“And I hear that you’re going to get your ass kicked through the side of this building if you don’t move it out of my way,” Gunner told him calmly, as though he were reading a weather report. The anger that built inside him had had zero outlet, not until this moment. The guy in front of him had no idea what he was in for, and for his own sake, Gunner prayed he’d reconsider his decision to poke the lion with the stick and simply move.
But he didn’t. Gunner cut his eyes right and saw that Landon had come out of the house, his shirt half on. He strolled across the lawn, crossed his arms and waited.
He wanted to watch this shit. Should’ve known. Landon loved these little grudge matches between his men. Good for morale. Kept the good ones from getting too cocky, showed the others what they had to learn.
Gunner was tired of tests. He dropped his bag, yanked his shirt over his head and threw it onto the ground.
The asshole grinned and did the same and Gunner remained still while the guy circled him, until he tried to go behind him. Gunner turned with him, still calm, keeping his face expressionless.
“Who’s putting money on this one?” Landon called.
Bills were thrown into two piles as the men who’d gathered to watch widened their circle to give the men more room.
“Hasn’t been a good fight here in at least a year,” one of the men said. “Not until you kicked that last jack- off’s head in.”
The man across from him smiled. Gunner bet he’d had a minimum of time in the service, just enough to think he was some kind of badass. And when he lunged for Gunner, Gunner was ready. Grabbed the guy in a headlock and slammed him to the ground, then landed on him, his weight causing the breath to whoosh from the guy’s body.
He didn’t remember specifics. He knew he beat the shit out of the guy, not caring that he wasn’t supposed to fight. Because nothing was illegal on Landon’s property, in his world. Nothing fucking mattered and Gunner punched the man who’d tipped him over the edge.
He snapped back to it when he heard yelling and clapping. This was a bloodthirsty sport, the men like caged animals barely let out to play. Landon had everyone so tightly wound that any downtime brought out the worst in them.
Gunner had fought like this when he was sixteen, the first week he’d been on the island. Two of Landon’s men had cornered him and Gunner fucking shredded them. He might not have been the size he was now, but he’d never been a lightweight.
A born fighter, Landon had called him. He’d raised Gunner’s hand over his head that night, the winner and champion of that particular fight.
Two nights later, four men jumped him. They’d gotten the same exact treatment. It had taken a month of men trying to kill him before they’d given up.
Now he blinked at the man on the ground in front of him. He saw the guy’s chest rise and fall, and although Gunner had worked him over, he hadn’t done any irreparable damage.
He grabbed his bag and his shirt and strolled across the grass.
“You forgot your winnings, James,” Landon called.
“Keep it,” he said without turning around.
In the privacy of the guesthouse—and it was private because he’d checked for cameras and bugs because Landon knew he didn’t handle that shit well—he stripped down and showered, washed the dirt and grass and blood off him. His injuries were minimal, but he couldn’t afford to look hurt. Not in front of this crew, which was meaner and rowdier than any Landon had ever employed.
He’d need an ally when he spent time on the property. Or maybe Landon would keep him so busy he wouldn’t be on the property again.
He stared at himself in the mirror for a few minutes, ran his hand through his wet hair. Then he plugged in the electric clippers, slid it through his hair and said good-bye to Gunner. Watched the blond hair fall all around him until his head was bald. The dark hair would grow in fast, but for now, this suited him. He hadn’t seen the tattoos along his scalp in years. Tribal designs floated across the left side of his skull. There was an eagle on the right that wrapped around the back. He’d wear a skullcap until his hair grew in and covered them again.
Instead of being cathartic, the haircut instead reminded him of the first night he’d met Avery, when he’d helped to disguise her. At the time, he hadn’t known his father was the one who’d tried to kill her. No one had wanted to mention Powell, because they knew he’d know him. But they’d never suspected the biological connection.
Avery’s blonde hair had immediately reminded him of Josie, and he told himself that’s all it was—the hair. But when he’d helped her cut and dye it, the attraction hadn’t gone with it. He’d wanted her more. And there wasn’t really any resemblance between the women, except in their take-no-shit-from-him attitudes.
After watching her kiss Key at the bar, he’d broken two of his favorite tattoo guns and promised that when she walked back in, he was going to fucking kiss her silly. By the time she’d come back into his place, he’d calmed considerably and convinced himself it was the worst idea ever.
It still was.
He walked out of the bathroom and caught sight of the envelope on the bed. Fucker let himself in here and did that, a job that involved killing people left like a mint on his pillow, just because he could.
The outside of the envelope read
Gunner ripped it open and found his plane tickets that had him leaving in the morning, plus the new job. He read the missive, then lit it on fire. He continued holding the papers in his hand until the flames rose and they burned down to nothing between his fingers.
Chapter Seven
“This is a bad idea,” Jem told her, five hours later as they traveled through the backwoods of the bayou in an old pickup truck he’d acquired.
Avery didn’t ask from where. “So why agree to it?”
“Never met a bad idea I didn’t like,” he retorted with a grin. He sobered immediately when he said, “You know how goddamned lucky you are to be sitting here right now?”
“I know,” she said quietly. “Billie Jean’s out of surgery, but she’s still critical. I don’t know the names of the other exes to contact them.”
“I’ve got a few searches going on that,” he said. But that wouldn’t help to warn those women anytime soon. “Suppose this guy who came in to ask about you is the one who tried to kill you?”
“Then at least we’ll know,” she countered.
“And if he’s not, we’re still screwed. But we’ll hunt his ass down.”
The great thing about Jem was he was crazy enough to try what most people wouldn’t. His logic was different from other people’s and he took risks because he could.
Jem truly lived. And that’s all Avery wanted to learn to do. She’d already learned the lesson that life was too short.
The bayou was all narrow paths and missteps. Some of the paths were meant to purposely throw strangers off. It was easy to get lost here.
She and Jem both quieted when they reached the bridge that took them past Grace’s old house and then farther along the old swamps, through roads that didn’t seem as though they should be drivable at all. And they were barely so. It was only Jem’s skill that kept them from rutting out or going into the bayou itself.
After another half an hour, Jem turned the headlights down. “We’re close.”
“And you know that how?” she asked.
“Bayou numbers are hard to find. You’ve got to just count from the start of the road, and sometimes that doesn’t even make sense. But I know this house.” He’d pulled over, cut the engine and pointed now to one they could barely see through the mist and the cypress trees that provided protection and coverage.
