Along the way, I missed a lot of things that normal 20-year-olds experience. Like partying. And dating. And flirting. And sex.
Luckily, Jaxson seems to have found my attempt at flirting, or my reaction to the drink, comical. I hear him laugh. Okay, it was a chuckle. But for a guy who could scare someone with just a look, his laugh might just be the best thing I’ve ever heard.
He stops abruptly, like he’s suddenly realized what he’s doing. But that’s Jaxson: the man can go from hot to cold in a matter of seconds. Every time I think I’m cracking his walls just a little, he builds them back up.
“Just coffee. Thanks.”
“Coming right up.”
Though it isn’t much, today is the most conversation we have had in—ever? The chuckle took it to the next level. That thought makes me smile. It doesn’t take a genius to know he isn’t much of a talker. I’ve never met anyone so closed off, so the fact that he’s sharing any words with me makes me feel special.
It makes me crush on him that much harder.
“Here you go. One large black no-frills coffee.”
He puts his $5 on the counter and leaves.
Like I said. Baby steps.
10
Jaxson
God, I was such a fucking asshole.
After Annabelle joined the gym, I started getting coffee again. Figured I’d better get used to seeing her if she was going to be around more. At least that was what I told myself.
I really didn’t want to talk to her. Well, I did. So fucking bad.
But I couldn’t.
I’ve never been a talker. Growing up where we did, Kalum, Maverick, and I knew that opening our mouths could only lead to trouble. You would either say the wrong thing or slip and say something you weren’t supposed to. You were just better off keeping your trap shut. I took that lesson with me when I did my year inside.
When I was a teenager and my old man was teaching me to fight, I learned that if I kept my mouth shut, opponents feared me. And I liked that. No, I fucking loved it. I had always been bigger than everyone, but adding a level of fear in the ring, or inside the cage, was never a bad thing. Didn’t matter if it was MMA or straight boxing. I was a fighter. And I didn’t lose.
Until I lost Abigail.
The only person I ever really talked to was my baby sister. Abigail was the sweetest person to ever walk this earth, and from the moment my mom brought her home from the hospital, I knew this girl would have me wrapped around her little finger.
Somehow, even though she grew up in the same home and neighborhood I did, she didn’t let it get to her. She was a straight-A student and was accepted into some fancy-ass private school on scholarship. She wanted to be a social worker. She wanted to save the fucking world. She hated that I fought, but she was just a kid, seven years younger than me, and didn’t understand the world of my father’s shady deals and illegal gambling that I made sure to protect her from.
Until I didn’t.
Annabelle reminds me so much of Abigail. Not in looks. Where Annabelle is tiny with her red hair that I see in my dreams, Abigail had brown hair like mine and would have likely taken after me in the height department.
Considering I’m really fucking attracted to Annabelle, I’m glad she looks nothing like Abigail.
But there are similarities: innocence and purity, plus I wouldn’t be surprised if each of them had a halo. Plus both were strong when they had to be. I might not know Annabelle well, but I can tell she’s found a strength she didn’t know she possessed.
Abigail had no choice but to be associated with me. But Annabelle? I can keep her at arm’s length. I have to.
By the time I get back to the gym, Reggie is getting his bag together to take off for the night. He always tries to check out around 4 p.m. He’s now a domesticated man and makes sure to be home every night for dinner with his wife and two kids.
When I feel like being an ass, which is often, I tell him he’s whipped. He just tells me I’m jealous. But I don’t know how you can be jealous of something you’ve never had. It’s not like I grew up in a loving home. My mom did what she could, but with dear old dad being in and out of prison my whole life, it’s not exactly like we had a great family dynamic.
“Did I miss anything?” I toss my wallet on the desk and look through the stack of papers Reggie left for me. That’s our routine. End of the day before he goes, he leaves me my homework. It might not be a perfect system, but it works.
“Not much. I got the mail. There are a few bills that can wait until later this week. I did put a few invoices in there for you to look over.”
“Thanks. Get out of here, man.”
Reggie doesn’t need to be told twice and turns to leave. I start shuffling through the stack of mail. He was right: bills, junk mail, and a new catalog from an equipment dealer. But there is one letter that sticks out. It’s handwritten . . . and addressed to me.
I know that handwriting—those almost unreadable shaky letters I used to see on notes on the counter telling me when and where to show up for a fight. The same writing that used to fill out betting slips that I had to turn in for him, despite the fact that I was only 13.
Stan Fucking Kelly.
Why in the fuck was my dad writing to me from prison? He’s toward the end of his sentence for running an illegal fighting ring. He only got eight years because he pled guilty on a few of the charges, so the DA dropped some of the minor ones. It could have been more. Stan was a career criminal, gambler, and bookie, and he would sell you to the devil if it meant saving his own ass.
He only ever cared about making a buck—most of the time, illegally. When he encouraged me to start fighting, I thought it was cool as hell. How many dads told their kids to go punch people?
Then I found out that I was just another way for him to make money. Little did I know, until it was too late and I was in too deep, that Daddy Dearest was operating an illegal fighting ring, with me as the main attraction.
If I never saw that asshole again it would be too soon.
But here I am just staring at the letter. And I’m not going to lie—I feel like it’s burning in my hand. All I can do is hold it and wonder what’s inside. I don’t open it. I can’t. I want nothing to do with that bastard.
He ruined my life. He’s the reason my sister is dead.
But I don’t throw it away. For some reason, I can’t. So it goes into the bottom drawer of my desk, where it will likely stay.
11
Annabelle
Do you ever have one of those days where you feel like you can do anything? Like you are Leonardo—well, Jack Dawson—on the Titanic yelling that you’re the king of the world? You know, before the whole iceberg thing.
That’s me today. And I’m not going to lie—it’s a pretty damn good feeling.
Last night at the gym, I was finally able to perform a move I’d been struggling with. Being in a chokehold had brought back a lot of memories of that night, so even after almost a month of going to classes, I wouldn’t try it. My teacher understood and was super supportive of me.
But last night I was finally ready to work on that technique. It took me a few tries, but soon I wasn’t panicking when my attacker grabbed me. I wasn’t a master yet, but just getting over that initial fear was huge.
And today, I’m going to get over another fear. I’m going to give Jaxson Kelly my phone number.
Just the thought of it has had me bouncing around all day. I’m usually pleasant with customers and staff, but even I know that today it’s a bit much.
“What in the world is up with you today? You’re acting like you got laid or something. Oh my God! Did you? Did it finally happen? And if you did, why didn’t you call me immediately and report this news?” Tori shrieks.
“Very funny. You know I didn’t. Can’t a girl just be in a good mood?”
Tori knows I’m a virgin. She’s one of the few who does. I didn’t mean to tell her, but one night when we’d had a few too many glasses of chea
p wine and pizza, it just kind of slipped out when I asked her about giving a blowjob.
After she finished choking on her pizza, I told her that I was a virgin in almost every sense of the word.
I had kissed a few guys, but nothing that I would have written about in my diary. I didn’t mean to still be a 23-year-old virgin. It just kind of happened.
I’ve only had one real boyfriend: Marcus. He lived in a neighboring town and I’d met him at the grocery store. I had heard about people meeting like that, but I never thought it would happen to me. It was cliché as hell when we both reached for the same taco shells.
From there, we began spending time together. He was nice—kind of quiet like me—which made me feel comfortable. We spent a few nights a week together. He said he worked a lot of nights, which was fine. I needed to make sure my dad was okay.
That’s why I never spent the night with Marcus. I always felt guilty about leaving Dad, even though he insisted he was fine. Because our nights were always going to end early, Marcus and I never went much further than kissing. He said that he was fine with taking things slow because he really liked me, and I could set the pace for everything we did. I thought it was sweet and considerate.
Until, of course, I caught him with a co-worker at his office one night. I thought I’d be a good girlfriend and surprise him with dinner one Thursday when my dad was at bingo. Seeing him bending some woman over his desk wasn’t exactly what I was expecting.
I broke up with him immediately; he didn’t even try to fight me on it. Now I’m glad it’s over. His cheating gave me the push I needed to move to Chicago.
Once I told Tori all of that, she made it her mission to make sure I lived life to the fullest. For the most part, she does a good job. She’s taken me dancing a few times and she’s the reason I signed up for the self-defense class. But she hasn’t yet been able to get me to open up and feel comfortable around the opposite sex.
But today all of that will change. Today I’m going to take the leap.
Tori just stands and stares at me a bit longer, trying to figure out why I’m nearly jumping out of my apron.
“Okay. Fine. You win. I have no idea why you’re acting like you met your celebrity crush. What has my best friend in such a good mood today?”
I can’t keep it from her anymore, but I don’t want to broadcast it to the entire café. So I lean in and whisper, “I’m going to give Jaxson my number today if he comes in.”
“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK. OHHHHHH MY GODDDDDDDDD!”
So much for that whole “not broadcasting it to the entire café” thing.
Tori grabs my arm and drags me back out of the view of customers. “You’re going to do what?”
“I’m going to give him my number.”
“How? Why now? I mean, I’m proud as hell of you and have been telling you to do this forever. But why now?”
“I don’t know. Today just felt like the day. He’s been nicer lately. And he always smiles at me when I see him at the gym. He’s even talked to me here. I just . . . I feel like I want to take this leap. I’ve never felt better about myself.”
“Girl,” I swear she’s crying, “I’m proud of you. Seven months ago, no way would you have done this. Hell, last week I don’t know that you would have.”
She pauses and gives me a serious look.
“But this is big. Like, you’re going from 0 to 100. What if he doesn’t call? I mean, he’d be a fucking moron not to call. But I don’t want you to get hurt. Putting yourself out there like that is scary as fuck. I always thought for your first attempt at dating, we’d get drunk and put your profile on one of those dating apps and we’d drunkenly swipe left or right, not jump head first with Mr. Dark and Dangerous.”
Yes, even though Tori had been the one insisting that we learn Jaxson’s name, she still calls him Mr. Dark and Dangerous. Old habits I guess.
But she’s right. And I have thought about it, though I haven’t been ready to fully admit it.
“I know that giving him my number doesn’t mean he’ll use it. And I know I have basically no experience with this stuff. But I’m tired of waiting around for things. I moved to Chicago for my life to begin. I’ve been taking baby steps, and now I’m ready for some bigger ones.”
Tori wraps me in a hug and squeezes me a bit too hard, but I don’t mind. She’s the reason I can do this. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
“All right, girl. Let’s go give out your digits.”
12
Jaxson
It’s been a few days since I got the letter from my dad. And even though I shoved it into a drawer to be out of sight, it’s not out of mind. Not even close.
Getting that letter from him has been a total mindfuck. I have no clue what it says. Hell, it could be telling me he’s dying and has three months to live. That thought actually makes me want to open it.
But I couldn’t get that lucky. Stan Kelly will probably live until he’s 200 because he made a deal with the devil for his soul in exchange for a $20 knockoff Rolex.
Knowing the letter is in my desk, I’ve done everything possible to stay out of my office. The staff must wonder what’s up with me, because I’m never on the floor this much. I’m not a micromanager. Each person on our team does their job damn well. But apparently my hovering was getting on everyone’s nerves so much that Reggie had to kick me out.
I’m glad he did. I could use a walk to clear my head.
Though I haven’t opened the letter, I guarantee I know what it says: that he needs money. He’s never held down a real job. He’s never made an honest living in his life. I don’t know if he knows about The Pit, but I guarantee he’s looking for a handout.
Over my dead body.
I didn’t know where I was walking, but somehow, I ended up in front of Perks. A cup of coffee sounds good, even though I probably don’t need to be any more wired than I am right now.
Standing in front of the shop, I can see Annabelle through the window. Her smile is lighting up the entire place as she’s walking around talking to customers. I’ve always been attracted to her, but I can see the subtle changes that have taken place since she’s been coming to the gym. She has a little more definition to her body, but is still so feminine and gorgeous.
I’ve watched her during the classes at the gym. I’ve hidden, not wanting to seem like some sort of stalker, but I can’t stay away when I know she’s there. It hasn’t come easy for her. She’s small, and I don’t think she has ever taken a combat class in her life. But the determination in her eyes, and the excitement in them when she catches on to something, is priceless to watch.
I catch her eye as soon as she hears the bell ring when I walk in. The smile she gives me is the most beautiful smile—one that could make any man give up everything—and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to make her smile like that every day.
“Hey Jaxson! How are you?”
“Hi Annabelle. Can I get a coffee?”
“Sure thing. I’ll walk back to the counter with you.”
I could have made it to the counter in five steps—the place isn’t very big, though it’s not cramped either—but yeah, I might have shortened my stride to be able to get a glimpse of this beautiful woman from the back.
Yup, that’s the ass of someone who’s been taking a kickboxing class. I pat myself on the back for putting that back on the schedule.
But I’m a glutton for punishment. That’s the only explanation I can think of as to why I’m checking her out, continuing to come in here, when I know I can’t have her.
“Your usual?” she asks, snapping me out of my daydream about her ass in my hands as I hold her up against a wall to kiss the ever-loving shit out of her.
“Yeah. Great. Thanks.”
She gives me that huge smile again, and I hate that three little words from me can put that kind of smile on her face.
I know she likes me. I might not date, or have ever considered be
ing in a relationship, but I can tell when a woman is interested in me. That hasn’t bothered me before. I can tell the difference between the women who just want a good time and the ones who think they can tame the bad boy.
But Annabelle? With the look she’s giving me as she pours my coffee? This look is different. It’s . . . wanting. Longing. She’s picturing us holding hands as we walk down the street together.
Seeing her look at me like that is the second time in my life I’ve wished for a different path, to be a different person. Because I’m not the guy who can give her what she deserves.
What would it be like? To be that man in her life? I’ve tried to push down that thought when it’s crept into my mind. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who would try to change me. She comes to the gym and tells me all the time how much she loves it there. I don’t fight for money anymore, so I wouldn’t have to keep her away from dark and abandoned warehouses or have to explain why my face is bloodied and bruised.
What would it be like to come home to her after a day at the gym? What does she like to do when she’s not working? Would she like to take a ride on my bike—take the day to explore with me? Is she from here? I wonder what her family is like.
And just like that, my fantasy comes to a screeching halt.
Family.
My family. The ones I have and don’t have. The reason I could never be with her.
I feel like a bucket of ice has just been dumped on my head.
“Here you go!” she says, breaking me from my thoughts. “Sorry it took so long. I had just put on a new pot, so I was waiting for it to finish so you could have a fresh cup. And . . . well, that’s it. Nothing more. See you soon! At the gym. Or here. Or whatever. Have a good day!”
“Thanks.” I put my $5 on the counter and turn to go. I have no idea why she is rambling and talking in an unusually high-pitched voice, and while it’s cute as hell, I need to get out of here. My head is in too many places right now.
Damaged: South Side Boys Book 1 Page 4
