Page 113 of Average Joe

“I’ve got nothing to say to you, boy,” came a muffled voice. “Get out of my building.”

“Not leaving. Open up.”

Another long pause. Joe’s grip on my hand tightened, and I craned my neck to get a read on his face. His jaw was set tight, but he noticed me staring and shot me a wink. “You might hear some ugly shit come outta my mouth in there. Just know that it’s necessary when dealing with—”

“I understand,” I interrupted. I understood too well. Joe’s uncle, Harper, and my father were cut from the same cloth.

Out of fear or frustration, Larry opened the door and gestured for us to come inside, checking the hallway before shutting us in. His gray hair was slicked back and still wet, his beard freshly shaved, and his Tommy Bahama button-up and khakis were neatly pressed. The cologne he wore made my nose tickle, but I refrained from scrunching up my face.

His living space was small but tidy. His decorating obviously inspired by Total Wine & More. Varying bottles of alcohol decorated shelves and side tables, some in clusters, some single bottles on display.

“Who’s this?” Larry avoided my gaze but gave my body a quick sweep before glaring at Joe.

“This is Marley,” Joe said. “We’re looking for her son, Dylan.”

Larry waved a weathered hand. “I don’t know any kid by that name.”

“He works for Harper”—Joe’s voice deepened—“so I believe you know the kid.”

My heart dropped to my gut. Larry and Harper were connected? Had Joe known this all along?

“If that’s the case, then I’m not saying a word.” Larry pointed to the door. “Get outta my house.”

“Larry.” Joe released my hand, stepped closer to his uncle, and seemed to swell, his body tensing, the air between them shifting, warming. “I know you’re loyal to that fat, greasy fucker, but Marley here is worried about her boy, and I don’t like that she’s worried. You have any information about Dylan Masters, it’s in your best interest to share.”

“Masters?” Dark eyes flashed, briefly meeting mine. “You’re a goddamn Masters?” He shook his head, stumbling back, his butt falling into the couch cushions. “As in Warren, the woman-stealing, backstabbing Masters?” The old man rubbed his temples with trembling hands, not looking to me but Joe for an answer.

“Yes,” I belted out, shoving Joe to the side and bending low to make sure the old fart met my glare. “You don’t like my father? Good. Neither do I. Now, where in the hell can I find my son?”

The geriatric pig took a lazy gander at my chest, then said to my lips, “Last time I saw your kid, he was getting a blow job from his favorite gal over at Dirty Dreamz.” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and he failed to give me the respect of eye contact.

Either Larry was trying to get a rise out of me, or he indeed was an old-school, womanizing swine.

Mama bear was ready to wrestle, and my claws were lethal. The only way to mess with trash like Larry was to fight dirty.I snatched the first bottle within reaching distance and smashed the end on the coffee table. A chunk of veneer and fiberboard fell to the floor, but the bottle of Maker’s Mark stayed intact.

Okay. That didn’t go as planned.

Larry shot a confused look over my shoulder to Joe.

Joe would not hurt his uncle, that much I knew. He’d threaten, he’d bully and scare, but he wouldn’t cause physical harm. Larry knew as well.

I was the wild card. I had to make that man talk.

I rushed the geezer and slammed the bottle into his groin, then jumped out of the way before he could strike.

A childlike scream tore from his throat, his face twisting in agony.

I smiled because mama bear was just getting started.

Joe

Mom was famous for her temper. Hell, my own had landed me in hot water on countless occasions. But never—and I’d spent years living with criminals and a violent MC—had I witnessed anyone blow their top with such reckless abandon.

My looney bird had lost her shit.

I well and truly felt for Larry. The plethora of profanities and testicle-shriveling threats that erupted from the wild-eyed, red-faced, crazy woman while she held my uncle’s balls in a bionic fist had my heart racing and my stomach revolting.

Larry should’ve passed out after the first few minutes. I’d never seen my uncle cry, but lo and behold, he trembled, tears pouring down his wrinkled cheeks, his lips moving but not a discernible word coming out.

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