Page 10 of Reese’s Protection

Pure rage powered through me the longer I stared at the mess. Layton worked hard, and we didn’t have a lot, but what we did have, we took care of. I glared around until my gaze settled on Reese, who had his arms crossed and was shivering in my leather coat. I knew damned well that Layton had noticed Reese was dressed in my clothing, and it was only a matter of time before he started teasing either me, Reese, or both of us about it. That was the last thing I needed on top of everything else.

“Where does this shithead live?”

Layton and Reese blinked at each other.

“Jeremy! Where does he stay?”

“Why?” Reese asked. He cupped his cheeks with his hands. “I’m really sorry about this.” His eyebrows danced up, and I’d never seen anyone looking so sorry for himself.

“Because what goes around comes around,” I growled out. “Get in the truck. Both of you. Now.”

They nodded and scrambled into my vehicle as if their lives depended on it. Reese and Layton squeezed into one seat, even though it really wasn’t meant for two people. I was furious enough that I didn’t care.

The second I got behind the wheel, I glared at them. “Tell me where I’m headed.”

“Go that way,” Layton said. He pointed in the direction the truck was already facing.

Reese shrank in on himself.

“This isn’t your fault, Reese,” I snapped, sure I sounded like I thought it was exactly that, but I couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry he⁠—”

“Don’t you ever say you’re sorry for what some abusive douchebag does.” I slapped the steering wheel.

He slid a shaking hand over his mouth and sat up straighter.

“Go left,” Layton said, giving me a hard look. I wasn’t sure what he was trying to communicate, probably that I was being an overbearing ass, but I wasn’t in the mood to pull back. I could feel that evil need to fucking ruin someone seeping into my blood and making my muscles tingle. This was what I imagined had driven my dad to be a nightmare, this need to wreck someone and destroy their life. Normally, I tried not to indulge in it.

Tonight, I would.

“There,” Reese said, pointing.

Of course, Jeremy would have a decent ranch-style house in a nearby neighborhood—only with brand-new gray siding and windows trimmed in flawless white. I glared at his home before going to a cross street and turning right. I parked up that street and grabbed Layton’s arm.

“What?” he asked with a frown, glancing down at where I gripped him. I rubbed my thumb along his arm and some of the tension eased out of his expression.

“Stay here and keep the truck running,” I said quietly, then got out.

“Wait!”

I rummaged around in the big toolbox in the bed of the truck until I came up with the axe I sometimes used to cut down saplings when I needed them in a project. I glanced at the chainsaw but decided that might be overkill, even for me. The passenger door opened.

“Get back inside.” I ran my finger along the shiny silver edge of the axe head.

“Shit!” Reese rushed to my side. “What are you doing?” His brown eyes were wide but more curious than scared.

Maybe he needed to see someone standing up to his dickhead ex. For inspiration.

“Come find out.” I grinned at him and spun on my heel. As we made our way up to the house, he frowned when I left the sidewalk and cut through the grass to the first big window to the left of the front door.

“I want him to leave me alone, not start shit,” Reese growled.

“He started it. With you. With my brother. Fuck this guy.” I swung and shattered the glass. I’d done the other one on the opposite side of the door before a light inside popped on.

“Oh fuck!” Reese ducked against the side of the house, but my blood was pumping, and I didn’t give a shit. I hurried around the house, swinging the axe at every single window as I came to it, with Reese letting loose a steady stream of “shitcakes, motherbleeper, Jiminy Cricket!” under his breath.

“Oh no!” Reese pointed, and the lights in the houses on both sides of this one were blazing. The sound of sirens in the distance had me groaning. Of course, this chicken shit would call the fucking cops. Abusers were always the weakest, biggest scaredy-cats.