John Garoppolo bellowed some more, and Marcie flinched again. Her blonde hair was lank and loose.
“You were flirting with him,” John roared.
“I just said hello to—”
“Shut up, you whore.”
Enough. “Excuse me, Mrs. Romero.”
“Savannah, maybe—”
“It’ll be fine.” Savannah strode toward the fighting couple. As she got closer, her jaw tightened.
Marcie had a black eye.
“John,” Savannah said. “Marcie.”
The man whirled. He wasn’t tall, but he was stocky, with a swarthy face and some Italian heritage. He’d probably been handsome once.
In high school, he’d probably been the good-looking athlete who the girls flocked to. He probably thought he’d be rich and successful one day.
Instead, he was a mediocre shmoe who worked some desk job, had put on a few pounds, and whose hair had thinned.
As she got closer, she smelled stale alcohol. He’d clearly had a big night.
“Why don’t you head back inside, John? Marcie, would you like to come to my place to have a cup of tea?”
“Shut up, bitch,” John spat.
Marcie flinched, but Savannah just crossed her arms. She’d heard worse. Way worse.
“Look, Marcie and I will just—”
“You’ll do nothing.” John’s face scrunched. “Marcie is my useless, cheating wife. She stays with me.”
Savannah straightened. The guy was a bully. She hated bullies.
And she was no one’s damn victim.
“She doesn’t belong to you, asshole.”
Marcie gasped. “Savannah, please don’t…” Her face was pinched with fear.
She was so terrified. She’d probably married the guy with stars in her eyes, thinking she’d found her prince charming. Until her prince and dream had all gone sour.
Why was it that the worst monsters looked normal? Savannah knew that better than anyone.
“Come with me, Marcie.” She held out a hand.
“She’s not going anywhere with you,” John roared. He grabbed the front of Marcie’s shirt.
The woman sucked in a breath, then he shoved her against the side of the house.
“Hey!” Savannah yelled.
She saw others on the street, watching restlessly, looking upset. She spotted Ella-Mae. The teenager’s face was sheet-white. As John slammed Marcie again, the woman cried out in pain.
Anger ignited in Savannah. She caught Ella-Mae’s gaze. “Get Hunter. Go.”
With a nod, the teen took off down the street.
Savannah grabbed a handful of the back of John’s T-shirt.
“Let her go,” Savannah said. “Now.”
With a grunt, he spun. “You should have stayed out of our business.”
“You bullying and roughing up your wife, or any woman, is everyone’s business.”
His hands flexed. “You’re just another whore.”
“You’re just another asshole.”
With an ugly growl, he stepped into her space. Savannah felt a shot of fear, absorbed it. She knew the source of it was old. One that she would never let define her.
She lifted her chin. “What are you going to do, John? The whole street is watching.”
He glanced around, clearly noting their worried neighbors.
She jerked her head to the side. “Come on, Marcie.” Savannah couldn’t stop a faint smile. There was nothing better than assholes getting beaten.
Marcie looked frozen; her hand fluttered toward Savannah before she pressed it to her neck, instead. She looked so uncertain and afraid.
Then the woman took a step toward her, and John snapped.
“No! The bitch is mine. You fucking stay out of this.” He swung his arm and caught Savannah in the face.
His fist wasn’t quite closed—it was a half punch, half slap. He hit her jaw and mouth. Pain exploded, and she tasted blood.
And her anger.
No asshole would hit her, hurt her, or scar her again.
She heard shouts, but her vision formed a tunnel. Fueled by her rage, she launched at John. He wasn’t expecting it.
She tackled him to the ground, with her landing on top. His head hit the concrete and he bellowed.
“You don’t get to hurt people, asshole.” She gripped his shirt. “You—”
He swung at her again.
His fist never connected.
Savannah was suddenly pulled backward. Her back hit a hard wall of chest and she turned her head, and looked into the coldly furious eyes of Hunter Morgan.
That green gaze swept over her, pausing on her mouth. She felt his anger swelling. Something flashed in the green, and his jaw tightened.
He set her down, then turned. He towered over John who was still sprawled on the sidewalk.
“Arrest her, Hunt,” the man spluttered. “She attacked me. I was just—”
Hunt leaned down and dragged the man up. “You don’t want to say anything, Garoppolo.”
The lethal tone made goose bumps erupt on Savannah’s arms. Man, she never, ever wanted Hunter Morgan to use that tone on her.
Hunt hauled John around, and pulled handcuffs off his belt.
“Regina and Ella-Mae, take Marcie inside. Get her a drink and an ice pack.”
The teenager and her mother nodded, then ushered the shell-shocked Marcie inside.
Hunt speared Savannah with a laser-sharp gaze. “You, don’t move.” Then he shoved John face first against the door, and yanked the man’s wrists behind his back. “And you be quiet while I read you your rights. You’re under arrest.”
Chapter Three
Hunt kept a tight grip on his temper as he jerked the handcuffed John around.
A police cruiser turned onto the street. Hunt had called it in. A male and female officer got out. Hunt recognized the woman, a veteran in the SFPD. He handed over the now-silent but still belligerent John.
“Guy hit his wife,” Hunt said.
The female officer, Maureen Polansky, glared. The other officer shook his head.
Yeah, they’d seen it all before, but for Hunt, there was a special place in hell for a man who’d hurt someone physically smaller than them—especially a woman or a child. And especially someone you were supposed to love.
“There were lots of witnesses. And he assaulted another woman.”
The upside of that was if Marcie decided not to press charges, they could still charge him with hitting Savannah.
Hunt glanced over at Savannah, and rage stirred in his gut. Her lip was swollen and split, and there was dried blood on the corner of her mouth. She leaned against the low, stone wall marking the boundary of the property, watching John with undisguised hatred.
She’d attacked John like she was a tiger, not fifty pounds smaller than the guy.
They’d have a discussion about that later.
“Will the wife press charges?” Polansky asked.
“Not sure. Try your best.”
“We’ve got it from here, Detective,” the other officer said.
Hunt turned to Savannah. She watched him coming, those gray eyes full of secrets and wariness.
He gently gripped her chin, studied her lip, and tried to ignore the fact that he also noticed they were perfectly shaped.
She didn’t fidget or fuss, and his chest tightened. That told him she’d likely been hit in the face before.