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I didn’t think that would help my case.
She sighed, shook her head, and stood up. “Let’s go, Rocky.” I followed behind, my eyes drifting down to her ass. She had on jeans and a flowery top that hung on her with an air of class that only Marianne could pull off.
Her light colored, high heeled sandals clicked on the floor as she led me out.
She didn’t say a word to me when she unlocked the doors of her SUV.
She didn’t say a word when we got in and buckled up.
She didn’t say a word when she turned up the country music, backed out of the parking spot, and drove away.
She didn’t say a word when she stopped at a drive-thru and grabbed us sandwiches and coffee.
She also didn’t say a word when we drove up to her ranch, parked, got out, and walked into her house.
It was a large, open bungalow. She entered the kitchen, set her coffee on the counter, and turned around.
“Why the hell did you beat up Richard?” Her hands shot out to the side, then to her hips.
I sauntered into the kitchen and dumped the bag of food on the counter.
“Because he beat you up.”
Her mouth formed a thin line. “That was over three years ago.”
I shrugged and took a sip of my coffee. “Don’t care if it was fifty years ago.”
Her hands clutched her head, then landed on her hips. “You can’t just go around beating people up.”
I took a longer swallow of the dark, bitter roast. And stared at her. “I can and I did.”
She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I don’t need you to do that.”
I set my coffee down. “I needed to do it.”
She leaned back and yelled to the ceiling, “No, you didn’t! I left him years ago, Wes. It’s over and done with. I dealt with him.”
I nodded. “And so did I.”
She paced around in a circle, frustrated as hell.
Fuck, she was cute.
“You aren’t understanding me,” she finally stopped moving and confronted me.
“I did what I had to do.”
She turned around, muttering to herself. When she spun back to face me, she said, “I told you during therapy—I dealt with that years ago. I’m over it.”
I leaned my hip against the counter. “I wasn’t over it—now, I am.”
When I confronted her in one of our many therapy sessions in rehab, Marianne had indeed said she was over it.
I’d heard about the altercation during a group session. Trey mentioned that Richard the fuckwit—Marianne’s ex—had beaten his mom—left her with a bloody nose, broken jaw, and several broken ribs.
I’d dreamed about murdering him.
In my book, he got off easy.
