“Donaghy,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Hell of a fight.”
The fighter stared at his outstretched hand like it was a weapon intent on destroying him, and some of the glee inside Jackson melted away.
“You have a friend?” Donaghy said without taking the hand he’d been offered. “A girl?”
Jackson dropped his arm to his side and blinked, unable to figure out what the hell the man in front of him was getting at. “I’m sorry?”
“There’s a girl in the bathroom who needs help. She said she was sitting in the VIP section with her friends.”
Jackson shook his head before what the fighter was saying sank in. Meg had gone to the bathroom and something bad had happened to her. Maybe she’d been attacked. It was possible, especially in this place. The question was: had her attacker gotten what he wanted?
Images of what could have happened popped into Jackson’s head. There was blood and bare flesh, and tears mixed with cries of pain. A symphony of agony and torture clouded his brain, making it impossible for him to respond or know what to do.
“Meg?” was the only word Jackson managed to get out, because everything else going through his head came from the dark place. The place that he tried his best to keep hidden.
“Didn’t get her name,” the fighter said, and the way his mouth scrunched up gave off the impression that he wished he hadn’t stumbled across her at all.
For the first time, Jackson noticed that there wasn’t just black blood splattered across the fighter’s arms and chest. There were dots of red as well. Blood. Human blood.
What had happened to Meg?
“Shit,” Jackson muttered before taking off toward the bathroom.
Some piece of scum had dared put his hands on Jackson Star’s future wife. He’d kill the bastard. Rip the asshole’s throat out for touching something that belonged to him, then piss on his corpse. They’d hang his body from the damn wall as a warning to every other person in this pathetic settlement. Nobody would ever have the guts to touch what belonged to Jackson Star again.
She was on the floor when he got to the bathroom. Crying, the front of her shirt ripped open and her breasts almost completely exposed. At her side was a corpse; it’s head smashed in and a pool of blood collecting on the floor underneath it. The red liquid contrasted with Meg’s milky white skin, making Jackson momentarily dizzy. There was so much blood. So much violence.
Charlie ran in behind him and started sobbing, snapping Jackson out of his daze. She took off just as he fell to his knees at Meg’s side, summoning every ounce of strength in his body so he could focus on her face and not on the blood.
He conjured up an expression of concern. “Tell me Donaghy stopped him.”
Meg nodded, but she didn’t seem to be able to talk. When Jackson put his hands on her shoulders, they shook slightly. Most of her breasts were visible beneath her crossed arms, and the urge to touch her was so strong that Jackson had a hard time controlling it. He tightened his grip on her shoulders, hoping it would come across as support for her instead of what it really was: him needing something to anchor himself to so he didn’t finish what this man had started.
“Breathe, Meg,” he ordered, then took his own advice and inhaled slowly.
The coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils and made his head spin, but one thought stuck out even amid the violence surrounding them: the man hadn’t touched her. That was good. Jackson still would have taken her—it wasn’t like she was a virgin—but this hadn’t been part of his plan. He needed her fresh and unafraid. He needed her to think she was strong so he could bask in the pleasure of tearing her down.
Meg concentrated on breathing in and out. Working to control herself while Jackson did the same. By the time she whispered, “I’m okay,” Jackson felt better as well. It had been a close call, but nothing had really changed. Meg was in one piece and the scum at her side was dead, nothing but a bloody pulp that he would savor the image of for the rest of his life.
It took a few minutes for Meg to steady herself, and when she did, she got to her feet. She brushed off Jackson’s attempt to help her and muttered, “I said I’m fine, but Donaghy might not be.”
Jackson started, for a second unable to wrap his brain around what she was saying. Then it hit him: she was worried about the convict. About what would happen to him. It was so typical of Meg, always putting others first. A habit that would no doubt lead to her eventual demise.
“Are you seriously worried about him?” Jackson asked, trying to keep the disgust from his voice but failing. “After what you just went through?”
If she didn’t have that damn selfless side, Jackson had no doubt that he would have snagged her by now. She had to know that being married to the Regulator’s son would give her a life of ease, only for some reason that wasn’t a priority for her. It didn’t matter that she had to struggle or take a shitty job on the maintenance crew, or that she lived in a run-down apartment building when she could be living in a mansion. No. Meg was undeniably noble in her desire to do what was right.
Jackson missed whatever she said next, but was jolted out of his thoughts when she turned her back to him and pulled her torn shirt off. Naked from the waist up and standing right in front of him, Jackson had to clench his hands into fists in order to stop himself from touching her. She unraveled the tattered remains of her shirt from her now ruined bra, throwing the latter aside and giving Jackson a perfect view of her right breast. The round perkiness of it made his head spin.
It was only for a second, though, and then she slipped her shirt on backward, hiding her curves from him once again. “Tie my shirt closed.”
Jackson’s hands shook as he grabbed the tattered edges of her shirt. His knuckles brushed her skin, soft and silky and just begging for attention, and he had to suck in a deep breath. When he did, though, the coppery scent of blood made the need pulse through him.
His brain checked out after that. He responded to Meg like he was a robot, doing what he had to in order to keep his façade in place, but barely registering the words that came out of his mouth. He followed her out of the bathroom, down the long, stinking hall and back out into the bar. The enforcers were already arriving; Meg’s uncle included, and the flurry of activity helped Jackson snap out of it a little.
Meg was sticking up for the convict, who was watching her closely. The expression in his eyes made Jackson uneasy. It wasn’t threatening, but instead soft. Earlier when Donaghy had been in the ring, Jackson had assumed this man would understand the need for violence that lived inside him. Now, though, watching the interaction between Donaghy and Meg, he realized it wasn’t true, and that made the fighter a threat. It didn’t matter if he was a convict because Jackson knew exactly what kind of man could penetrate Meg’s walls. He’d met the only one who had managed it.
Colton had accomplished what no one had ever succeeded in doing: he’d made Meg care. He hadn’t been the first to try, just the first to catch her attention, and it had taken Jackson some time to figure out how the other man had accomplished it. The answer had been obvious once he’d had the time to observe the situation, although difficult for Jackson to swallow. Colton had cared about people. He’d had a soft side, and that was something Jackson would never be able to compete with.
His body became more and more stiff the longer the fighter stared at Meg. Her uncle was busy thanking the guy, and the expression on Meg’s face made Jackson internally curse himself. She looked like she felt indebted to him. This man had walked into a room and saved her one time, and she was acting like she was ready to strip her clothes off and spread her legs. Jackson had been her friend for years. Had endured her sniveling when she lost family members and her fucking spineless boyfriend, had spent hours upon hours patiently waiting for her. Yet this guy had waltzed into a scummy bar one day and managed to earn more respect than Jackson had ever received.
And the way he was looking at her—like he would gladly follow her around and protect her for the
rest of his pathetic life—filled Jackson with a rage so raw that he had a difficult time not pulling his knife out and gutting the convict right here. Even worse was when Meg reached out and touched his arm, her fingers lingering much longer than necessary. After all these years of being her loyal friend, Jackson was rarely allowed to put his arm around her, but she had voluntarily put her hands on this scum.
His head was spinning so fast that the need was able to find its way to the surface. His hands twitched and he clenched them into fists. When Meg’s uncle headed for the bathroom, Jackson found himself following. He hated leaving Meg and the fighter alone, but he couldn’t make his body cooperate. The need was too strong. It wanted blood.
The smell hit him before he had even stepped through the door, and the second he was inside the bathroom he inhaled sharply. Meg’s uncle gave him a look that said he could see right through Jackson, but he didn’t care. He lived for moments like this. They satisfied him the way food or alcohol or drugs satisfied other people. Here he would be able to think straighter. To come up with something that would help put the fighter in his place while at the same time elevate Jackson in Meg’s eyes.
A plan began to formulate. Meg liked people who stuck their neck out for others, and she clearly saw the fighter as someone other than a convict. She saw good in him, that much was obvious, and in order to get on her good side, Jackson would have to pretend to see it too.
He left the bathroom, knowing that he had to put his plan into action as soon as possible. Meg and Donaghy were still talking, the fighter’s gaze focused on her like he couldn’t stand the thought of looking anywhere else. Jackson stopped at her side, close enough that their arms were touching, and he cleared his throat.
Donaghy met Jackson’s gaze, and right away he knew that the convict could see all the way through him to the darkest parts of his soul. Meg was sandwiched between them, trapped in a power struggle as each of the men waited for the other to talk. It was obvious that Donaghy didn’t trust Jackson, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t there to impress the convict or to try to hide his true self. Only Meg mattered.
“I want to thank you for helping Meg,” Jackson said, forcing the words out as he thrust his hand toward the asshole in front of him. He hated how much he had to look up to meet the convict’s gaze. Hated the cold stare that greeted him and the expression in the blue eyes that said I know who you are. He continued anyway, “You could have walked away, and these days a lot of people would have, but you put your neck out there. You’re a good man.”
The convict dragged his gaze from Jackson’s so he could stare at the outstretched hand in front of him. The air around them sizzled and seconds ticked by, but Donaghy still didn’t take the offering. It prickled at Jackson until he wanted to punch the man, but instead he dropped his hand to his side and straightened his back, determined to show Meg that he was the bigger man.
“Where are you staying while you’re in New Atlanta?” he asked.
Donaghy once again focused his gaze on Meg, as if she were the one who had asked the question, not Jackson. “There’s a back room here. Dragon set up a few cots.”
Jackson was standing so close to Meg that he felt her shiver under the convict’s gaze.
Heat flared inside Jackson and he had to force out a smile when he said, “I’d like to offer you a room. My father is the Regulator here and we have plenty of extra space. We’d be honored to have you stay in our home.”
“Not interested.” Donaghy didn’t even have the consideration to look at Jackson when he said it.
“I’m sorry?” It was all he could think to say. How dare this man? If he knew who was standing in front of him, he would never be so cavalier in his rejection. He’d show some respect.
Meg whispered the fighter’s name as she rested her hand on his arm so gently that it reminded Jackson of a lover’s touch. He had to stiffen his whole body to stop from lashing out at her or at the convict. They both needed to learn some respect, but Donaghy especially. By the time he left this settlement, Jackson would make sure this asshole understood how he was expected to behave in the presence of the Regulator’s son. He would make sure Donaghy, the great convict fighter, cowered under his gaze.
Whatever Meg said was lost to Jackson as he imagined ripping the convict to shreds, but it did the trick. The asshole consented and Jackson found himself letting out a breath as he tried to ease the tension from his body. It didn’t work, so he took the opportunity to excuse himself so he could make the arrangements. He wanted to get it taken care of so he could get out of here. Not only did he want to get Meg away from the convict, but there was also something about Donaghy that had him on the brink of losing control. He didn’t like the way the two looked at each other. Didn’t like the connection he could feel developing. The sooner he got Meg home for the night, the better.
Chapter Three
On the way home from dropping Meg off, Jackson’s brain buzzed from the memories of what had happened at the bar. The sight of the bloodied body on the bathroom floor and the surge of adrenaline that had shot through him at being so close to the heap and the coppery scent of blood. The smell alone had taken him back to the violence of his younger years, and Meg’s quiet sobs had only spurred the feelings forward.
Jackson knew he should have followed her to the bathroom, but he’d been distracted by the little waitress with the pink hair. The crisscrossing lines of her dress had drawn him in, and it had been on his mind to meet up with her after the bar had closed. He’d been right in the middle of picturing the whole thing as he talked to her. Walking Meg home before meeting the girl with the pink hair in some dark alley. There he would rip her clothes off and bend her over a trashcan. The metal would clang against the street, matching her cries. When he was finished with her, he may have even let her go, although he doubted it. More than likely he would have strangled her and left her in the alley. It had been a while since he’d allowed himself a grand finale like that.
The fantasy had been perfect, but then the fighter had popped up and told him about Meg, and for one horrible moment Jackson had thought that all his patience had been ruined by a filthy bar patron not even smart enough to take a woman in a dark alley. He’d rushed to her aid, thankful to discover that some other monster had not in fact soiled her, but the night had nonetheless remained ruined. Donaghy, the convict fighter from DC, had managed to insert himself between Jackson and Meg without even trying.
Meg was the first girl Jackson had ever noticed, back when he’d graduated from visions of violence in the schoolyard to visions of things that took place in a much more private setting. True, his father had planned their meeting, but he had welcomed it once he’d seen her big, green eyes. To Jackson it had seemed like they were calling out to him, and the fantasies he’d conjured up as they got older had kept him awake at night. Even though it had nearly killed him to drag it out like this, patiently waiting for her year after year, he had to admit that the thrill of the chase did something for him. One day he would have her, of that he had no doubt—Jackson Star wasn’t used to being told no—and the chase would make the eventual victory so much sweeter.
He’d marry her, of course, because having her at his side would do a lot for the future of the settlement and it was what he and his father had been working toward for years. Her last name was James and it was a name that was connected with saving the world, even if the masses were slightly misled in that matter. There were so many ups and downs associated with the new future they had planned, and the Stars knew that this would be an easy way to get people to fall in line. Megan James would bring the religious crazies to their side.
Jackson just hoped she wouldn’t keep him waiting much longer.
It was late, and briefly he considered going home, but even though he had managed to control the need, it hadn’t yet gone back to sleep. Plus, there were other urges in him, urges that hadn’t been met in a long time—and never by Meg. He could go to Priscilla, the twenty-four-year-old daughter of
one of the council members. The two of them often spent evenings together, each one satisfying the primal urges of the other, but Jackson knew that no matter how often he told her their trysts were casual, deep down she had her sights set on snagging him. Since he had no intention of ever allowing anyone to snag him unless they fit into the big picture, he tried to keep their meetings few and far between. She was good in bed and open to whatever filthy fantasy he concocted, but sometimes, like tonight, he just needed a quick release.
On a whim he turned into a dark alley at the end of shantytown. Here the shadows were deep and gloomy, blocking out even the little bit of light from the moon. It gave him the anonymity he craved in moments like this, moments when the need refused to be silenced. It’s appetites were varied, but always sinister, and even though he knew he could get away with literally anything thanks to his position, he preferred to keep some of his darker habits to himself. At least for the time being.
Jackson reached the small clearing at the edge of the alley, but even there the darkness was prevalent. A second later the shadows moved and a girl stepped forward. She was nothing more than an outline in the black night, and so small that it was impossible to know for sure if she was even legal. Not that Jackson cared. He knew the laws of the settlement mattered to everyone but him. The only laws he had to obey were his father’s, which he was more than happy to do.
“How much?” he asked the ghost of a girl in front of him.
“Ten credits.”
The smile that curled up his lips was hidden by the shadowy night. This was why he liked the darkness. If the whores recognized him, which they most certainly would in the light of day, the price quadrupled. He could pay forty credits of course, the price was nothing to him, but Jackson liked knowing that he was screwing them even more than they realized.
He unzipped his pants as the girl dropped to her knees. Her mouth was warm when it wrapped around him, and Jackson’s eyes closed as his head lulled back and he savored the feeling. The girl, legal or not, knew what she was doing.
Twisted World Series Box Set | Books 1-3 & Novella Page 36