Page 91 of Promiscuous Lies

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “I see you’re fucking the Taylor kid,” he sneers. “They broke into the place I was staying and took two of my men. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“The Taylor kid?” I laugh at him. “You’re literally only a few years older than him, and your brain is smaller.” Then my gaze drops to his crotch. “Come to think of it, you’re smaller than him in more ways than one.”

I knew it was coming before the words even left my mouth. But I couldn’t help myself. He swings his arm, and his fist connects with my jaw. I feel it crack and hope to God nothing is broken as I cup the side of my face.

“Get up, you stupid bitch. See, if you would have stayed with me to begin with, I wouldn’t have to teach you how to talk to me.”

Just then, a car screeches into the driveway. Dutton jumps from the car and strides straight over to us. He doesn’t even pause, stepping right up to Bobbi, and a fight breaks out. Only a few punches are thrown because Bobbi keels over when Dutton punches him in the stomach. I only hear a loud grunt as Dutton blocks my view of him.

“Did you think it was smart to come back here? I warned you that this was a bigger game than you were ready for,” Dutton says coolly.

“You stabbed me,” Bobbi says breathlessly, the handle of a knife sticking out from his gut.

I grab Dutton’s hand and pull him back. He turns and looks at me. His eyes go wide when he sees the discoloration blooming on my jaw. He touches it, and I flinch, even though he’s gentle as he does.

“Go inside and ice your face,” he tells me just as Eli and Hawke pull up in another car. Ford is most likely with Bobbi’s men.

I inhale a sharp breath because although I agreed to this, signing someone’s death warrant is serious business. I harden my resolve, reminding myself Bentley might’ve been here.

“The stab wound is not lethal; it’s why he’s still standing,” Dutton informs me, and he’s back to being the cold, calculating version of himself. Then he turns to address Bobbi. “I want you to know the only reason you’re still breathing is so I can show you how to treat a woman later.”

Bobbi shoots me a pleading look. And it’s unbelievable that he still thinks I’m stupid enough for him to manipulate. “You wouldn’t let them do anything to me, Posie. I’m your son’s father.”

“What is my son’s name?” I ask. When he doesn’t answer, I smile even though it hurts to do so. “You have no idea and will continue to have no idea. You put yourself in this situation.”

“Striker will come after you for this; it’s best you let me walk now,” he threatens, gripping the knife as if afraid it will go in deeper.

“Waylon could try, but we both know he would rather not start a war over a piece of shit who thinks it’s fun to hit women. You kept that secret quiet, didn’t you? I understand that he doesn’t want your kind back,” Eli answers as he stops next to Dutton. “I suggest you walk over to that car and get in nicely.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you people. I know who you are,” Bobbie spits, attempting to step back. But Hawke is behind him and, with a smile, throws his arm around Bobbi’s neck as if hugging him but terrifyingly tight. I watch as, after a few moments, Bobbi sags to the ground like a sack of shit.

“Ice. You need ice.” Dutton grabs my hand and leads me to the house.

“What are they going to do with him?” I inquire.

“You don’t have to worry about him again,” is the only answer he gives me. Like that’s enough, I glance back as wereach the front door and see Eli and Hawke dragging Bobbi to the car.

“How sore is it?” Dutton asks as I lift my hand to my face, flinching when I make contact.

“It’s okay,” I lie. And we both know it’s a lie. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing,” I whisper, the reality of having faced Bobbi one more time finally sinking in.

“It’s okay, Posie. This is my decision. The blood will be on my hands, not yours. Now, get in that house and ice your jaw before you have to get your son later.”

I walk to the kitchen on autopilot, and Dutton follows closely behind me. He goes straight to the freezer, grabs the ice cube tray, and finds a plastic bag to put the cubes in. He then gently removes my hand from my swelling jaw and places the ice bag on it. I flinch in pain, glaring at him accusingly.

“You need to ice it,” he says and tries again to put the bag against my face.

“It’s cold.”

“That’s the point.” He chuckles. And when he tries a third time, I let him and try not to pull away. He drops down in front of me and holds the ice against my jaw while he stares at me.

“Marry me.”

“Stop asking,” I reply, my jaw throbbing.

“I won’t.” He smirks.

“Can you kiss me? Just here.” I tap my other cheek. And without moving the ice pack, he leans forward and goes to my ear first.

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