Page 10 of Dirty Fighter

Jason though?

I swallow hard, bracing for the worst. But when I turn to face him, to try to explain… the spot where he was standing is empty. And when I look up to the cabin, it’s to see the screen door swing shut behind him.

4

Jason

“Get off my fucking island.” I drop the two bags I just pulled out of my dad’s room at Rowan’s feet where she’s standing just inside the front door and then turn back for the rest.

“Jason.” Her hand wraps around my arm, but I don’t stop. “I know that sounded bad. I know.”

“Did it?” In Dad’s room, I grab two more bags without looking at her.

How much did she bring?

“Can we just stop and talk a minute?” Her eyes are pleading, and again she’s got her fingers on my arm, the light contact sending signals to my brain that don’t mix with all the shit I just learned.

She’s here to sell my cabin.

This was her idea.

She’s still as beautiful as she was at fifteen, seventeen, twenty. More so.

But she’s not the person I thought she was.

“Let me explain.”

“No.” I shrug her off.

I drop the bags with the others by the front door. “Take what you can carry tonight, and I’ll have the rest delivered tomorrow.”

I march over to the kitchen and rifle through the junk drawer until I find the relic I’m looking for.

Rowan comes up beside me. “I understand what a blindside this must be.”

But I’m already headed back. “Ya think?”

It was your idea…

I want Marsha’s words out of my head as much as I want Rowan off the island. “You need to go.”

“No. You need to understand, this is real. I can’t leave.”

“Bullshit.” Something ugly is boiling over inside me. The kind of thing I’d normally want to put a lid on. But now? I don’t know how to stop feeding the flame.

I pause outside my dad’s room and jerk his door closed as she hovers behind me.

“Jason, what are you⁠—”

I take the key I just dug out of the kitchen drawer and, with all too much pleasure, jam it into the lock. And… click.

“Jason!”

“Might want to reconsider leaving.” I hold the key up by the smudged tag and dangle the thing, like a total asshole, before pocketing it. “Unless you’re good sleeping on the floor.”

For a second, she looks like she’s considering a go at my pocket. But then her arms cross, and she juts her stubborn jaw at me.

“Whether you believe it or not, my mother owns this property. Which means she has the right to report a trespasser.”