Page 108 of Rev

“Forty-six years?” I breathe. “No shit?”

“No shit. PopPop, Dad’s dad, him and Mamaw have been married for sixty-seven. They’re in Florida—Dad categorically refused to let them come up. Said it was a bunch of fuss over nothin’, and they weren’t about to ruin a vacation on his account.” She sounds Carolina, suddenly. “Gramps and Grammy, Mom’s folks, they’re the ones with the ranch—they’ve been married for sixty-four. All of my aunts and uncles have been married for at least thirty years.”

“Damn. Didn’t know that was a thing either.”

“We’re a family who sticks. We don’t give up. We don’t let go.” She sighs sadly. “I’m the exception. I kinda fucked that up.”

“I’m rubbing off on you,” I murmur. “You didn’t fuck up anything. Shit happens, babe. You picked a guy, and he changed on you. Wasn’t your fault he turned out to be a shit-stain.”

A pair of headlights approach, and I feel Myka slowly go tense, the spoon drooping toward the pint. “You’vegotto be kidding me,” she hisses.

I watch the headlights—they’re the super-white LEDs of a very expensive ride, and I notice the not-so-subtle way the car weaves down the drive toward the circle. Comes to a halt, jerks forward a few feet, nearly rear-ending the Merc Myka and I arrived in, then halts once more. Lights stay on, engine stays on. The driver’s side door flings open, slams against the stops and swings back, smacking the suit-slacks-clad leg dangling out, reaching for the dirt.

“Fuck,” I hear, the thin, reedy voice I know we’d both hoped to not hear again. “Ow. Son of a bitch.” The door opens again, more carefully; words are slurred—the last word comes outson-of-uh-beeeyitch. Badly. “Piece’o shit.”Piece-uh-sheeeeeyit.The carefully cultivated non-accent is way gone.

I feel Myka reluctantly stirring. “I’ll get rid of him.”

I touch her thigh over the blanket. “Let me.”

She sighs, shakes her head. “No, he’s my problem. I’ll deal with him.”

“Myka—”

She leans in, nuzzles my ear with her nose. “It’s fine, sweetie. It’s not a big deal. He’s not dangerous, just a butthole.”

God,butthole. Cute. Fuckin’ adorable.

“Fine. Let you handle it,” I growl. “He touches you, at fuckin’all, it becomesmyproblem.”

She touches the side of my chin with two fingers, turns my face to hers, kisses me, soft and sweet and gentle. “Works for me.”

It’s taken the dickbag this long just to get out of his ride, which looks to be a top-of-the-line BMW 8 series, tinted as dark as the law allows, with custom wheels all blacked out.

She sets the blanket aside, uncurls and straightens to her feet. Squares her shoulders, lifts her chin, and lets out a steadying breath. Kinda like I do in the cage, before the beatdown commences. Figure this’ll be just as much an ass-beating, only verbal. Should be entertaining to watch.

Myka Donovan is all sweetness and light, sugar and honey and sunshine and laughter and silky soft touches and tenderness so fuckin’ divine it cuts like an obsidian scalpel. Until you piss her off, like this pathetic cunt-waffle clearly has done, in spades.

I itch to turn his face into roadkill. For her, I restrain it.

She descends the steps of the porch to the bottom-most one, and there she waits, hands on her hips, anger in every line of her body.

Ohhhh, shit. Motherfucker is gonna geteviscerated.

He actually walks fairly steadily and mostly straight, except when he crosses the circle and trips over toys, cursing vehemently. Finally, he gets to her. Stands at the bottom of the steps and stares up at her.

Boss move, keeping one step up.

“Myka, baby.” He takes another step, reaching for her.

“Darren, not a step closer. Not one single inch.” She puts her hand forward, palm facing him.

I feel his mood shift, see it in the way he drops his hand, which clenches into a fist.

“It’s okay, now, darlin’. The game’s over. It’s enough. I learned my lesson, okay? You can come home.”

She’s stunned silent for a beat too long. When she speaks, her voice trembles with barely restrained fury. “Thegame? Whatgame, Darren?”

He flings a hand my way—there’s a faux-antique lantern hanging from the overhang of the porch roof, an Edison bulb shedding a soft yellow glow on the swing, and me. I’ve still got the blanket draped over my legs.