Page 2 of Scar

But with each addition, it only drove home even harder that his brothers would all eventually have what Scar never could.

He’d overheard a doctor at the VA describe Scar as ‘ruined, not broken’. Jumper, for all his trauma and similarities to Scar, was broken. And broken could be mended. There might be blemishes and visible flaws, but broken could be fixed. Jasmine had become the resin that held Jumper together.

Scar wasn’t broken. He wasn’t damaged or awaiting repair. He was ruined. Like the vehicles at Grumpy’s garage that were nothing more than scrap metal, Scar would never be whole again. Too much of him was missing. He could never give himself to a woman to put back together because not all his puzzle pieces were in his box.

The reality,hisreality, might make it impossible for him to ever be healed, but he’d do his damnedest to ensure all of his brothers received their happily ever after.Theydeserved that peace, that solace.

He would give them what he couldn’t have: a home.

Scar’s sensitive ears picked up on a sound. Though muffled by the heavy rain, it did not take him more than a second to register the gunfire for what it was. He heeled the kickstand up and shot off into the night.

* * *

It wasthe slate grayBugattiDivo that had Scar pulling over. He’d passed one of the club’s SUVs on the road, coming away from the bridge. Though the rear windows were tinted, Scar caught sight of Frankie behind the wheel. She was a college friend of Sissy’s and had been hired on as a nanny to put some distance between herself and her ex.

Would she still be staying around Mount Grove if she knew her ex was now worm food for putting his hands on her?

Scar didn’t know, and it wasn’t his place to inform her. Eventually, she’d learn her ex was no longer looking for her and make her own decision about her future.

Mount Grove was a small town divided down the middle by a river filled with mountain water. The bridge that connected the two sides of town was directly up ahead, meaning Frankie had been coming from the north side and going in the opposite direction of the steakhouse where the wedding celebration was being held. The erratic speed with which she was driving also clued Scar in that something was wrong on the other side of the bridge.

But he pulled over before crossing it. The Divo was idling just before the incline of the bridge. Not only did Scar recognize the vehicle, but he had no doubt who was sitting behind the wheel. The continued gunfire echoed across the river and yet the expensive, over-the-top sportscar remained where it was on the small dirt shoulder.

Like the driver waswatching.

Once out of the center of town, Main Street was surrounded by woods on both sides of the road for a few miles with only the bridge and river to impede the foliage.

Scar drove his bike off the road and directly into the brush. Tunnel vision was his best weapon against any enemy. When they were so focused on what was in front of them that they never saw him coming at them from behind.

Mud squelched around his tires and boots, but Scar paid it no mind as he pulled his helmet off his head. If his bike fell, it fell. Bikes could be replaced. Lives could not. Never again would Scar put somethingover the life of someone. Whoever was across the bridge was still alive because the gunfire continued. He had to believe whoever it was was holding their own.

Scar was going after the cowardly mastermind, because no one else would sit in their vehicle to watch but the man who orchestrated the chaos.

Rain touched the skin of his face like acid drops. But he pushed past the pain. Pain was temporary, a trick of the mind. Boots to the pavement, he’d just barely made it to the trunk of the sportscar when the engine suddenly revved and the driver gunned it.

Scar chased after it. He was fast, even uphill. He could not take the time to go back and get his bike. He’d make it across the bridge without it in the same time.

He’d expected the sportscar to head down the other side, but it came to a screeching halt at the crown of the bridge. It was angled in the single right lane with its bumper towards the metal guardrail and the headlights towards the double yellow lines splitting the roadway.

The driver was out of the vehicle. Scar didn’t notice things like what shoes he was wearing or what color his shirt was. Such details were insignificant and only delayed his mind. What he saw was the man’s stance, how his feet were placed on the asphalt, and the hand he had raised towards the woman in front of him.

Sophia Groveton. Scar was nearly to them when two cop cruisers came speeding up the incline. Despite their presence, he didn’t slow. If Sophia was running away from the descent of the bridge, that meant at the very least Pirate was down there and Scar did not hear any more gunshots. The rapid fire had told him the initial bullets were from machine guns, two at minimum. He did not know who else was below.

He didn’t know who wasalivebelow.

The cops could handle Fletcher Montague. Scar needed to get to his brother. His destination had not changed.

He flew through the rain, his boots barely making contact with the ground below, he was running so fast.

The scream that pierced the air had his eyes flick to the scuffle at the front of the sportscar. In the beams of the headlights, Scar watched as Montague’s hand landed on the holstered weapon of a deputy.

His feet changed direction without a direct thought. He did not focus on the gun or the police. His eyes were only on Pirate’s woman.Histunnel vision now became his downfall.

He was a second too slow. The gun fired. His aim to tackle her changed.

Scar stepped in front of her.

Pain was just a state of mind. That was what he told himself every day of his existence. It was all in his head, the buzzing, the sensitivity, the dying echoes of those he failed to save…

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