walks on fucking eggshells around you. I’m fucking sick of it. You haven’t earned shit.”

Jameson lets out a low laugh, the sound menacing. “Oh, I haven’t earned shit? And you have?” He motions to the outstretched gun. “You gonna drop that or keep hiding behind it?”

The man lets go of the gun, his face smug. “Happy?”

“Kick it away.”

He does.

“And my gun you took off her.”

The man grabs Jameson’s gun from the back of his jeans, discarding it. “There,” he says. “Even.”

“You know,” Jameson mutters, moving toward the man. “I never liked you. Well”—he cocks his head—“actually, you never really crossed my mind when you were in my old man’s crew. I barely knew your name.” He takes another step forward. “But you knew mine, didn’t you?”

The man charges for Jameson, who shifts his attention to me for just long enough to ensure I’ve moved out of the way. Then he sidesteps a punch the man throws, laughing as the man swings his fist again through the air. Each attempt to land a hit on Jameson is futile, and it’s only making the man angrier.

Not once has Jameson returned the effort, and I realize that rather than giving a fight, he’s planning on delivering utter humiliation.

The man’s breathing is becoming heavy, and I see the satisfaction light in Jameson’s eyes. He lets out a condescending laugh.