“Hey! Stop!” Pierce caught up to him and grabbed his elbow.
Fists balled, Jamison whipped around. His eyes were bright, his teeth clenched, and he was itching to throw the first punch. Bruised male pride surfaced. “You’re telling me that mymissingwife is having an affair, cheating on me, risking everything we have for some ex-con boyfriend and then you expect me to what—just sit on my goddamned hands?” His fury was palpable, radiating off him, and every muscle in his body was tense, ready to explode.
Fine.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Pierce braced himself, his own fists clenching. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a fistfight or who it was with, but he would bet his pension it was in a match with a younger, headstrong, winner-at-all-costs Jamison Kittle. One of those drunken, college tests of manhood when someone says the wrong thing, and all of a sudden you’re in a wrestling match. Pierce had been in more than his share. Back in the day. Sometimes with his friend. And in those stupid, testosterone- and alcohol-infused matches against athletic, no-holds-barred Jamison, Pierce had invariably lost.
Kittle had claimed victory.
Always.
But not this time.
The sounds of the afternoon seemed to mute as he focused on his angry friend. The soft splashing of the waterfall faded, the chirps of mocking birds muted, even the drone of insects disappeared.
“Careful,” Pierce warned his friend as Jamison, on the balls of his feet, started to circle him, looking for a soft spot to land the first, lightning-fast punch.
“Use your head, Jamison. If Knox has anything to do with Naomi’s disappearance, we want to nail him. Legally. Don’t do anything that would fuck it up.” Pierce moved, keeping his eyes focused on his friend. He knew Jamison was a time bomb, ready to explode, needing to pound out his frustration in a burst of energy that would mean quick-fire jabs to Pierce’s ribs.
If he let him.
Jamison glared at him, a muscle working overtime in his jaw. His lips barely moved as he said, “I just want to …”
“Beat the shit out of him,” Pierce said and didn’t shift his gaze away from Jamison’s eyes. “I know. But this isn’t the way. Be smart, Jamison. Brains over brawn. Let’s nail him.”
Jamison drew back. Pulsing with repressed fury. There was no changing his mind. A fight simmered in the air.
Pierce could smell it.
And he was ready.
He changed his tune. “Okay, then. Do it.”
Jamison’s eyes thinned, his color rising, his eyes glittering dangerously.
“Just try,” Pierce goaded. “Hit me! Go ahead! See what happens.”
That did it!
Jamison’s control snapped.
He roared and rushed forward.
Pierce sidestepped onto the very edge of the pool.
Stuck out his foot.
Jamison feinted, but tripped.
Flailed.
Grabbed Pierce’s leg as he went down.
Crack!
Jamison’s face slammed against the cement. Blood spurted from his nose.
Pierce teetered and then landed hard. On his back. At the lip of the pool.