Page 60 of Love Me Steadfast
“Like what? Politely ask that prick to apologize?” The only way to make this guy see the error of his ways was by making him suffer.
“If something like this ever happens again, I need you to promise me that at least you’ll try it before you start swinging.”
I look away. “Okay,” I reply, though it’s weak at best. Because I will never let someone I care about get hurt again, not when I can do something about it.
Why did it feel so good to pop that guy?
“I arranged for you to spend the next four Sundays washing dishes and taking out trash at the diner.”
“What?” I cry. “But that’s my only day to chill.”
“I know,” he says in that firm tone. “But maybe some hours of free labor will be a reminder next time you think about solving problems with yourfists.”
“What about the dickhead who started it?” Turns out he’s a senior, though I honestly have never seen him before.
“Let me deal with him.”
I bite back the protests piling up in my throat because they’re just going to fall on deaf ears. “Fine.”
He pushes off the counter and crosses the distance, then beckons me in.
I fight my reluctance. Zach is all I have, and he sacrificed so much to protect me. He’s not trying to bust my balls. He’s looking out for me, just like he always has. Rising, I step into his firm embrace.
“Love you, brother,” he says.
“Love you too.”
When he steps back, we share a final look before he heads for the door.
Chapter Eighteen
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
When I push insidethe pawn shop, a computerized doorbell chimes from the back. It’s a narrow space, cramped with junk of all types. A glass counter runs along the right wall, containing antique coins, all manner of rings, and watches. Above, from metal hooks in the pegboard wall, hang purses, artwork, a neon sign that reads “Life Is Good” in hot pink. Dangling from the ceiling are a giant antler chandelier, a disco ball, and a gaudy, oversized fixture of white glass beads that would be at home in a Vegas casino. The floor is cramped with boxes, some opened, some not. On the left is a rack of women’s clothing, a shelf of designer shoes, and above it, musical instruments hang by their necks on the pegboard.
“Help you?” a man’s raspy voice calls from the shadows, making my skin jolt.
I give him a glance. He’s got thin reddish hair and a long, scraggly beard. His giant belly stretches his faded red T-shirt and his bare, fleshy arms are decorated with tattoos, the story they tell faded, almost warped.
Morgan’s guitar and violin are not on the wall, so I approach the man. “I’m looking for something you may have bought recently.”
His beady dark eyes narrow. “You some kinda cop?”
“No.”
He clucks his tongue. “Afraid I can’t help you then.”
“I only need to know if the items passed through here.” I shake my head to clear the frustration already building inside me. “Not who sold or bought them.”
He crosses his arms. “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Excuse me?” I grit out.
A low chuckle rumbles up his throat. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
I hold back from begging. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s how to play the cards that I’m dealt. “It’s against the law to buy stolen goods, right?”
He grunts.
