Page 68 of Jameson’s Salvation

“And what? Watch her bleed some more.”

“Yep. Then clean her up and help her heal. You know I’m right. When Holden fucked up his knee, we didn’t let him wallow in it for two seconds. We immediately started riding his ass to rehab it.”

Weston had lost his ever-loving mind. Kennedy wasn’t a Navy SEAL. She hadn’t injured herself in an accident and needed to recover as quickly as possible before she faced a medical board. She was his woman, and he would not treat her to “The only easy day was yesterday” SEAL mentality.

“Not even close to being the same,” Jameson settled on saying.

“To you it’s not, because you’re lickin’ your wounds right alongside her. You didn’t push her to go back inside her house and face what happened because you didn’t want to face it. And I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to go back to the place where my woman was victimized either.”

“She’s not a fucking victim,” Jameson growled and Weston smiled.

Bastard.

“You’re right. She’s not. So stop treating her like one. She needs you to be the man she fell in love with. The asshole who calls you to the mat when you want to crawl inside of yourself and not face reality. You’re doing her no favors by letting her hide in your room instead of taking her hand and facing her shit head-on. Reggie Coleman thinks he has her on the ropes. He’s probably sittin’ back waiting for her call. Fuck him. She needs to shove the stick he already has up his ass through his throat until he gags on it. And right now, she’s not strong enough, which means you better get to shoving, friend.”

Jameson sat back in his seat and stared out the windshield. Damn if Weston wasn’t right. About all of it. Jameson had been relieved when Kennedy hadn’t wanted to stay at her house. Relief so strong it had washed over his skin like silk when she’d said she wanted to go back to his house.

His jaw ached from grinding his molars. To loosen the tension, he stopped and licked his lips.

“I’m scared if I push her before she’s ready she’ll bolt and go stay with her mom,” Jameson begrudgingly admitted.

“Since when have you been afraid of a little backlash and resistance?”

“Since now,” Jameson returned. “Since I’ve fallen in love with her and the thought of her pulling away from me physically hurts my chest.”

“All the more reason to set her straight and get your head sorted. You’re looking at this all wrong. There’s a storm around you and all you see is debris. But what I see is, this latest incident has cleared your path and you’re not taking advantage of it. Be what she needs you to be. Make this better for her. We’ll all take Reggie down, but you’re the only one who can make her stand when she wants to crumble. And we both know if she gives in, she’ll regret it and hate herself for quitting. We’ve all needed a hand-up—don’t let her use your hand as a crutch.”

Jameson glanced over and studied his friend, not knowing when he’d gotten so wise. Maybe he’d always been, but Jameson never had an occasion to need a come-to-Jesus talk. He’d always kept to himself and been the one to offer support while dealing with his demons in private.

“Thanks,” he muttered his appreciation.

“Anytime. And for what it’s worth, she’s perfect for you. Don’t fuck it up.”

Kennedy was perfect. Everything about her stirred something deep inside Jameson. He needed to get his shit straight because he would not let her stumble. And so far, he hadn’t been doing a very good job at keeping her upright.

* * *

They’d already stopped at two houses and found them empty. Weston pulled down the driveway of the third and didn’t bother trying to be stealthy. If Peyton was inside, there’d be nowhere for him to run without being seen. The modest one-story house was surrounded by an open field and he’d be easily seen if he tried to bolt.

As they got closer it was easy to see no one had cared for the home in a long time. The wood siding was peeling, and in some places, boards were missing. All of the windows had been broken and the screen door was off the top hinge and rested crooked against the frame. Yet, the power was connected. It made no sense, the house was in shambles.

Jameson kicked the front door in, the wood splintering under his boot.

“Why the hell would the door be locked when all the windows are busted?” Weston asked what Jameson had been thinking.

“No clue,” Jameson said and looked around the room. “Someone’s been here recently.”

The walls inside looked just as bad as the outside, if not worse. Tattered old furniture that was probably left by the previous owners because there was no way someone would move this shit into the house willingly was scattered around the room haphazardly. The out-of-date wallpaper was peeling off the walls in sheets and there was a thick layer of dust on everything, except one table which had takeout bags littering the surface.

“Oh, yeah, he’s staying here,” Weston agreed and headed for the hall.

Both men had their weapons drawn as they searched the first room, coming up empty. The second room the same. They opened the third and there was a blow-up mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag unzipped on top of it.

A scraping sound from the closet caught their attention and Jameson lifted his hand and silently motioned to the door. Weston nodded his understanding and quietly got into place, waiting to open the door when Jameson was ready. With a lift of his chin, Jameson gave the signal and the door opened, revealing Peyton standing in a pair of boxers with his hands in the air.

Pussy.

He wasn’t going to fight, which was a crying shame because Jameson had been looking forward to unleashing hell on the man. But the one thing Jameson wouldn’t do, no matter how angry he was, was beat a man when he’d clearly given himself up.