Page 52 of Until You Say Stay
“Brandon was there?” I ask, voice level. “At her performance?” My jaw clenches. “And that’s what threw her off?”
“I mean, yes. But I think it was more that it brought back all that stage fright she’s had before.” Maren’s words come faster now, apologetic. “She gets nervous when Brandon is there or not, but I think she thought maybe she could push through it this time, and then he showed up and sat right in front and just… yeah. But you can’t do anything, okay? Ugh, I can’t believe I said that.”
My hand tightens on the bag of mulch I’m holding. Fucking Brandon. At Lark’s performance. The first time she’d gotten up on a big stage in years, and that asshole showed up.
“It’s alright, really. I’m not going to do anything stupid.” I force myself to sound casual, like the information isn’t making my blood boil. “I just fucking hate that guy.”
She snorts, going back to her weeding. “Well, there’s something we can definitely agree on.”
We go back to working in silence for a few minutes, me hauling mulch with more force than necessary, her meticulously arranging her garden beds. I try to keep my movements measured, my expression neutral, but inside I’m already planning. That’s the last fucking time he messes with her.
“Jack,” Maren says, watching me too closely, “promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid about Brandon. He’s a scumbag, but he’s not worth getting into trouble over.”
I nod, trying to hide the rage building inside me like a pressure cooker. “Yeah,” I manage, my voice carefully controlled. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to do anything.”
“You better not be lying to me, Jack,” she says, pointing her trowel at me like a weapon. “I know that look.”
“Don’t worry, Maren. Scout’s honor.” The lie slips out easily. Too easily.
We finish up the gardening work with conversation about her and Calvin’s plans for the rest of the landscaping, about the Miami event, about anything but Brandon. Maren keeps shooting me worried glances, but I’m careful to keep my expression neutral, my movements measured and controlled. Inside, I’m already calculating. I’ve seen Brandon’s truck at a construction site in town where he’s been working on the new retail development. I know exactly where to find him.
“Thanks for your help,” Maren says as I’m packing up to leave, wiping her dirty hands on her jeans. “You sure you don’t want to stay for lunch? Those aioli sandwiches I promised?”
“Rain check,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Just remembered I’ve got some errands to run.”
I’m on my bike and halfway to the construction site before I even really think about what I’m doing. The rage that’s been simmering since Maren’s revelation is now a full boil.
Maybe Lark’s not really my girlfriend, but that doesn’t change the fact that she deserves better than having her piece of shit ex-husband showing up to mess with her head. Lark can fight her own battles, but some people only understand one kind of language.
And I’ve always been fluent in making sure bullies understand exactly where they stand.
The construction site is easy to find. New retail development, supposed to bring jobs to Dark River or whatever bullshit the town council said to get it approved.
I park across the street and check the time. 11:47 AM.
When noon hits, workers start streaming out toward their trucks, hard hats in hand, ready for their lunch break. Brandon’s easy to spot even in the crowd. Still has that same walk—shoulders back, chin up, strutting like he owns the place.
I get out of my car, but before I can approach him he stops beside a kid who can’t be more than seventeen, new to the crew, judging by the clean boots and wide eyes. Brandon’s barking at him, voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “What’d I tell you about dragging your feet? You screw up one more measurement and you’re done, you hear me?”
The kid mutters an apology, cheeks red, and Brandon waves him off like he’s garbage.
That’s when I cross the street. “We need to talk,” I say.
Brandon turns, already pissed, eyes glassy and mean—like maybe he started his lunch break early with something strongerthan soda. “What the hell doyouwant?” he growls, stepping in close. Then he shoves me in the chest hard enough to make it clear he’s looking for a fight.
I don’t give him another chance.
The punch lands clean. Right on his jaw, exactly where I aimed. His head snaps to the side and he stumbles backward, crashing against his truck with a metallic thud. Blood immediately starts pouring from his split lip, running down his chin.
“What the fuck!” he sputters, hand flying to his face. His fingers come away covered in blood and his eyes go wide. “Jesus Christ, Midnight!”
My knuckles throb, already starting to swell. Completely fucking worth it.
“We need to have a conversation,” I say, closing the distance between us before he can recover. I’m taller than him by a few inches, and I use every bit of that height now, stepping into his space until he has to tilt his head back to look at me. He’s pressed against his truck, nowhere to go. “About you showing up to Lark’s performance.”
His eyes widen. “It’s a public venue,” he says, blood dripping from his lip. He wipes at it with the back of his hand, smearing red across his skin. “I can go wherever the hell I want. It’s a free country.”
“You can go lots of places,” I agree, my voice deadly calm. I plant my hand on the truck beside his head, caging him in. “The grocery store. The hardware store. That shitty sports bar you like. But Lark’s performances?” I lean in closer and I see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Those are off limits.”
