The shooting, the breakup, a new job, and starting a new life in a new city. It’s a lot to take on.”
I feigned a smile and said, “I’ll be fine.”
“Well, go home and get you some rest.”
“That’s an excellent idea.”
Jack walked me over to my car and waited for me to get inside. He gave me a quick wave, and then I was on my way. As I started home, I couldn’t stop thinking about my conversation with Lucas. It was one thing to see him in a parking lot, but it was another thing entirely to actually have to speak to him. I hated the man with every fiber of my being, and as awful as it might sound, I wished he would die in a fiery car crash so I’d never have to lay my eyes on him again. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen, and like it or not, I would be having to face Lucas again—which was something that filled me with dread. I wouldn’t have had to worry about it so much if I could talk to Clay or Beckett about it, but no matter how tempted I was to ask them for help, I couldn’t do it—not after I’d told them both that I wanted to figure out things on my own. One way or another, I would have to handle Lucas Brant on my own.
The next morning, I got up early, well before my mother. I put on an old sweatshirt and a ballcap, and being careful not to wake my mother, I slipped out of the house. Minutes later, I was on the road driving towards downtown. I had no idea where I was going until I saw the store sign—Guns and Ammo. That’s when I knew I had the answer to my problem with Lucas. If he was stupid enough to come see me again, I would be ready.
17
T-Bone
“Goddamn it!” Gus shouted as he chucked a hand weight across the room. “I’m sick of this bullshit!”
Patrick, Gus’s physical therapist, kept his tone low and calm as he said, “Easy there, Gus. I’m gonna need you to settle down and concentrate so we can get you out of here.”
It had been four months since the night that Gus was shot, and after weeks in the hospital and a stint in a rehabilitation facility, he’d made remarkable progress. It seemed the doctors had been right. The bullet had caused minimal damage, and other than a nasty scar, no one would ever have guessed that the man had taken two bullets. He was up and walking, talking like normal, and he’d even gotten most of his memory back, but he was still struggling a little with his fine motor skills. Gus’s face grew red as he growled, “Don’t see why we still gotta do this shit. I’m fine!”
“I tell you what. When you can write your name in cursive, then we’ll consider the job done.”
“Cursive? Why the fuck do I gotta be able to do some girly shit like that?”
“I don’t know”—Patrick leaned over to him—“maybe so you can sign your name on a check or hold a fork in your hand without dropping food all over yourself.”
“Fuck you, Patrick.”
“Why don’t you take a five-minute break?” Patrick patted him on the shoulder and said, “Cool off a bit and then we’ll get back at it.”
Before Gus could fire back at him, Patrick turned and walked over to the front desk, leaving Gus sitting alone at the workout table. I could see that he was stewing over there, so I got up and walked over to him. “Having a rough one?”
“Yeah, you could say that.” Gus ran his hand over his beard. “I’m tired of spending my days here with Patrick and his fucking torture tactics when I should be at the clubhouse. Fuck, man, I got shit to do.”
“You got shit to do right here, Prez.” I knew he was frustrated, and rightly so. He’d been busting his ass to recover from his injuries, and while he’d come a long way, he still had his work cut out for him. That wasn’t something so easy for Gus to swallow; unfortunately, he didn’t have a choice. I tried to be reassuring as I told him, “I know it’s not in your nature to take orders from anyone, but Patrick is trying to help.”
“Well, Patrick is gonna get my fist down his throat if he isn’t careful.”
“Gus.”
“I know. Damn it, I know.” He let out a