Page 43 of The Way Back Home

“What are you doing here?”

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Been standin’ here the last twenty minutes tryin’ to figure that out myself.”

“And did you come to any conclusions?”

“Not one.” He laughs, and it’s genuine. The smile that goes along with it about breaks my heart.

“You gonna come inside and help then, or you just gonna stand there thinkin’ up reasons to leave?”

He swallows the steps between us, and I shove my trash at his chest. He takes it from me and steps down off the porch and into the yard to the dumpster. I smile to myself as I walk inside and study the boys, who’re spinning around in an old dusty office chair they found in one of the storage closets.

I shake my head and pick up the broom, cleaning away more debris from the wall we knocked down yesterday and the dust from the particle board. The boys ignore me, but the moment August’s huge frame fills the doorway, both of them are on their feet and casting their gazes around, more than likely for something to look busy with.

“I hope you boys aren’t giving Miss Anders any trouble.”

“Nope, we good,” Josiah says.

“Uh-huh, totally good,” Beau adds with a cocky smirk. I roll my eyes.

“Well, I’m here,” August says to me, running a hand across the back of his neck. He looks nervous, and if I’m honest with myself, freaking adorable. “Where do you want me?”

Oh, the answers I have to that question. A more important question might have been “Where don’t you want me?” I hand him the sledgehammer and smile. “You can start by finishing off that wall you beat up the other day.”

The boys chuckle. “Pussy whipped,” Beau says under his breath.

“Bro, with an ass like that I’d be pussy fucking whipped too,” Josiah says, and the other perp just about rolls on the floor with laughter. Before my brain can play catch up and process what’s happening, August’s hand is wrapped around Josiah’s throat and the boy is choking.

“August. NO!” I cry and attempt to pry his steely forearm away from Josiah, but it’s like moving a mountain. “Let him go.”

“Apologize,” he says through gritted teeth.

“August, come on, he’s a minor. Not to mention he’s the sheriff's nephew. I think you’re really gonna want to put him down now.”

“Not until he apologizes,” August says, holding the teenager aloft as if he could do it all day without breaking a sweat.

“Sss . . . ss . . . sorry.”

August sets him on his feet, and he chokes and splutters all over my floor. “Sorry,” Josiah says again when he can get the words out.

“You respect your elders, you respect women, and you respect a man that fought for your freedom, you little fuckin’ shit, or next time I’ll make sure you never have the chance to speak that kinda filth again.”

“Yes . . . sir,” Josiah says. Beau looks as if he might run, but if the tremoring in his legs is anything to go by, he isn’t going to get far.

I hold my hand out to Josiah to help him up, but he brushes me off and gets to his feet. He doesn’t say a thing to August, but the look he gives could raze a man to ash where he stands. Without having to be told, both boys head over to the far corner of the room and pick up their cleaned paint rollers from yesterday.

I let out a noisy exhalation and whisper to August, “Can I see you for a minute please?” He tightens his jaw but doesn’t say a thing. “Outside.”

I stalk out the front door and away from the building to the opposite side of the truck where I turn on him. “What the hell was that?”

“The little punk needed to be taught a lesson.”

“He’s seventeen years old, August. You’re a grown man, and a trained Marine.” He flinches, and I feel a pang of guilt in my belly. I sigh. “He’s the sheriff's nephew.”

“And you’d think that in seventeen years, she woulda taught him some damn manners.”

I shake my head. “You can’t put your hands on these kids because they disrespect someone.”

“It’s what my daddy woulda done.”

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