Page 70 of Tell Me No Lies

If one of those punk kids—

“Where is she?” The familiar, slightly whiny voice stalls my steps.

“Your wife’s gone. Long gone.” Tate’s calm tone only makes me more upset. He shouldn’t have to be so calm about this. Shouldn’t have to stand in front of the piece of shit who I’m sure is responsible for the slashes that flattened the tire I can see and the dragging marks marring the black paint.

At least he’s not doing it alone, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

I change my trajectory based on the direction of Rick’s voice. I already had a score to settle with him. The spray starch no longer feels like adequate retribution now that I know how much what he did upset Tate. Plus, he just fucked up my future husband’s Jeep. So now I’m gonna have to hit him twice.

That brings a smile to my face.

Shit like this stresses most people out. Dumps their adrenaline, pushing them into fight or flight. Not me. I had to get used to facing angry, mediocre men at such a young age, it doesn’t faze me anymore. If anything, I get excited about the opportunity to take back just a little of what I’m owed.

What all women are owed.

Tate stole that chance from me once and I’ll be damned if he does it a second time.

I keep my steps silent, grateful for all the times he stuck ice on my ankle over the past few days. No limp is gonna slow me down this time. When I reach the bed of the truck, I crouch lower, peeking beneath the undercarriage so I can see exactly where Rick is standing. His khaki covered shins are situated close to the back wheel well, offering me enough coverage to stay out of his sight until I’m within striking distance.

“I’m not talking about my wife,” Rick sneers. “I’m talking about yours.”

“You won’t fucking touch my wife.” All the calm is gone from Tate’s tone. He sounds exactly like he did when he and Rick crossed paths last time, which means my time to get a shot in is running out. “You’re not gonna get near her, so take your little gun and crawl back into the hole you came out of.”

My whole body goes cold. Did he say gun?

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I start to move faster, finally feeling a little of what normal people would in this situation now that I know Tate’s in actual danger. Up until now, I was worried he’d handle Rick before I could, but the mention of a gun has turned my thoughts from simple maiming to murder. Because I’ll be damned if I let a piece of shit like Rick harm a hair on Tate’s perfect head.

“Fuck you,” Rick wheezes. The closer I get, the more I notice his voice sounds weaker than it did before. Hopefully that’s because he’s sporting a few broken ribs from Tate’s kicks in the laundry room.

He's about to be sporting a lot more than broken ribs.

I reach the end of the tailgate and round the back bumper, stepping quickly as Rick continues spewing his bullshit.

“All of this is her fault. She tempted me. Tempted my wife.” His hatred for me has him getting louder. “God wants me to punish her and take back what’s mine.”

I continue along the back end, staying crouched down, grip on the wrench so tight my fingers are starting to go numb. I get Rick’s back in my line of sight right when he asks, “So where, the fuck, is she?”

“Right here, asshole.” I brace as he spins my way, knowing I’ve only got a split second to make my move and knowing Tate is never going to let me hear the end of this. He’s going to be pissed as hell at me, but there’s no way I’ll let this asshat take him from me. Not now.

Not ever.

The second the pistol clutched in Rick’s hand is no longer pointing at Tate, I swing, bringing the weight of the wrench up as fast as I can in the direction of his outstretched arm. I’m pretty fucking fast.

But not quite fast enough.

The gun fires right as I make contact and the jolt of the bullet sends me staggering back. Warmth blooms across my skin as Tate lunges, gripping the gun still in Rick’s hand as it levels on me a second time. He wrenches it to one side, twisting it back before it discharges once more.

Rick’s eyes widen, his mouth going slack as he slumps against the side of the Jeep and slowly slides to the asphalt. Tate leaves him to fall, reaching me as I begin to wobble on my legs.

His strong arms hold me steady as my brain begins to catch up with the events of the past few seconds. I tuck my chin, staring down at the blood creeping across the cotton of my T-shirt. “That dick shot me.”

“He won’t do it again.” Tate’s tone is clipped and cold as he switches on the safety of the pistol he took from Rick and shoves it into the back of his waistband. Then he scoops me up and starts running. In seconds we’re inside the shop and he’s screaming.

Fucking screaming for them to call an ambulance.

I’m not sure if I’m in shock or still pissed or maybe just dying, but there’s not an ounce of fear or pain in me as everyone races around, yelling and panicking as they press clean shop towels into my shoulder.

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