She pulled her arms down and massaged her biceps, glancing at her left hand. She looked up at Luke, her shock a sharp contrast to his confident smile.
“What is this?” she gasped, raising her hand to get a better look. Luke pulled up the sheets, tenderly tucking them around her.
“Mimi, do you remember when we kissed in grade nine drama class? You were the first woman I ever kissed.”
“I was?” she asked softly, her eyes locked to his.
“You were. Why I didn’t do something about it then, I’ll never know. Maybe we both had a lot of growing to do, lessons to learn, life to live. I’m just grateful that we stayed in each other’s lives. You’re my best friend,” he shared, visibly shaken. She reached out and took his hand, both comforting him and encouraging him to continue.
“I was an asshole, I know that. What happened at that party never should have happened. I was jealous of Arran, I admit it. I know I nudged you toward him because I was fucking scared, but when I realized that you could actually fall for him, it made me crazy! I thought if you knew what I was thinking...how I was falling in love with you, that you would push away from me. That it would end our friendship. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Speechless, she nodded at him to continue, sitting up and gathering the sheets tightly around her.
“That night, after we made love, I was so ashamed about what I did. I couldn’t look you in the eye and pretend that nothing had changed. I changed. Forgive me. I’ll never hurt you again.”
“I do, I forgive you,” she whispered, squeezing his hand tightly.
“Mimi, when I found out you were going away with him, I honestly thought I might lose you. I knew it was my own fucking fault but it didn’t hurt any less. I promise, I was going to talk to you when you came back, come clean about everything, the party, my feelings, all of it, but then you showed up at my place last night...”.
She nodded solemnly, dropping her eyes, recalling how angry she’d been.
“Why didn’t you leave with Arran?”
She swallowed hard, and shook her head, not wanting to admit how stupid she’d been.
“He was just so wrong for me, Luke,” she mumbled, hoping he would leave it at that. He puckered his lips, as though biting his tongue. She cupped his chin gently and pulled him forward for a sweet kiss.
“Yes,” he breathed beneath her lips. “Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Marry me,” he whispered, his forehead against hers. “Be the last woman I ever kiss.”
She eased back and looked deep into his eyes, witnessing his deepest truth. She was his. She was always his.
“Yes.”
He wiped away her tears and kissed her again. When he released her, she smiled and raised her hand, admiring her new hardware.
“The ring is beautiful, Luke.”
“It was my grandmother’s” he noted, taking her hand, nostalgically twirling the ring around her finger. “I stopped at my mom’s today and asked her for it.”
“Oh!” she smiled, “I loved your grandma. She was always so sweet to me.”
“Yes, sweet and sour. She was the only other woman who ever called me out on my shit,” he grinned, squeezing her fingers.
“What can I say,” she teased, “I can only be me.”
“That’s enough for me, Mims,” he growled, “It’s always been enough.”
“Does this mean we can’t play outside anymore?” she smirked, her question playfully apprehensive.
“Hell no, Cinderella!” he promised, pushing her back on the bed. “All that was only the opening act...”
Jacked
CHANCE CARTER
Chapter 1
Jack
I didn't understand why they were so excited already. My opponent hadn't even arrived yet, so there was nothing to see and nothing to cheer for, but that didn’t stop the crowd of rednecks and bikers from filling the air with their jubilation.
From the jeers and hoots that reached me from across the parking lot, I surmised that the guy I would be laying out today was a fan favorite. That suited me just fine. Being the underdog was a hell of a lot easier than he would find out disappointing his fans was. Since I didn't have any fans, I didn't have anyone to disappoint but myself. It worked out better that way.
The smoke curled lazily from my lips for a fraction of a second before I sucked it in, allowing it to coat my lungs with ash. The bricks of the bar's back wall were rough on my skin, even through the thin layer of my t-shirt. It was a hot night, and sweat prickled on my brow. If anybody noticed, they probably thought it was fear.
I didn't give a fuck what they thought.
I wasn't here to win the twisted adoration of a few small-town hicks or to fuel their blood lust either. I wasn't here because I liked the feeling of bruised knuckles and a battered skull. I wasn't even here because of the anger issues I undoubtedly carried in the black part of my soul. I was here for one reason and one reason only. The prize.
I only ever showed up for the prize.
The crowd behind the bar had swelled a little by the time I finished my cigarette, at least twenty guys stood around a pickup truck that had seen better days, joking with the fight’s organizer as he took bets and made predictions.
I resisted the urge to light up another smoke. The next one was my victory cigarette, and that was as sacred a ritual as any other I knew. It could be my cigarette of defeat too, but I already knew I had nothing to worry about. These guys were all too cocky, too eager. The fighter they'd lined me up against obviously hadn't met proper competition before, and those were always the easiest to take down. I'd been doing this for years and the defeats stuck out in my memory vividly—none of them started like this. No, if I was going to get beat, it was going to come out of the blue and surprise me.
Someone broke through the crowd and approached me, a stubby looking fucker who hadn't lost the gleam of greed in his eyes since Roddy first introduced me to him a couple weeks ago. He was both the owner of the rusted old pickup and tonight's organizer, and no doubt he soon hoped to win big on the lottery of brute strength. Roddy, who ran interference between me and all the guys who wanted to see me taken down, had warned me to be careful with this one. Clarence Stillwater was as cocky about his fighter as he was ugly, and that said something.
He stopped in front of me, pulling the brim of his baseball cap lower over his wrinkled forehead. "What's your name again, kid?"
I sucked my teeth and gave him a once over before answering. "Jack."
"Just Jack? You don't got a fighter name?"
I nodded. "Just Jack."
"You're still game?"
"There still a prize of two grand for the winner?"
His thin lips split into a crooked, almost jagged smile. This guy was missing quite a few teeth, enough to make me wonder if he'd ever gotten into the ring himself.
"Yeah, the prize is the same."
I shrugged. "Then I'm still game."
He paused a beat, eyes narrowed on me like I was a pest in need of squashing. "You're not a man of many words, are you?"
"Not when there isn't anything more that needs saying. I'm sure I'll express myself well and good when your fighter shows up."
"He's coming," Clarence assured. "I wouldn't get too eager though. There's no prize for losing."
I cocked a wicked grin. "Then I guess I better not lose."
An obnoxious, lifted pickup growled into the parking lot, filling up three stalls as it parked haphazardly. Clarence immediately turned from me with a wink and started walking over to it, greeting the giant of a man who stepped out with a friendly clap on the back.
I didn't blame them for thinking this guy was gonna beat me to smithereens. He was the obvious choice—huge, corded with muscles, and he looked as mean as a pit bull. He had a few inches on me and his hands looked perfectly sized to crush my skull. Hell, I would have bet against me if I hadn't met me before. It was a mistake I doubted any of these rednecks would be making
twice.
"You ready, Just Jack?" called Clarence in a sneering tone.
My lips curved into a smile and I nodded, stepping away from the wall and walking into the clearing the assembled crowd had formed just for me and this ogre.
"Alright folks," Clarence said, silencing the excited chatter. "Here we got Just Jack, hailing from Bell Springs, going head to head with Angry Angus, Jackson's very own. You've got two more minutes to place your bets before the excitement begins."
Angry Angus took his place across from me in the "ring", and was obviously trying to mean mug me into shitting my pants. I was much more interested in trying to figure out who was betting on me. Just because I was used to being underestimated didn't mean I had no ego to speak of. These days, people who knew what they were doing when it came to arranging these sorts of fights knew that I wasn't the kind of guy you should fuck with, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Clarence did know what he was doing after all. He was about to make one hell of a killing on bets.
Clarence ended the betting and called out the rules—which were basically just that there were no rules. And then it was time to dance.
Angry Angus came at me fists first, brain last. They always did. People who'd heard my reputation thought I was a good fighter because I was the toughest, which made it easy for them to think I would lose against the toughest guy they knew—who undoubtedly had to be way tougher than me. What most people didn't pick up on was that I was just the smartest fighter. And I had a high pain tolerance to go with that.
Angus got a few hits in right away, one right hook to the face that damn near shattered my cheekbone. The guy had a strong arm, I'd give him that, but while he was focusing on getting his knuckles in line with my face, I was focusing on his footwork and movement. Before he threw a cross, he always wound up clumsily and left the right side of his face unprotected. He threw his whole body weight into his jabs and often stumbled instead of stepping through to distribute the force. And he wouldn't know what a guard was if it hit him in the face.
I jumped back from the fray after the first few hits, swirling the coppery taste of my blood between my teeth before spitting it onto the ground. Angus was smirking, hamming it up for the crowd as they roared their approval. He lifted his hands to urge their applause to reach a crescendo like he thought he was some sort of fucking Roman gladiator. Idiot.
I approached him with my hands up, peering up at him from behind my closed fists. He reeled back for a cross and I sidestepped to the left, boxing him in the side of the head before quickly moving out of the way of the defensive punch he tried to counter with. He missed. I swept low and came up with an uppercut to the gut, which in his defense barely seemed to wind the colossus. He managed to slam a hit against my shoulder as I pulled back, but it wasn't nearly as powerful as his first few had been.
I could have danced around him for ages and tired him out easily, but in my experience the only thing that ever achieved was pissing off the crowd, so instead I struck out again and again with blows meant to stun more than harm. He reeled around in a circle trying to follow my movements, and I stopped long enough and at just the right distance to entice him into a jab. He was so frustrated by this point that he held back less than usual, lurching forward as I ducked his punch at the last second. His momentum made the fist I sent under his jaw even more powerful, and his teeth slammed together with an almighty crack.
The giant stumbled forward. The giant stumbled back. He turned in a half circle, eyes searching and blinking. And then, with all the drama of a great iceberg crashing into the sea, Angry Angus collided with the pavement.
The cheers stopped. Everything stopped. For a moment, the only thing I could hear was the muffled twanging country music coming from inside the bar, and it was like time had frozen solid right at the moment of my victory.
Then, the whispers began.
It made sense that this crowd of buffoons, who had been so vocal about seeing me smashed out against the concrete, would lose their voices the moment they realized they'd been wrong. Now they tried to make sense of what had just happened in quiet tones, like if they didn't address it out loud they wouldn't have to accept the consequences. Tonight's consequences being, of course, that they'd just lost a ton of money and worse, now had to acknowledge that the biggest guy in their town still wasn't tough enough to beat up some random stranger most of them had jeered at for being too pretty to fight. Idiots.
The only person I felt a little bad for was Angry Angus, since he was probably real proud of that moniker and would now be facing an existential crisis. Was he just not angry enough? Was that it? Should he change his name to Slightly Irate Angus? A Little Bit Irritated Angus?
As I mused on these thoughts, wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth, Clarence grabbed my arm and pulled me back over to the brick wall as the men started trying to rouse their Goliath.
"Here, kid." He stuffed a handful of bills into my palm. "I'd suggest getting out of here before Angry Angus gets up again."
I laughed and unfolded the money, counting it. "I don't think Angry Angus is going to be getting up anytime soon," I said. "Not if he knows what's good for him."
Clarence was not amused. There was a sense of urgency in his eyes, which had gone all shifty and kept darting back to the disheartened crowd.
"You're awfully cocky, just like Roddy said you would be."
"It comes with the territory." I finished counting and nodded at him. "Alright, get out of here before these hillbillies realize you fleeced them."
Clarence's eyes bulged. "I did not."
"Sure you didn't. But I bet me being cocky isn't all Roddy told you." I grabbed a smoke from the pack in my pocket and tapped it between my fingers. "Now go on."
Clarence didn't argue any further. He and his winnings were out of the parking lot before I'd even had a chance to light up.
I shoved the cash in my pocket and grabbed my lighter, flicking the mechanism as I started ambling back in the direction of the main street. My plans for the night included a cold beer and a warm woman, and it didn't look like I was welcome to either of those here. Just as well. I didn't much feel like having any of these guys glare daggers at me all night.
The road was quiet, almost desolate. Even so, I wasn't worried. I wasn't even worried when I heard the sound of footsteps fall into step somewhere behind mine.
I should have been.
Chapter 2
Melissa
It was a discomforting combination, being both gawked at by people when they thought I wasn't looking while also not being able to meet my eye. About an hour into my shift I was ready to yell at somebody, but I kept my feelings to myself for once. There was nothing to be accomplished by snapping at one of the Alibi's patrons, just in the same way there was nothing to be accomplished by trying to cover the bruise around my eye up with make-up. It wouldn't change anything, and it certainly wouldn't make people look at me less.
I kept pouring out beers, trying not to let everyone's obvious curiosity irk me too much. Not one of them had had the balls to ask me about the black eye yet, and I doubted any of them would. Not the patrons, anyway. Not most of the staff, either. I expect they all had their own suspicions, most of which were probably right, and I would have been quite happy to keep pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary if they weren't all so fucking bad at it.
Naomi Smith ended up being the only one who stepped up to the plate and asked, even though she was the least likely to spread the gossip out of all of them.
"What the hell happened to your face, honey?" She stood at the stretch of bar we kept free for the servers to pick up their drinks, one hand on her hip while the painted black fingernails of her other hand drummed on the empty serving tray.
I didn't bother lying. Naomi would see right through it, the same way she saw through every lie I told.
"Donnie and I had a fight," I said simply. "It's fine."
Naomi didn't flinch. She had more tattoos than most people had se
nse and hadn't stayed at the Alibi so long just because the tips were good.
"Did you get him back?"
I snorted. My boyfriend, Donnie, was about twice my size and as mean as a rattlesnake when he was drunk. Much as I would have liked to have gone after him with a rolling pin the second he hit me, I was smarter than that. I knew that as soon as he sobered up, cooler heads would prevail.
"He was drunk," I said, skirting her question. "It's the first time he's done it and mark my words it will be the last time."
Her chestnut eyes narrowed on me judiciously. "Baby, that's what they all say. I know that he's...well, Donnie Berland, but that doesn't mean you gotta take shit from him."
"I don't take shit from anyone, Naomi." I slammed down the two beers I'd been pulling for her, the foam sloshing over onto the tray. I hadn't meant to put them down so forcefully.
"There's a shiner just below your eyebrow that says otherwise," she snapped back.
"Look, I don't want to talk about it."
She lingered a second longer, probably debating making a scene just to prove her point. I didn't blame her. She had two girls at home and was fiercely defensive of them, and somehow since I started working here two years ago that protectiveness had transferred to me too. She was a mamma bear and I was just another one of her cubs, even though I was only six years younger than her twenty-eight and had proven on more than one occasion that I could handle myself. I wouldn't have lasted this long at the Alibi if I couldn't, despite what anybody else might think.
"Naomi! We gettin' those drinks over here or what?" Naomi's customer hollered from the other side of the room.
She let out an irritated sigh and picked up the tray, shooting me a look that made it clear our conversation was far from over before she turned and yelled a reply. "Keep your pants on, Duncan. It's other people who have to drink for you to become more attractive, not the other way 'round."
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