Grief was a bitch.
Anna Grace’s words, not his.
The house was a big brick number with an arch over the front door, oversize front windows looking out on the lawn, and fancy landscaping in the middle of the block.
A big oil stain smeared the driveway. A motorbike was sprawled half on the grass. Two garden gnomes sat in the center of the yard, one tilted, the other modified to give the street the finger.
Jackson blew out a resigned breath and pulled himself out of the truck. Only took a minute to get to the door and ring the doorbell.
But he had to stand there ringing the doorbell for fifteen minutes before a chubby guy with bloodshot eyes and two-day-stupor breath answered. “What the hell?”
“Brad Hutchinson?”
“Yeah? What the fuck’s it to you?”
“Rodney sent me.”
The guy’s face blanched. “Rodney’s dead, motherfucker.”
He shoved the door. Jackson shouldered into it. “You dead? ’Cuz Rodney ain’t too happy with sacrificing his life so you could piss your own away.”
The guy came out swinging.
Criminy.
Jackson ducked, then rolled his neck. He didn’t want to do it this way, but didn’t look like he had a choice. He turned to face Brad. Brad got his bearing, let out a feral growl, and charged.
His shoulder rammed Jackson’s chest. The impact made Jackson stagger backward into the house. Took some of his wind out of him, but it was the sucker-punch to his kidney that made him mad.
He flipped Brad to the floor, then stepped back. “Feel better?” Jackson asked. He winced, gingerly touched his back, wary eyes on Brad.
Anna Grace owed him for this one.
“Motherfucker,” Brad said again. He rolled to his feet, fistsflying.
Jackson thought about taking it again.
But self-preservation won out. He hauled off and socked the guy in the jaw.
Brad landed in the foyer with a thud. His stomach jiggled beneath his stained T-shirt.
“Nowyou feel better?”
The lug blinked at him. His eyes went shiny. “Fucker. Rodneydidsend you.” He pressed his palms into his eye sockets. His shoulders shook and he drew in a series of soggy, ragged breaths that took Jackson on a trip down memory lane to the night he’d lost his father.
He let himself into the house and kicked the door shut. He slouched against the wall out of Brad’s reach, staring down at his own hands until the other man was spent.
“Who the fuck are you?” Brad asked again, this time without the charming venom.
“Friend of a friend.” Jackson reached for his phone. He winced at the ache in his lower back. Moving would be a pain in the turnips for a few days. “You need help.”
“Yeah, I need friends with the balls to tell me that to my face instead of sending pussies like you.”
Jackson cut him a look over his phone’s browser. “Can’t imagine why they don’t want to talk to you.”
“Part of my charm, dude.”
“Your wife like it?” There was the number he was looking for.
