Page 34 of Crowbar

Engines turned over, then we pulled out.

Chapter Eleven

Spencer

I curled up on the couch with my feet tucked under me, trying to make myself smaller. Maybe if I took up less space, Ken would run out of things to yell about.

He paced in front of me, shoes wearing a path into the hardwood. Back and forth, back and forth. The gun swung in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it, except I knew he hadn’t. Ken never forgot what he was holding when it gave him power.

“You’re fucking him.” His voice was too calm. That was worse than the yelling. “How long? How long have you been spreading your legs for biker trash?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me!” The gun jerked toward my face. “I saw you. Saturday. Walking around town with his hand in your pocket like you’re his property.”

My mouth went dry.

“You’re mine, Spencer. Mine. We’ve been together almost three years. You don’t just get to throw that away for a guy who rides around on a motorcycle like he’s compensating for something.”

He resumed pacing. Four steps left. Turn. Four steps right. The gun bobbed with each stride, barrel pointing at the floor, then the wall, then somewhere near my head.

“I’m going to kill him.” Said it like he was discussing the weather. “Shoot that biker trash right in his smug face. See how tough he is with a bullet in his skull.”

My blood went cold. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” Ken stopped pacing and looked at me like I’d said something hilarious. “You’re defending him? After everything I’ve done for you?”

Everything he’d done. The broken arm. The bruises. The nights I’d slept in my car because going home meant walking into a fist. That was what he’d done for me.

Ken in his grey Henley with his styled hair and his cologne that cost more than my rent. Polished. Put together. The kind of guy who looked good on paper and knew it.

Then there was Crowbar. Leather and motor oil and a toothpick that never stopped moving. Hands that were scarred from real work, not a gym membership. A man who’d paid for urgent care without asking what it cost and fed me breakfast in bed like it was the easiest thing in the world.

No contest. Not even close.

“You’ll never be half the man he is,” I said.

The pacing stopped, and Ken went still. The gun stopped swinging. Everything in the room crystallized into a single point of focus.

“What did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

Ken crossed the room in three strides and got in my face, gun pressed against my forehead. Cold metal bit into my skin. His breath smelled like syrup and rage.

“I should shoot you instead. Save myself the trouble.” His finger moved to the trigger. “But first I’m going to find your boyfriend and put a bullet between his eyes. Make you watch.”

Terror clawed up my throat. Not for me. For Crowbar sitting in his truck, oblivious, thinking I was safe inside working. Ken would walk right up to him and pull the trigger before Crowbar even saw it coming.

I wished he was here. Wished he’d followed me inside instead of staying outside. Wished his arms were around me instead of Ken’s fury pressing me into the couch.

Ken’s free hand shot out and grabbed my bad arm, fingers digging into the exact spot where he’d wrenched it days ago. Pain exploded white-hot from shoulder to fingertips. A scream tore out of me before I could stop it.

Ken grinned.

The expression was worse than the pain. Pure enjoyment stretched across his face, his eyes bright with something that looked almost like pleasure. He squeezed harder, and I cried out again, tears streaming down my face.

“That’s better.” He released my arm and stepped back, still grinning. “You always did sound pretty when you cried.”