Page 218 of Romeo

A local address outside Rosewood, though he’d only been there a few months. Odd jobs. Minor arrests scattered across several states. Nothing that explained why he’d chosen Fiona, and nothing serious enough to keep him locked up.

I memorized the address and put the phone away.

Frank had done exactly what Fiona needed in that parking lot. He’d stepped between her and danger without hesitation and gotten her home safely.

I owed him for that.

It didn’t change what came next.

I started the bike again.

Rosewood was dark as I drove through town a little after three in the morning.

I didn’t go to the Sons of Hell clubhouse or Granny’s house. Seeing Fiona would only create questions I had no intention of answering. Fiona would never know I was even here.

Marcus Webb lived in a tired little house outside of Rosewood in a neighborhood that nobody paid much attention to after dark. His truck wasn’t in the driveway, and the house was dark when I arrived. It didn’t take much to let myself inside.

The place smelled like stale beer and cigarettes. Dirty dishes crowded the sink, empty bottles covered the coffee table, and a dark television sat across from a sagging couch.

I sat in a chair facing the front door and waited.

The anger I’d carried from Nebraska had burned itself out on the highway along with the tread on my tires. What remained was colder. Cleaner.

I’d lost track of how long I’d been sitting there when headlights finally swept across the front windows. The sound of a truck door slamming was followed by keys scraping against the lock.

I didn’t move a muscle.

Webb stumbled into the house without turning on the lights. He made it three steps before he realized he wasn’t alone.

His body went still.

“Evening, Marcus.”

His eyes widened, and his hand reached toward the back of his jeans.

“Don’t.” One word was the only threat he needed to drop his hand at his side for about two seconds. Then Webb made the mistake of looking toward the door. I stood before he got the chance to decide whether he was fast enough to reach it.

“You really don’t want to fucking do that.”

“What the fuck are you doing in my house?”

“You and I need to have a conversation about the girl you grabbed outside the gas station.”

His face changed. It wasn’t much—just a flicker of recognition before he tried to bury it beneath confusion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

There was no warning. No raised voice or dramatic fucking countdown. My fist caught him across the mouth and sent him stumbling into the wall. Before he could recover, I drove another into his stomach. He folded, wheezing, and I caught the front of his shirt and slammed him back hard enough to rattle whatever cheap shit hung on the wall behind him.

“I was just fucking talking to her.”

“That what you call it?”

He shoved at me, which was almost funny.

Almost.

I drove my fist into his ribs, then caught him across the jaw when he swung back. Webb hit the floor hard, but apparently alcohol and stupidity made a man optimistic, because he tried to get up.