with his head, sending stars in an arc around him.
Livi fought and twisted trying to get free from the guy who’d ripped at her gown.
Jesse shook off the fog he felt, fists ready and jumped at the guy.
Bull hit him hard across the back bringing him down to the ground. “You need to learn some manners,” he said, tossing a large piece of driftwood aside. “We’re only after a little fun.”
Olivia was screaming, crying, and kicking her attacker.
Jesse struggled to his feet and landed a right hook to Bull’s face. It surprised the huge man. He fell backwards onto the sand. Then Jesse turned his wrath on the guy holding Olivia. He lunged at him delivering a blow to his face which made the guy let go of her. Bull jumped on Jesse from behind throwing him to the ground. Jesse tasted blood, realized it spewed from his nose.
Bull wasn’t laughing anymore. He was furious, his fists flew into Jesse wherever they could land, pummeling him. Bull grunted and screamed curses with each blow.
Jesse raised his head. “Run, Livi! Run!”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave you.”
“Go, go!” Jesse shouted.
The blows were relentless. A foot kicked him in the face filling his eyes with sand. He tried to blink past it. A blow landed against his ribs, and he felt several crack. Blood ran into his eyes blurring his vision, but he strained to find Olivia. The other guy was just standing there, watching the beating. That would mean Olivia got away. Jesse struggled to draw a breath, then he realized that Bull had stomped on his chest. He wheezed as another blow came, this one to his ribs. His hand was trampled, he couldn’t move it. Another kick to the face. His mouth filled with blood. Something cracked against his knee, he felt the bones give way. He couldn’t cry out in pain. Then …
Nothing.
Chapter Ten
Wishing Beach
Present Day
Angela
The bells jingled when Angela opened the door to Island Floral and stepped inside the shoppe. Immediately, her senses were captured by the large beautiful space where light softly illuminated the room from the enormous window to her left. An intoxicating fragrance of fresh flowers wafted over her. And of course, there were lovely green potted plants. Everywhere.
“Ahh,” she whispered, then inhaled a deep breath filled with the floral perfumes of earth, sunshine, and life. This was the kind of place she could stay forever.
“Be right with you,” a voice she recognized as Willow’s called from somewhere in the back of the store.
“It’s just me … Angela. No hurry,” she called back as she glanced around trying to take it all in. A functional credenza sat in the foyer area. A vase of assorted fresh flowers rested there, no doubt intensifying the pleasing fragrance in the air. Next to that was an array of ‘take one’ information brochures for Island Floral, as well as for the neighboring merchants. Over by the window sat a round glass table with four chairs, a small stack of floral arrangement catalogues waited on top. The service counter sat further back in the room, banked by the glass doored refrigeration unit that displayed the pre-made arrangements and bouquets.
That’s where the usual ended.
Angela’s gaze was drawn to a massive painting that hung on the right wall. It summoned. She walked across the dyed concrete floor of beige, rust, and sand that glowed with a satin sheen to the center of the room. Two fawn colored low back settees faced each other with a small coffee table between them. That space was anchored by a bright, multicolored rug. From the settees, you could see both the table and chairs by the window as well as the massive painting on the opposite wall.
Angela stood, mesmerized by the work of art. There was something about it. Although there was a flamboyance to the brushstrokes, the painting itself was somehow soothing … wistful. She’d never seen a painting quite like it. Angela closed her mouth, she realized it was gaping as she tried to take it in, tried to sum up a response, an opinion. She could come up with neither. There were splashes of color amid the bold strokes, abstract yet ... not abstract. In the midst of it all, was an impression—and an almost tangible motion—of a man and a woman. Angela had seen all manner of technique, but this … she couldn’t define. Not that she was a qualified critic, of course, but she was an art lover.
She cocked