Mead looked bored. “Again, I haven’t a clue what you’re—”

“Damn it, you’re hurting innocent people,” I insisted. “Cholly’s only working at Fontana Exxon while his daddy recuperates from hip surgery. Now, thanks to you, the old man’s business is suffering. But that wasn’t enough. You had to go and attack The Slam Dunk before it even got off the ground.”

“You have my deepest sympathy,” Mead said, his hand pressed against the place where a heart should’ve been. “But I still fail to see what any of this has to do with me or my family.”

I closed my eyes and counted to five. Once I found the right words, I spoke with icy calm. “If you steal a man’s dreams, destroy his livelihood, attack his friends and family—then prevent him from protecting the weakest of them, what’s he got left?” I paused and lifted a brow. “Hope. That’s what.” Sidling closer, I narrowed my eyes. “But what happens when you take hope away?” I tilted my head. “I’d say that man is now a dangerous foe. ‘Cause he’s got nothin’ left to lose.”

Mead’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Are you threatening me?”

“What do you think?”

“Okay, that’s it.” Shannon stepped between us, arms spread, her narrowed eyes flicking back and forth. The throw hit the porch. Given our heated words, she probably didn’t need it anymore. “Please, let me try and sort everything out,” she said, searching my face. “I promise, I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“Shannon to the rescue again,” Mead chimed in using a mock sports announcer’s voice.

I considered her pleading expression, then Mead’s cocky smile. What she planned to do, I wasn’t sure, but if I didn’t leave, I was seconds away from ripping the bastard’s throat open.

With a scowl, I tossed my hands. “I’m out of here.”

“Wait!” She grabbed my sleeve. “I need to speak with you.”

Been there. Done that.

I wrenched my arm away and kept walking.

Mead chuckled. “Ah, look. A lover’s spat. Well, at least this saves you from becoming his whore like your mom.”

I rounded just in time to see Shannon slap the shit out of her cousin.

“Fuck!” Mead roared.

He cupped the pink welt blooming across his cheek, and immediately raised a hand to her, but I was already on him. All I could see was red, hellfire and brimstone red. I grabbed the worm’s arm, twisted it behind his back, wedging it there. Tightening my grip, I forced Mead to his knees.

“Stop it!”

Somehow, Shannon’s voice doused the firestorm in my head. I blinked past the red haze, shoved the asshole away, and ran a shaky hand over my jaw. A swanky-looking woman with a narrow face rushed to the mayor’s side. Hesta Bradford clung to Sears in the doorway as a police siren wailed from afar.

I went for my bike. Shannon and I exchanged a look. Sadness filled her eyes. Well, whatever. She’d made her feelings clear at her office, so we had nothing to say to each other.

“That’s the authorities,” Sears announced, his silver brows forming a bushy V. “You may as well wait on them, Mr. Dawson because they’re coming for you.”

Mead smirked while he nursed his shoulder. “Oh, now you’ve done it.” A dark gleam made his eyes sparkle. “You’ll be sleeping in Gainstown tonight, you murdering piece of trash.”

“No, he won’t,” Shannon said, her voice firm, then for my ears alone, she whispered, “Take the back road.” Her expression held a strange combination of fear, resolve, and reassurance. “It’s going to be okay. Trust me.”

SHANNON

____________________________

Percussion drums and classical violins thundered through the walls when I slipped into The Slam Dunk hours later. I shrugged my hood off and made my way down a long corridor that reeked of sawdust and paint. It fed into a large open area, the first of three dance floors, which is where I found Trace—doing his own version of‘The Angry Dance’ to the frenzied beat of David Garrett’s“The 5th.”

Shirtless and sweaty, he wore nothing but a pair of distressed jeans and black sneakers. His considerable height had no effect on his grace and agility. Neither had the last decade. If anything, the years had refined his talent.

I watched him do a running dive, roll twice, then push himself into a one-armed handstand. He bounced to the beat, balancing his weight on his palm. From there, he jackknifed up and took a flying leap across the dance floor. Once he landed, he executed a dizzying series of grand pirouettes, only to slip into a circular moonwalk after Michael Jackson’s “Morphine” crushed the ending notes of Garrett’s feverish violin.

I couldn’t look away. The man was breathtaking.

He’d just completed a trio of aerial flips, when he froze. There he stood motionless for several breathless seconds before pivoting to stare me dead in the eye. Music screamed around us while his chest pumped up and down. He regarded me intently, appearing to deliberate before snatching a towel from a metal chair. Then he stalked to the sound system right next to me and punched a button, cutting the roaring bass to a raspy whisper.

His face was an iron mask as he rubbed the blue towel in a lazy circle over his rock-hard stomach. He had narrow hips and long arms roped with veins and sculpted muscles that rippled underneath his glistening skin. An indigo tattoo of thorns bordered his right bicep.

Another tattoo, that of a fire-breathing dragon, covered the tanned swell of his left pec, and his massive chest had a light dusting of hair that disappeared down the tightest washboard abs I’d ever seen.

His gray and white underwear peeked out from beneath a pair of low-slung jeans. The logo OBVIOUSLYembroidered the elastic waistband, with a♂ symbol replacing the second ‘O.’

I swallowed, but the lump wouldn’t go down. “Um. I-I remember you used to dance alone in the carriage house when you…when you were upset. You said it helped—”

“How’d you get in?”

The sharpness in his tone pushed me into a blinking fit. “I still have a set of keys from the sale. Cholly never—”

“Who told you I was here?”

If he aimed to rattle me, mission accomplished. “I went to your house, then to Cholly’s. After that, the garage. It was a simple process of elimination.”

He scrubbed the towel through his hair. Despite the sweat pouring off his skin, he smelled shower-fresh. “What do you want?”

“What do you think I want? I had to be sure…I needed to—” I tossed a hand. “Are you okay?”

“If you’re worried I’m going to pop off again, don’t. I’ve made peace with it already. Whatever happens…happens. It’s all good.”

“Well, nothing’s going to happen. I took care of everything.”

He hung the towel around his neck. “And that means what exactly?”

“No one’s pressing charges. Another scandal is the last thing my family wants. I also spoke with someone about Cholly’s liquor license and the other delays. Everything should be cleared up by next week.” I drew a steadying breath. “Oh, and Jerome Dillon got the library contract. I called him myself with the news. He said to tell you the job is yours if you’re still interested. They’ll be starting up in the spring.”

Momentary surprise softened his expression. As the seconds wore on, his lips parted, like he wanted to say something, but they hung open, voicing no sound. In the end, he nodded curtly, mumbled a, “Thanks,” then turned away to poke at some buttons on the stereo unit.

A sultry acoustic guitar instrumental whispered over the sound system as he made adjustments to the mixer.

“I’m sorry for the pain my family caused you.” I clasped my hands. “I swear I didn’t know what they were up to.”

He braced the table. “I never thought you did, Shannon.”

Those six words allowed me to breathe again, but I still needed to tell him what I’d longed to say at Briar. What I should’ve said at my office. Yet from his resigned tone and the tension in his shoulders, I sensed he had something more to say, so I waited on him.