Page 39 of Tear Me to Pieces
I’m listening so closely that when a deep grunt echoes up the stairs, I yelp, scrambling up the mattress.
That sounded like Simon.
“Shit,” I whisper as I fly out of bed, panic sending my eyes bouncing around my room in search of something I can use as a weapon. Nothing jumps out at me. All I see is pillows and a clock and a stack of romance novels. Nothing capable of causing damage to whoever might be down there.
I start freaking out as another muffled, masculine sound of impact reaches my ears. Every second that passes is one more second Simon might be hurt downstairs, and the fear that he might need me sends adrenaline dumping into my veins.
And reminds me of a scene inJohn Wickwhere the bad guy talks about John killing a dude with a pencil. I don’t have any pencils, but that’s not important. The lesson from that scene isn’t that I need a pencil. It’s that anything can be a weapon if you’re motivated enough.
My frantic gaze settles on my nightstand.
Bingo.
I drag the drawer of it free and dump the contents onto my comforter. Once it’s empty, I grip it by the handle, letting the weight of the solid wood dangle by my side, and stalk out into the hall.
Over the course of my childhood and marriage, I wished there was someone to come save me more times than I can count. Facing a threat alone is terrifying and isolating and traumatizing.
I’ll be damned if I let Simon feel that way.
I quickly creep down the stairs, avoiding all the creaky spots with my bare feet, the sound of a struggle getting louder with each step I take. Moving faster, I close in on the shadowy forms fighting in my kitchen. Hoping to take the intruder by surprise, I raise one hand to the light switch, adjusting my grip on the drawer handle before flipping it on.
Simon stumbles back, his eyes widening on the asshole in front of him. “What the fu?—”
I don’t give the guy who broke into my house the chance to acclimate to the change in brightness before I swing the heavy weight of the wood drawer, aiming it right for the side of his head. He’s got his back to me, so I’m pretty sure he won’t see it coming.
But Simon does. In a surprising move, he lunges forward, catching the drawer before it can take out the dark-haired man I’m fully intending to concuss.
Simon’s hand wraps around one side, the sudden stop of my momentum jolting all the way up my arm and making me yelp. “Hey.” I try to yank it from him, already planning a second attack.
It won’t be a sneak attack though, because the other man turns to me, gaze narrowing on where I stand.
I blink, thinking my own eyes are struggling with the brightness, because he almost looks like…
“Butch?” I let go of the drawer. “Why in the hell are you breaking into my house?”
I’ve only seen the guy a handful of times. He’s a lot like Simon in that he only comes around every few months, then makes himself scarce in a hurry. But now that I’m thinking about it, it’s been more than a few months since I’ve seen him. Way more than a few months.
And now he’s breaking into my house.
It’s kinda weird. Maybe even a little suspicious.
Simon must be thinking the same thing, because his eyes narrow on the man he considers his brother, as he asks, “Where the fuck have you been?”
Butch—who up until this point has looked formidable as fuck—slumps, his shoulders dropping. “It’s a long fucking story.” He closes his eyes, scrubbing one hand over his face. “And you aren’t gonna like it.”
14
SIMON
“I can tellyou I don’t fucking like you breaking into Myra’s house.” I stare down the man I was once close to. Once considered my brother.
I’m not sure I even know him anymore.
“I didn’t know anyone lived here.” Butch flings both arms out, motioning around the space. “Last I knew, Jill owned it and it was sitting empty.”
I scoff. “You didn’t know because you fucking disappeared. No one’s heard from you for months and now you’re acting like you can just show back up like nothing happened.”
Butch angles a brow at me. “That’s awful fucking funny coming from you, considering you disappear just as much as I do.”
