Page 31 of Rush Turner
I stepped close enough to smell his cheap whiskey breath.
“You lost, friend?” I growled.
He spun, startled — dropped a rusty crowbar at his feet. Eyes wide, teeth yellow.
“Hey man— I was just— I thought—”
I grabbed a fistful of his grimy collar and slammed him back against the barn wall, low enough not to wake the kids.
“You picked the wrong damn farm, bud.”
His knees knocked together, stammering something about just needing cash, just needing to feed a habit.
I heard none of it. My mind was already on the girl in that house. The kids upstairs. The line I’d drawn around them that nobody would cross.
I pressed my forearm into his throat just enough to feel him wheeze. “You see this place again? You’ll wish the cops got you first.”
He nodded, eyes wide, tears leaking down the sides of his dirty face.
I pushed ten dollars into his hand and shoved him toward the road, booted him once in the ass for good measure. “Run.”
He ran.
And under the old oak, Tornado watched the whole thing like my personal backup.
25
Jessa
Ikept the gun pointed at the floor, just like Rush taught me.
The kitchen clock ticked so loud it felt like a bomb. My breath came short, too fast. Every squeak of the old porch boards made my heart slam against my ribs.
Then the back door opened — slow, careful.
I lifted the gun halfway before his voice cut through the panic like a knife.
“It’s me, darlin’.”
I lowered the barrel and exhaled so hard my knees nearly buckled. Rush stepped inside, big and calm, smelling like sweat and barn dust and a danger that didn’t scare me anymore.
He locked the door behind him. Deadbolt, chain, both. Then his eyes found mine — and for a second, he didn’t move. Just looked. As if he were taking stock of what he had nearly lost.
“What was it?” I asked, my voice too soft but too loud in the quiet kitchen.
“Drunk local,” he said, tossing the crowbar onto the counter like it was a used napkin. “Looking for an easy score. He found the wrong address.”
I huffed a bitter laugh. “You scared him off?”
Rush stepped closer. Close enough that I felt the heat rolling off him, the hard set of muscle and steel that made other men regret their life choices.
“I did more than scare him.”
I believed him. God help me, I loved that I believed him.
My hand still gripped the gun so tightly my knuckles ached. He took it gently, flipped the safety back on, and set it high on the shelf above the fridge. He always kept it locked up in my room. He would take it with us when we went to bed.
“You did good,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my wrist. “Damn good.”
