“Like they handled that bullshit this morning?” he yelled running for the door in bare feet and jeans. “Fuck that. Call Zane. Tell him which way I’m headed.”
He flung the door open and ran to the Jeep.
“No. Trace—” Avery started after him, but froze, caught between grabbing him or her phone.
He made that decision for her when he backed into the driveway, spitting gravel at the café in an angry spray.
Trace pounded his food on the gas pedal, slamming it to the floor. “Goddamned fucking idiot.”
Seriously? Did he really think he was going to get away with stealing kitchen appliances? Did the fucker think at all?
He caught up with JT within three seconds of hitting a straightaway on the quiet country road that led out of town. But then they’d hit another cluster of curves, and Trace had to wait for another straight section before he could get in front of the truck to try to force JT to slow down.
In the meantime, Trace laid on the horn, hoping to spark even one gray cell in that pea-size brain of JT’s that told him he was caught and all he could do now was pull over. But, no, JT did what JT did best—he played more games. He skidded around a turn and flung the truck into the oncoming lane to block Trace’s view. Rubber smoked on the asphalt, and the truck fishtailed before it straightened and sped into another turn.
“Jesus . . .” Trace imagined all that equipment flying around, his stomach dropped, and he immediately backed off. “Relax. Just keep him close—let the cops catch up.”
Or Zane. Hopefully Zane. Trace didn’t trust the cops to do anything right by him. Especially not with Austin prowling around and Zane off duty. And he couldn’t call and tell Zane where he was, because Trace had realized almost immediately that he’d run out of the café without his phone. Fucking brilliant. But hell, he’d barely gotten pants on.
After another few reckless curves, it was clear that either JT was drunk off his ass, purposely driving to damage the equipment, or both. And if this went on much longer, all Avery’s appliances would be rendered useless. Trace had no idea how that would play out down the line with insurance. All he knew was that Avery didn’t have the time or the money to recoup a loss like the one that JT threatened—all because of Trace.
He was following several feet back, when JT overcorrected for another curve. Trace’s foot jumped to the brake pedal as the truck tipped onto two wheels. He sucked a breath. “No-no-no-no-no . . .”
Please God no.
When the truck bounced back on all four wheels, Trace started breathing again.
Fuck this. He wasn’t waiting until Avery’s dream was dust and she was bankrupt to end this bullshit.
At the next straightaway, he gunned the gas. One glance at JT in the driver’s seat, and the smug grin on his face told Trace exactly what this was about—revenge.
Trace’s mission solidified. He would not be waiting for anyone to end what should never have started. Trace was ending it right here. Right now.
When he had a couple hundred feet on the truck, he stayed in the center lane, slowing JT without allowing him to pass. He realized he would probably owe Avery—or in this case, Delaney and Avery—a car when this was over. But he’d rather owe one of them a car than cost Avery twenty grand in appliances and a solid start to her business.
And just as Trace had come to grips with the whole car thing, JT rammed the back of the Jeep with the truck. Trace lunged in the driver’s seat like a crash test dummy. His teeth clacked together hard, pain shot through his jaw, and the bitter taste of blood filled his mouth. Metal crunched and groaned. The Jeep lurched, hiccupped, and stumbled. That one hit alone had totaled out the Jeep’s worth.
“Motherfucker . . .”
He put all thought of consequences out of his mind. And did what had to be done. Trace gunned the engine, gained a couple hundred feet on the truck, and skidded to a stop sideways, blocking the road before JT had time to build Jeep-crushing speed.
Trace covered his head with both arms, shielding himself from the glass. Time slowed. The horn blared. The headlights reflected off mirrors, flashing against his closed lids. The brakes locked. Skidded. Squealed.
He was breathing hard when the slam of a door made him realize he hadn’t been hit. Trace’s mind clicked on. He pushed out of the Jeep, standing just in time to meet JT’s fist with his jaw. Pain and shock mingled. Trace jerked back, hit the car, and automatically rolled to put his back to JT until he could get his head straight.
“You’re fuckin’ pussy-whipped,” JT yelled, his words slurring.
“And you’re drunk. Fuckin’ idiot. I think you’re trying to go back to prison.”
Trace sidestepped the front fender before facing JT, and when the other man took another swing, Trace had room to move aside. JT stumbled a little, collected himself, and turned on Trace again with a look he’d seen too often in prison. A silent you’re-going-down look.
“Did you think you were going to fence this shit?” Trace asked, trying to distract JT’s slow mind so he could get an opening to take him to the ground. “As if no one would wonder where a fresh ex-con got brand-new commercial kitchen equipment?”
“See, that’s your problem, right there, Hutton.” JT jabbed a finger at him. “You think you’re so fuckin’ smart. Always thought you were better than the rest of us. But you’re not. You’re no fuckin’ different.”
JT lunged at Trace, hooked an arm around his neck, and punched him in the abdomen, right over his kidney. Pain exploded in Trace’s side and spread through his gut. The burn, the hold, the punch, the darkness, the cold—it all took him right back to Folsom.
Trace mirrored JT’s hold, locking his forearm around the other man’s neck, and with a guttural growl of fury, Trace jammed his knee into JT’s groin.