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Punk grits his teeth, his temper getting the best of him. “Are you listening to yourself? I don’t have hearts in my eyes for my adopted sister. It’s not the same as what you two have for each other—not even close.”
“No, but it could be. Out of our brothers, you’re the one who could love her the way she deserves if I’m not here to be her husband. You could make her smile and laugh again. You would love my sons like your own.”
“Dude, look, I love Jo a hella lot, but you’re so far off the mark regarding the connection I share with her. You’re out of your damn mind if you expect she’ll stop grieving for you to give anyone the time of day,” Punk retorts heatedly. “Stop talking out of your ass.”
Punk’s hands fly to cup his shaved head, like the image I’m painting is too unbearable to imagine. But it’s not. What I’m painting is paradise if he wants it. I’ve dipped my feet into it and it was heaven. My only regret is that I may not get to fully submerge the rest of my life into her.
“That woman was meant to love one man, and one man only. If you…if you don’t make it, you can guarantee she’ll die of a broken heart and follow you.”
“That’s why I need you to remind her to live and love again. My boys deserve their mother and a father. Josephine deserves to be loved and cherished. Love her, Punk. Promise me, you won’t let her fall,” I plead.
“Stop! You’re talking like you’re quitting her,” Punk fumes, his cool eyes scrutinizing me. “You want me to fill your shoes, do you, brother? I call bullshit.”
“You’re damn right I don’t,” I thunder. My composure slips and I grab Punk by his tactical vest, shaking him. “You think I want to talk about another man loving her? Do you think I’m fine playing matchmaker for the love of my life? I fucking hate it! I hate that I may not come back home to her. I loathe that I may not see my boys grow into fine men. I can’t imagine her in another man’s arms. But you’re the only asshole in the world I’d give my blessing because I want her to live, thrive, and be happy. Whether I’m with her or not, I want her happy.”
“Then stop talking like you’re already dead. Fight! Fight for her and you. Your negativity is going to get you killed, you prick,” he screams back in my face.
My anger washes away like the rain pelting us. “No, Punk. My acceptance of the possibility of not returning is going to save my woman from a lonely life without me. If I go out in a bad way, then I can die knowing my brother will help her carry on,” I say in a much gentler voice.
Punk’s face contorts in anguish as he starts crying. I hold him in a tight brotherly hug, my tears falling freely. “You’re the only one I trust with her. Promise me.”
Punk sucks in a harsh, wet breath. He squares his shoulders and gives me a stoic look. “If you don’t come back… I promise to hold her up, to remind her she has a life worth living even without you in it. I’ll care for the boys like my own. But there’s no need to talk about this anymore or ever again because you’re coming back.”
Punk shoves out of my embrace, looking livid for having said those words aloud.
But I needed to hear them. I need to go into this war knowing my woman and children will be loved and protected if I’m taken out.
I nod once, understanding the discussion is over. Turning my back on Punk, I walk away because I need to distance myself from him. He’ll do what I need him to do if the time arises. Doesn’t mean I’m happy about it. I’m downright furious about him potentially moving in to claim what’s mine. But we’re on the same page about one thing. Shit’s only going to happen if I’m dead and gone.
“One more thing, Punk,” I say, looking over my shoulder.
Punk lets out a long-winded sigh. “What?”
“Don’t think I’m giving up on her. You better believe I won’t go down easy. I’ll fight for her ‘till my dying breath.”
Punk gives me one of his cheeky grins. “There’s the jealous bastard I know and love. I can imagine the image of me knocking boots with your Pixie would bring out your alpha asshole.”
Is he being serious right now?
Slowly, I turn to face him, my temper rising. “I don’t want to hear you talking about ‘knocking’ anything with my wife while I’m still breathing, fucknut.”
Punk’s grin falls, replaced with a contemplative expression. “Right. Knocking boots sounds so cheap. I meant bonking. No, wait, porking. Oh-oh-oh,canoodling. That’s it! I’m going to canoodle the hell out of Jo.”
“Motherfucker!” I storm forward and swing-out at Punk’s face. My fist connects with his jaw and he goes down on the sodden earth.
I straddle his body, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, ready to swing again, and that’s when I notice Punk grinning like a fool, blood dripping from his split lip.
“Remember this anger when you can’t fight Esteban anymore. This is the fire you need to get that shit in your head straight, to survive this clusterfuck.”
Surprised, I blink before shoving him to the ground. “Sonofabitch. You baited me.” I stand, shaking my head.
“And it worked. The image of another man loving your wife is fuel for your fire, brother.”
“Fucker,” I mutter, walking away from him.
“Out of curiosity, which word was it that set you off? I’m guessing it was all of them,” Punk asks, chuckling.
I flick him off as I head back toward the group. Punk laughs his ass off.
Annoyed as I am with him screwing with me, he may have given me the rage I need to survive this ordeal and get back home to my Pixie.
