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Eyes narrowed, I hurtled down the street, seeing the douchebag’s blond head tunneling toward St. John’s Evangelist, and sped up. Running with boots was a fucking nightmare, but I’d dealt with worse pain.
When I made it around the bend in the road, I saw him edging toward a park. The second he went in there, I knew I had him. He raced across the road, nearly causing a fucking car crash, but karma served him some justice—he got clipped by a fender.
His speed dropped dramatically.
I maneuvered through the mess he’d made and leaped at him the second I saw he was running downhill. It was a calculated risk—I could have face-planted, but he was slower now, hobbling.
When I landed on him, he went down like a pile of bricks, and when my fist collided with his face, well, he wished he were a pile of goddamn bricks.
I beat the fuck out of him, purging every ounce of my temper on this trash bag of bones that represented everything that was wrong with our society.
When I was done, and my knees were killing me from the run and the landing, I snatched the purse and shoved it under my arm. Then, with him a splatter, I grabbed his collar and used it to haul him through the park and back to the gas station.
Sporadic moans escaped him, and I figured that was because friction between his jeans and the concrete fucked up his ass—more karma—but I didn’t stop until we made it to the gas station where the police and an ambulance were waiting.
“Digger!” MaryCat hollered, her relief clear as she rushed over to me. Then, she stopped, and she eyed the guy caterwauling on the ground. “Oh.”
The cops had turned at her holler, but when they saw me and the guy in my hold, Officer Newton merely snorted.
“You and your goddamn white-knight syndrome.”
I shot a smug smile at another kid I’d gone to school with who’d made the foolish choice of becoming a cop. “You know me too well, Gary.”
I dumped the piece of shit on the ground then hobbled over to the ambulance, leaving them to deal with the fucker.
As I approached the vehicle, I saw Mrs. Ketteridge was huddled beneath one of those aluminum blankets. Though she was sniffling, she glanced at me intently. “You get my purse, James?”
“Like you’d expect anything less, Mrs. K.”
She rubbed at her tear-slick cheeks. “You always could run.”
“I always could.” I passed her the purse. “Beat him up some too.”
“Good,” she mumbled. “Not that you’ll tell anyone I said that.”
I smirked. “Nope.” Bending down, I studied her face. “You okay?”
“No. He clipped me on the hip I had replaced last year.”
Wincing, I asked, “Maybe it’s just a bruise?”
“I hope so. They’re taking me in.”
“You need me to get your family together?”
She shook her head. “No, it’s okay. Not now that you got my purse back for me.” Mrs. K patted my cheek. “You always were a good boy beneath all that hair.”
Snorting, I told her, “You’re messing with my rep.”
“Some reps were made to be messed with.”
I stepped back so the EMTs could do their thing and told her, “You watch out for yourself, Mrs. K.”
“Will do.” She hugged her purse. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
I turned away and almost collided with MaryCat, who asked, “You know her?”
