by Lane Hart
“Wait, who drugged you? Josh?” Jordan looks between me and his younger brother, who’s still kneeling on the ground.
“I-I don’t have proof, and I left the dance with him on my own after I drank what he gave me,” I admit. “But after we…I couldn’t move. I knew what was going on, and watched him…but my body wouldn’t move.”
“You gave her Rohyphnol?” Jordan exclaims, yanking on Josh’s hair again to make him look up at him.
“She was drunk,” Josh says softly.
“No, I wasn’t. I didn’t have anything to drink that night,” I correct.
“Okay, two stops to make. The lab and then the police station,” Jordan says, his body so tense he looks like he could explode.
“What the fuck?” Josh shrieks.
“We don’t have to do that,” I tell Jordan.
“We should,” Jordan replies. “This asshole deserves to go to prison.”
“He does, but then he wouldn’t be able to pay child support,” I respond. Jason wouldn’t have had sex with me without protection. Drunk, he still wouldn’t be that stupid, even if I was. But Josh didn’t even think about it, and now we have a son. He deceived me. And while I didn’t want Jason to feel obligated to help me financially, this asshole owes it to me. Most importantly, to his son.
“Okay, fine,” Jordan says. “But if you step one toe out of line, or if I find out there are any other girls you did this to, I will kick your ass and then drag you to the police station,” he warns his brother. “Mom and dad would be so fucking ashamed of you right now.”
Josh hangs his head, looking suitably scolded, so once I get dressed, the four of us get in the car and finally go get the proof that Josh is Camden’s father.
Jordan drops his brother off at his townhouse without a word, and I’m so happy when he shuts the car off and follows me up to my apartment.
“Pack your shit,” he says when we walk through the door. It’s like déjà vu all over again, except this place is so much nicer than my other apartment.
“Wh-what?” I ask when I pick up Camden, who’s fussing in his car seat, and sit down on the sofa to feed him.
“You’re moving back in with me,” Jordan explains.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I start. “I mean, things have been –”
“Horrible,” Jordan interrupts. “Everything has been horrible without you. I’ve missed you so much,” he says when he crouches down on the floor in front of me.
“I’ve missed you, too,” I admit. “But we’ve been up and down since we met. Maybe…maybe we were moving too quickly and should slow down.”
“I don’t want to slow down,” Jordan says, his amber gaze unwavering. “You two belong with me, and I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and that my brother did that to you…You’re all I think about, and I’m not happy without you there when I come home every night and when I wake up every morning. So, please, I’m begging you to move in with me, permanently.”
When a tear escapes and races down my cheek, Jordan wipes it away.
“Say yes, Maggie, and I promise that I’ll never hurt you again,” he assures me, and maybe it’s crazy, but I believe him. We had a rocky start, and now it feels like there could really be smooth sailing.
“Yes,” I answer with a smile and more tears.
“Thank God,” Jordan replies before he leans forward and kisses me, carefully so he doesn’t crush Camden, who’s feeding in between us. And after he kisses me silly, he pulls away and kisses the top of Camden’s head. “This time will be different,” he says. “Better and without an ending.”
“There’s sort of an ending,” I correct him.
“What do you mean?” he asks with a furrowed brow.
“Just that I hope there’s a happily ever after,” I tell him.
“Oh, there will definitely be a happily ever after,” he promises with a grin before he kisses me again.
Jordan’s my knight in shining armor. A hero in the darkness. And for some reason, he wants to treat me like his queen and my son like a prince.
Epilogue
Maggie
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear Camden! Happy Birthday to you!”
“Blow out your candle, buddy,” Jordan tells Camden, urging him to extinguish the big number one that’s sitting on top of his very own cupcake.
“You can do it, sweetie,” I encourage him. Wax is dripping down the side of the candle before Camden’s finally able to blow out the tiny fire.
“Yay!” we all cheer and clap, which causes him to clap too while bouncing up and down. After I take the candle out, I push the plate toward him in his high chair.
“Dig in, little man,” Jake, Camden’s favorite uncle says while Addy snaps pictures for us.
Over the last year, Josh has made his child support payments religiously, and Jordan and I have been putting every cent into a college fund for Camden. The three of us have everything we need without it and are happier than words can describe.
“I can’t believe he’s already one,” Jordan says with a shake of his head. “Walking, eating real food. It seems like just the other day I was waking up to hold him and feed him bottles. Is it weird that I miss him being so little?” he turns to me and asks.
His question nearly causes me to burst with excitement of what I’ve been waiting to tell him. Wrapping my arms around Jordan’s waist, I stand on my tiptoes so that I can whisper in his ear and none of the party guests will hear.
“You just miss the breastfeeding,” I tease with a kiss to his cheek.
“Well, that too,” he says with a smile and a not-so-sneaky glance down the front of my shirt. “But don’t you think Camden needs a little brother or sister?”
“Soon,” I assure him. Jordan hasn’t been very subtle about wanting us to have a baby. Of course he’s Camden’s father in all forms but biologically, but I know he really wants us to have a son or daughter together.
“Really?” he asks with a grin, looking so hopeful that I throw my arms around his neck and lose myself in his embrace as he holds me to him.
“Yes,” I reply with a kiss to his neck. “Very soon, because I’m pregnant.”
The man goes so still, I’m pretty sure he’s not breathing. Oh God. I thought this was what he wanted, and that he would be happy. Maybe I was wrong…
Then just as suddenly, he explodes.
“We’re having a baby!?!” he asks, holding me out in front of him to see my face.
“Yes,” I confirm, and then my feet leave the floor when he spins me around, while everyone hoots and hollers, making me giggle.
When he finally puts me down, he keeps his arm around my back.
“Did you hear that, buddy?” he asks Camden, who’s started poking a finger in his cupcake. “You’re gonna have a baby brother or sister.”
“Bay-bee,” Camden echoes, and we all cheer again, which makes him cackle with glee.
“You have no idea how happy I am,” Jordan says with a kiss to my forehead. “But now you’ve outdone my surprise.”
“Your surprise?” I ask.
Reaching behind him on the table, he grabs a cupcake and offers it to me.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I accept it. When I start to unwrap it, though, something shiny in the center catches my eye. And then I realize…it’s a diamond ring.
“Oh my God,” I mutter, pulling the ring from the icing with a shaky hand. Jordan goes down to one knee in front of me, and I swear my own knees almost give out.
“Maggie Frasier, years ago I remember the first night you came over to our parents’ house,” Jordan starts, and seeing the tears swimming in his eyes have mine overflowing. “I overheard my mom say that she thought you would make one of her son’s a lucky man. Well, I’m sorry it took you two strikes to get to the right son, but now that you have, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation; and then, as soon as Jordan slips
the ring on my finger, I’m in his arms again, kissing him to show him how happy he makes me, and that he’s given me and Camden everything we could ever want.
Him.
The End
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Jax
A Cocky Cage Fighter Novel
By Lane Hart
Chapter One
Page Davenport
I tap my perfectly manicured nails rhythmically over the laptop keys while watching the clock. I'm bored out of my mind waiting for this “urgent and extremely important” meeting to commence. The one my father's secretary said would begin promptly at three p.m. sharp.
And he's late.
But really, what else is new?
Ever since I started full-time at the firm I've felt like dad's errand girl. While some of his requests have actually involved trips to the United States Attorney's Office, my responsibilities in the building only included delivering or picking up documents. I've also been assigned the extremely important task of hole-punching a thousand pages of discovery before organizing them into binders. And last, but certainly not least, to remind me I'm the lowest on the totem pole he's actually sent me out to pick up his freaking lunch! I keep wanting to remind him that there is in fact a law degree hanging in my office, just like the one in his. I may have only recently graduated and passed several state bars, but being treated like a freaking intern is getting tiresome.
"Page," my father says when he breezes quickly into the room. "Sorry I'm late, got held up on a conference call. We may have just settled our trade secret violation case with SynTech for a million."
"Good for you," I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. It's not much, since I know our clients are making a killing stealing their old company's ideas.
My dad, Miles Davenport, has always specialized in corporate law. My older brother, Logan Davenport, is an expert at patent law. My uncle, John Davenport, has been doing wills and estates for twenty-five years. All three areas of law put me to sleep faster than an elephant-sized tranquilizer dart. I'm still trying to figure out my specialty; what cases I'll actually enjoy doing for the long-term.
The senior Davenport settles into the rolling chair at the head of the conference room table, slapping down a brown accordion file in front of him with a thud. Could it be that he's actually going to give me a real case to handle on my own? Usually the closest I get to a case is when I'm assigned research projects for him or my brother.
"Our three o'clock is late, not that I'm surprised. His father just posted his bond this morning, so they probably got held up at the jail," he tells me while checking his phone.
Oh no, no, no. I'll practice any area of law, but I won't do…
"It’s a new criminal case," my father says, grinning greedily from ear to ear.
Criminal?
Represent miscreants? He can't be serious. There are two attorneys in our firm who do all of the criminal work. Ryan handles the state court cases, and Mark takes all the federal cases. So why the heck is my dad, a corporate attorney, talking to a potential criminal client?
"I'm sure you've heard of him, Jackson Malone, the famous MMA fighter?" he asks. I probably dislocated my jaw based on the speed at which it hit the wooden table. "His head coach, Don Briggs, and I grew up together. Don called me this morning and asked if we'd take his case."
"You mean Jackson ‘The Mauler’ Malone, the man who raped and strangled a woman?" I ask in horror. It's been all over the news ever since the story first broke three days ago.
"Innocent until proven guilty, remember?" my father says, finally glancing up at me to raise a condescending gray eyebrow that matches his perfectly combed hair.
"Yeah, that's the motto of all criminals," I snort. "So what am I doing here?"
"You're going to represent him," he says, sliding the file across the table to me.
"Like hell I am!" I exclaim, jumping to my feet and raising my voice at my father for probably only the third time in all my twenty-four years. "I don't have any criminal law experience other than a summer internship with the DA's office, and even if I did have experience, I wouldn't represent him!"
"You are," he says with the narrowed cobalt blue eyes I inherited, and the cold tone of finality I've always dreaded. It means he isn't going to budge and there's no convincing him to change his stubborn mind. "This is going to be a huge case. Not only is he going to pay us a small fortune, but the national publicity we'll get will be incredible! It's also exactly what you need, to put yourself in the spotlight to boost Elliot's campaign."
Oh please! Like I give a rat's bare bottom about Elliot's campaign. I don't even bother responding to that nonsense.
"There are nine other attorneys in this firm, why can't one of them do it? You know, maybe one that has actual criminal courtroom experience," I argue.
"You and Logan are the only ones who've passed the bar in New Jersey, which has jurisdiction in this case. And you're the only female in the office. It'll look better to the media and the jurors to see a woman sitting beside Mr. Malone at the defense table. Don't worry, Ryan will carry the brunt of the load."
Oh no. Now I'm starting to understand. My father isn't giving me this case because he thinks I deserve it. No, he wants me to be the sacrificial lamb. The woman the media and feminist groups will all tear into for representing a chauvinistic pig. He really doesn't give one shit...ake mushroom about my reputation. After this case, I'll be nationally known as the idiot woman who represented the rapist jerk. Speaking of…
My dad's secretary cracks the conference room door, and announces in her nauseatingly sweet voice, "Mr. Davenport, the Malones are here."
I have a slight dislike of Margo. Okay, maybe a tad more than slight. She's so freaking nice, it's obviously fake. As soon as her back turns her smile falls and is replaced with a gaping maw of gossip, spewing filth to anyone who will listen.
"Show them in," my father instructs her while straightening his blood red tie, the color appropriately representing his strict conservatism. Then he turns to me, and says, "Be nice, and don't you dare fuck this up," sternly through his clenched teeth.
I make an attempt to ignore the knife sticking out of my chest from the second half of my father's directive, and instead try to come to terms with the idea that he wants me to be nice. Be nice to a ruthless, cocky meathead who thinks that since he's all rich and famous because of a brutal, barbaric sport that he has the right to do whatever the heck he wants with women and get away with it.
Maybe my uncle will hire me if I get up and walk out the door. Sure it'd be boring work filling in blanks on templates for old people, but at least I wouldn't be stuck working with an actual hard core, violent criminal.
An older man, looking roughly in his fifties with shaggy black hair and a beard sprinkled with a dusting of white, steps into the conference room first. The heavy bags under his hazel eyes and his deep frown lines make him look tired, and highly annoyed. I paste on my fake smile and reach across the conference table to shake his hand.
"Mr. Malone, I'd like you to meet my daughter, Page Davenport. Page, this is Martin Malone and his son. I'm sure you'll recognize Jackson Malone from his outstanding MMA career," my dad says when he makes the introductions.
"Nice to meet you," I lie as I hold out my hand to the older man. Shaking it, he gives me a polite nod of his head while assessing me. He's not looking at me in a creepy, sexual way, but his eyes are narrowed and his crinkled brows meet, maki
ng it obvious that he's asking himself, ‘Is she really old enough and experienced enough to represent my son?’ Of course not, and everyone in the building knows that.
My curious eyes finally dance around the older man to the one standing behind him. The spacious conference room, that can easily accommodate ten ego-inflated attorneys, suddenly feels too small. Intimidating doesn't even begin to describe the vibe this man is putting off. He practically comes with his own flashing neon sign over his coal colored pompadour cut that says in big, bright letters, "Danger! Stay back at least 100 feet!"
It isn't necessarily the guy's size that makes him scary, even though he’s built like a tank at more than six feet tall, with a wide, muscular build. But when you add in his black bottomless-pit eyes and tight, unshaven jaw...he looks like Mount Vesuvius about to erupt. Violence and tension radiate off of him in waves that are almost visible. In nothing special faded jeans and a plain white tee contrasting nicely with his tan golden skin, he's absolutely, without a doubt, the most…scrumptious looking man I've ever laid eyes on. His mug shot photo plastered all over the television and Internet doesn’t do him justice.
How the heck is it physically possible for someone who lets other people punch him in the face for a living still look like...like...a gorgeous Abercrombie & Fitch model?
And how can someone so bad-ass and angry still come across as...well, I'd never actually say this to his face, but pretty?
The man is nothing like the type of guy I'm usually attracted to. He's missing the requisite white collar and tie. I have a feeling that the brute before me never wears either. Instead of clean cut, he's ruggedly and dangerously handsome, singularly able to make women stop, drop their panties, and roll over...and cause men to run away like cowards with their penises tucked between their legs. Speaking of penises I bet his is...
