Page 103 of The Best Kind of Bad

He tears forward, wrapping those surprisingly strong little hands around my neck. Twisting, he hooks his foot around my ankle and jerks my legs out from under me.

We both go down in a tumble. This dumb shit. He’s half my size, and he thinks he has a chance.

I tried being nice.

Well, maybe not nice. But civil. I gave him a warning.

I told him not to even look at my girls and his answer to that was to come over when I’m not home.

Fuck.

This.

Asshole.

I flip him onto his back and straddle him. My fist connects with his jaw. But even that doesn’t manage to wipe the smile off his face. So, I hit him again. And again.

I’m vaguely aware that there’s a world beyond my fist and this asshole’s face, but everything else is a blur. Sound is muted, like I’m underwater. All I can think about it destroying that smile. Making it crystal fucking clear he’s dead if he comes back.

Hell, I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m telling him. But it’s all a jumble.

And then my fist is arrested. For a split second, I’m confused. But then, I realize I’m being restrained—hauled backwards. My first thought is that Skunk has reinforcements, but my back gets hooked by something sharp.

A pointy metal star.

The sheriff.

And while Skunk is the one they should be stuffing into the back of the car, it’s my wrists they’re handcuffing.

I don’t need to turn around to know which Sheriff is restraining me. He and I go way back.

Shit, he and my dad went way back.

And it’s maybe that legacy, courtesy of Runner, that automatically puts me on the suspects list.

Sienna’s trying to get to me, but Sheriff O’Neil brought along the deputy. Marnie’s talking a mile a minute, growing more distressed by the second.

It’s no wonder, can’t be a fun sight to see your farm manager get stuffed into the back of a squad car.

And, insult upon insults, they shove Skunk in right alongside me.

67.

Marnie

Sienna and I stand at the end of the drive, right on the edge of a complete meltdown.

She’s crying. Moaning. She’s blaming herself.

I put an arm around her waist and walk her back to the house. “Sienna. Just stop right there. You did the right thing. If ever a man is threatening your safety, you call the fucking cops.”

Her hands flop to her sides, and she stares back down the drive. “But they came and got the wrong guy. How could they think Dusty was in the wrong?”

Probably because he was telling Skunk he was a dead man while he beat him senseless.

I’m pissed they took him away, but I’m proud of him.

Fuck yeah, Dusty stood up for us.

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