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That ring was shut down long ago, and those who tortured me are either dead or imprisoned.
So where do I focus my rage?
Where?
Not my family.
And as angry as I am, not Ashley.
I love her. I wish her no harm.
But on her date…
Who is she seeing?
And where did she meet him? She’s been here for little more than a week.
Fuck.
Last night. She and Mom went into town. Mom said Brendan Murphy was taken with her.
That’s it. It’s got to be.
Her plans tonight are with Brendan Murphy.
Fuck him. I wanted to break his nose just hearing Mom say he was taken with Ashley.
Now?
I want to break him.
My fists clench. I want to punch him, kick him, fucking end him.
And as much as I know these feelings are irrational, I don’t care.
I drive home quickly, paying no attention to the road, so blinded am I with rage.
I screech into my driveway, leave the truck, and enter the house. Penny paws at me, but I let her out quickly, making sure she has ample water. She’s only a dog, but I don’t want any witness, human or canine, to what I’m about to do.
I head to the basement of the guesthouse. I’ve converted part of it into a home gym. It gets little use, as the physical nature of my work—and my good genes from Cheri Robertson and Floyd Jolly—who knew?—keeps me in good shape.
Today, though, I’m glad for the Century BOB torso training bag I purchased a while ago when I was studying taekwondo on my own.
Bob’s face is plain and his painted-on hair is blond, but instead I see Brendan Murphy’s red hair and blue eyes staring at me, his strong Irish jaw taunting me, jeering at me.
She’s mine.
She’ll never be yours.
You don’t deserve her.
You’ll never love her.
His last silent words ring untrue. The truth is that I do love Ashley.
But my love for her is what unleashed this wrath in me. Unleashed it on the world.
And Ashley is my world.
I strip off my shirt and shake my head, letting my hair tickle my shoulders and neck.
Then I pounce.
Boom! A punch to Brendan’s perfect nose.
Then an uppercut under his chin.
A knife hand to his neck and one more to his shoulder.
My jeans aren’t the easiest garments to move in, but I pull one leg upward and land a roundhouse kick to Brendan’s flank and then to his head. A perfect double kick. I’ll feel it tomorrow, but tonight I don’t care.
A hook kick is next, to his other flank, and then I jump and execute a perfect axe kick to the top of his head.
The real Brendan would be writhing on the ground about now.
But still I punch.
Still I kick.
Still I grunt, sweat pouring off me.
And still Brendan taunts me, standing tall, blow after blow.
Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!
I plow forward into Brendan, tackling him to the ground.
Fist to face, fist to face, fist to face—
I jerk. Did I hear something? Someone calling me?
Composure. I need composure.
I grasp and grasp and grasp but can’t find it. Still I pummel fake Brendan’s face. The face that magically regains its shape no matter how much pain I inflict.
You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!
The click of the basement door opening. “Dale? You down there?”
You can’t have her! You can’t have her! You can’t have her!
Footsteps from somewhere in the back of my mind.
Someone’s coming.
Still I punch, punch, punch.
“Dale!”
Strong arms try to grapple me away, but no… I won’t give up. Not until Brendan Murphy is gone. Reduced to roadkill mush.
“Dale, what’s the matter with you?”
I turn, but instead of my father’s dark eyes, I see Brendan’s blue ones.
I’ve got her. I’m going to fuck her.
In a blind rage, I pull my fist back and land a perfect punch to his smarmy expression.
“Damn! That smarts! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
As if on its own, my elbow pulls back, my fingers curl, and I’m ready to execute another blow—
My back hits the floor, and someone hovers over me, his blue eyes angry.
Except the eyes aren’t blue.
They’re dark brown.
My father’s eyes.
My father.
His cheek is red, and blood oozes from a small wound near his eye.
I punched my father.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demands again.
I close my eyes.
I can’t answer him.
If I answer him, he’ll know.
He’ll know the monster has been unleashed.
He’ll know I’m not who I seem to be.
And he’ll no longer want to be my father.
Chapter Thirteen
Ashley
Brendan’s apartment over the bar is small and cozy—just a living area, kitchen, and bedroom. He’s broiling burgers when I arrive, and I can’t help a laugh. Burgers will work great with the Latour, but most connoisseurs enjoy such a premier wine with classier fare.
“I know, I know,” he says with a laugh. “But I know how to make burgers. And they’re perfect, if I do say so myself. Thick and juicy and medium rare. Add a slice of cheddar jack and some tomato, and you’ve got something as good as any gourmet meal I can think of.”
