Jack and the Beanstalk (Modern Wicked Fairy Tales Book 13)

by Selena Kitt

  Some claim, Jack thought with an imperceptible shake of his head. They weren’t even twenty years into this new century. The spin on this whole thing was dizzying. He clenched and unclenched his fists, wondering if he could wait to get into the ring for his shot at The Giant. His whole life had narrowed to this point, and now that it was finally here—almost here—he was growing impatient.

  “Goldi Harper!” The crowd exploded into cheers and applause at the announcement and Jack’s head whipped toward the wings. The stage had been set up for the press conference, but there was plenty of room in front of the table for a tall, leggy blonde to come out singing, something he hadn’t been prepared for.

  He knew he might have to see Goldi at some point, given The Giant was married to her. But he hadn’t expected to see her today. Here. Now.

  Jack’s eyes followed her—but everyone else was watching her, too, so he didn’t feel too bad about the way his gaze moved all on its own over the shimmery silver bit of a dress she wore, barely covering up the curves underneath. His hands remembered those curves with a muscle memory that surprised him.

  Her voice was high and sweet, almost breathy in a Marilyn Monroe sort of way, and he wondered if she did that on purpose. It was sexy as hell.

  The music was piped in, and he thought maybe she might be lip-syncing for the crowd and cameras. The press conference was live, and Jack realized, now that Frank Borland had made the introductions, that meant he was on television. They all were, although the cameras focused all on Goldi and her performance. He could see her image projected on the screen, which was a pleasant view, although the one he was getting from behind her wasn’t bad either.

  Stop it, Jack. You can’t afford to be distracted.

  He knew it was true. He told himself that The Giant was a lucky man and tried to dismiss what he was feeling. Then he remembered the video feed they’d shown from the elevator security cameras, and he wasn’t so sure about Goldi and her luck. Or her choice in men.

  It’s none of your business, Jack.

  He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, waiting for the show to be over. Just another publicity stunt, some more PR for the cameras to build up the hype. The Giant’s team was clearly not above using Goldi’s pop star fame to create a certain image.

  And she was clearly not above recording and singing a song entitled “Sucker Punch” and using his press conference to promote her new album.

  Jack worked hard at not rolling his eyes, but the crowd loved her. Her presence was magnetic—sex on wheels, Jack thought—her voice entrancing. He wasn’t unmoved, but he didn’t like being manipulated, and Goldi was clearly a master manipulator. Or a great actress. Probably both.

  She worked the audience, drawing them in, her moves calculated but seemingly effortless. They appeared spontaneous—like when she crooked a finger at one of the security guards standing at the edge of the stage, making him take a step toward her, then faking a “sucker punch” to his chin. The security guard gave her a bemused smile and Goldi winked her smoky eye at him, licking her lips before turning back to the crowd with her song.

  Will nudged him and gave him a look. Jack sighed, straightened in his seat, and tried to appear interested in the performance. The sooner this was all over, the better. He was itching to get into the gym for a while, work off some steam. Then he wanted an enormous steak, a soak in his hotel hot tub, a long massage, and hopefully a full night’s sleep, even if it wasn’t in his own bed.

  Goldi had turned toward the table, away from the audience, although she didn’t turn her back completely to them. She moved like she was always aware of the camera angles and Jack watched her approach, just as entranced as everyone else. He could see them projected on the big screen and glanced from that to her as she sang her way toward him. The song was ending, and her last line reverberated, something about that “sucker punch,” and just as she had with the security guard, Goldi faked an upper cut to Jack’s jaw.

  The crowd went crazy at that—they all knew the meaning, and so did Jack. It was a gentle tease. Goldi laughed, a light sound, at Jack’s expression. Their eyes met and locked in that moment, and he saw something flicker there—something real. Something that had nothing to do with the act she was putting on for the crowd. Did she remember as much as he did?

  Jack reached up—his reflexes were incredibly fast—and gripped her wrist.

  That’s when her smile disappeared altogether.

  It happened in an instant, although to Jack, it felt much longer. He saw the bruise on her temple, the one she’d carefully doused with makeup and tried to hide with her hair style—he was familiar enough with covering up the marks of a fight—the one that the audience couldn’t see. His gaze flicked up to meet hers, and he could tell she knew. She understood what he’d seen, what he was thinking, clearly knew what the tightening of his jaw—and the hand gripping her wrist—meant. Her expression changed, just a flash, and he saw a panic there. A real fear.

  He wanted to reassure her and the instinct to protect her nearly overwhelmed him. After that clip of her husband in the elevator, he knew damned well who was responsible for it—and he didn’t need a jury trial to prove it. He told himself to keep his cool, that he’d get his shot in the ring, but that brief shudder of fear that ran through her nearly broke him.

  Then Goldi’s smile returned, brighter than ever, and he doubted anyone saw the way her eyes quickly cut to her husband, and then back to him, before she spoke into her mic.

  “Good luck, Bean Bagger,” she told Jack in a low, husky voice, dropping him a slow, coy wink. “You’re gonna need it.”

  The crowd exploded with laughter, cheers and applause.

  Jack let her go, watching her move down the table to blow her husband a teasing kiss—the crowd approved of this, as well—before heading off stage into the wings. Jack put his tightly clenched fists on his knees and willed them to stay there.

  “Goldi Harper!” Frank Borland passed Goldi, coming from back stage. “WetWorx recording star with her new single, ‘Sucker Punch’—we hate to see her go, but we love to watch her leave, don’t we, fellas?”

  The crowd could appreciate that, and Jack saw the woman add an exaggerated wiggle to her walk as her curvy little backside disappeared from their view. He could see it still, from his vantage point on the stage. He saw the way she yanked her mic off, saying something to a handler, clearly angry. Jack couldn’t see her face all that well in the dim light back stage, but he did see the glint of her eyes, saw her look back at him. She knew he was watching her. He wondered what she was thinking, but he couldn’t spend time on that. He had to…

  “Focus,” Will murmured and Jack turned his attention back to the press conference that had finally begun.

  Frank Borland introduced all the players—from managers and trainers up to the two heavyweight fighters—and informed viewers when and where the big fight would be held. It was good that they didn’t talk directly to each other—everything went through Frank, who ended up acting more mediator than moderator as things got heated between the teams.

  Jack did his best to keep his cool, but things like this always got out of hand, and in the end, he couldn’t help interjecting a comment about Goldi when he got the chance, something about having recovered her voice after a recent hospitalization. Will gave him a scathing look and, of course, The Giant couldn’t let it fly by without comment.

  “Leave my wife out of this!” It was the first time The Giant had directly said anything to Jack—they were supposed to just talk to Frank. The big man leaned over the table, so he could glare at Jack, who glared right back. Jack saw Goldi watching from the wings, brow creased with worry.

  “Guess we’ll see how you do in the ring with someone who actually hits back,” Jack said wryly, leaning back in his seat so he could no longer see either The Giant or his young wife.

  Jack heard The Giant’s chair scrape the floor as he stood, towering over the rest of the crew as he loomed in Jack’s direction. He was fou
r or five people away, but he cast a long shadow.

  “I told you to leave my wife out of this—unless you want to start and end this right now, you little bean stalker?” The Giant’s implications were clear enough, but Jack didn’t take the bait.

  “Calm down, meathead.” Jack rolled his eyes, giving Will a wink at the man’s stunned expression. “I was just talking about Hector—poor sap never even got one punch in, did he?”

  The Giant frowned, beefy arms still crossed as he glared down the line at Jack, but he couldn’t say anything to refute Jack’s claim. The Giant’s last challenger, Hector “The Hornet” Jimenez, never got one good punch in before The Giant knocked him out. So The Giant took his seat again, at Frank Borland’s urging—Frank asked him a question about the Hector Jimenez fight to distract him—and Jack shrugged when Will elbowed him with a warning in the ribs.

  There was only so much a man could take, after all.

  “Are we done?” The Giant asked, scowling as he stood, frowning at Jack. Apparently, the Jimenez question hadn’t been enough to distract him completely. The Giant jerked a thumb in Jack’s direction. “I’ll finish him in the ring.”

  Jack didn’t respond. He just sat back and smiled. That, apparently, made the big man even angrier, and he pounded his ham-fist on the table.

  “I’ll grind his bones to make my bread!” The Giant growled, his gaze moving from the moderator, who couldn’t back up any further, or he’d fall off the stage, to Jack, whose grin widened at the threatening words. “You can count on it. This one’s personal!”

  With that, The Giant unhooked his mic and threw it down, storming off the stage.

  Chapter 2

  Two more weeks of training, and Will wouldn’t let up. Jack was ready—more than ready. He’d been ready for this fight his whole life, at least it felt like it. Waiting two more weeks was torture.

  “You’re distracted.” Will called over, watching Jack punching bags of dried beans with taped knuckles. The warehouse was sparsely furnished, although Will had a regulation boxing ring installed in the center. The rest of the workout equipment was basic, familiar—the things Jack had been using to train his whole life, from sand bags to kettle bells. He’d used pipes in the barn for chin-up bars and it was no different here. Will had made dip stations out of old PVC pipe and those were here, too.

  Jack had made enough money fighting to afford to train in a “real” gym, but he never wanted to stray that far from his roots. He’d been boxing since he met Will through the local “Future Farmer’s Association”, where Will still served as a teacher and advisor, running their youth boxing program. Although, truth be told, Jack had been born a fighter. He’d always been a big boy, like his father—that’s what his mother always said. She had been the one to caution him not to hit, even if provoked—she was afraid one blow from Jack would leave some kid brain-dead.

  His own father had died in prison the year Jack was born, after having been incarcerated for killing a man—with just one blow to his wife-beating head with a fist—so he could understand her fears. Not that the beat-down could bring Jack’s aunt—his mother’s only sister—back from the grave, where her husband’s own beating had put her.

  Jack had heeded his mother’s warning. None of the boys provoked Jack or wanted to mess with him, anyway. And between school and helping his mother out on their tiny little farm before and after, there wasn’t much time for anything else.

  But Jack hated any sort of injustice and standing by while watching others be bullied had always been difficult for him. Especially girls. He’d always had a soft spot in his heart for those of the feminine persuasion, and perhaps it had to do with the circumstances surrounding his aunt’s death—she could have been the poster child for domestic violence—but he never could stand to see someone hit a girl.

  Chloe Masters was the prettiest girl in their eighth-grade class, and when Jack had come upon her behind the school, fighting off the advances of the biggest—well, second biggest, next to Jack—and, without a doubt, the meanest boy in their class, Jack had acted without a second thought. He’d pulled Jimmy Taylor off her and punched him square in the jaw. A jaw that ended up wired shut for three months while he drank his meals through a straw.

  His mother’s worst nightmare had come true—and Jack had nearly been expelled. Would have been, if Will Penny hadn’t stepped in and offered to take Jack under his wing. Will had already been talking to Jack’s mother about her farm land, which bordered the Penny Bean Collective. He’d been trying to get her to join for years—Will had built his father’s little bean farm into a multi-million-dollar bean farm collective—but Jack’s mother didn’t like the idea of giving up farming the land herself.

  When she had confessed her woes to Will, the man had gone to bat for Jack, going in front of the school board to plead Jack’s case. As an ex-Olympic Gold Medal boxer who never went pro, Will knew what he was doing, and he managed to convince the school board that Jack deserved another chance, that he, Will Penny, would be personally responsible for the boy and teach him to channel his fighting energy into the boxing ring where it belonged.

  True to his word, Will did everything he’d promised. Jack’s mother had finally agreed to let their farm be absorbed by the Penny Bean Collective, and Jack had found himself falling in love—with boxing. Will’s training style was unconventional, to say the least. Jack grew bigger and stronger every day, toting huge bags of beans that seemed to only get lighter, the older he got. Will was the first man who had recognized Jack’s physical ability and wasn’t afraid of it. Boxing had become his one and only love.

  Until Goldi arrived, a bright light in their little part of Idaho, during his senior year of high school.

  “Distracted,” Will grumbled, tossing a towel at Jack, who didn’t catch it, like he usually did. In this light, Will’s graying hair was even grayer, the lines around his eyes sharply defined. He never would have been a match for Jack in the ring—he was only five-foot-eight, a hundred and eighty-five still-fit pounds—but he’d been the best trainer Jack could ever have asked for.

  “That girl is gonna be the death of you, boy.”

  Jack snorted, shaking his head, but he reached down and grabbed the towel, wiping sweat off his face and chest and neck, not looking at the man who had become more father than mentor and coach to him over the years. He knew Will was right. Goldi had swept into his life and turned it upside down in just one year, and then waltzed out again, leaving him on his knees, broken and lost.

  It hadn’t been Goldi’s fault, he told himself, and he’d always known it would be temporary. Goldi only came to live on a farm with her aunt and uncle because her mother had been on tour with her country music band. Goldi’s mother hadn’t made it big that year like she’d hoped, but she had found a job in New York as a backup singer and subsequently sent for her daughter.

  Jack had fallen hard for her, and when he’d been faced with the possibility of losing her, he’d asked Goldi to marry him, against everyone else’s better judgment. Both his mother and Will had warned him that they were far too young to be tied down. His mother had flat out said it would be the stupidest thing he ever did. Granted, at eighteen-years-old, he hadn’t had much, if anything, to offer her at the time, unless you counted the fullness of his heart. But he’d asked her anyway, because he knew, if she walked away, she would take a piece of him. A piece he didn’t know if he could live without. He’d never felt that way about a girl—or a woman—before or since, and in all the fights he’d been in, had never been more terrified than the moment he’d asked her to belong to him.

  But Goldi, like her mother, had stars in her eyes. Unlike her mother, though, she had a beautiful voice and an enormous talent to back it up. While she had cried in his arms and begged Jack to come with her, instead of Goldi agreeing to stay on the farm with him, in the end, she had chosen the bright lights of New York and he had stayed behind to train with Will.

  And when he’d downloaded her first big hit, h
e had truly been happy for her, and hoped beyond all hope that she was happy, too.

  When she’d married The Giant, though, he wondered. When the reports started coming in about their rocky relationship, their marriage, the baby she miscarried—his Goldi’s life splayed like bright-colored bits of trash on the front of tabloids in the supermarket aisle at the Piggly-Wiggly—Jack had clenched his fists and gritted his teeth and knew, if he did nothing else in his entire life, he had to get into the ring with that man and hit him so hard he would never forget it.

  Now he had his chance.

  What he hadn’t expected was how he would feel, seeing her again. And he definitely hadn’t expected to see her quite so soon, at the press conference. He hadn’t had any time to prepare himself, to put up his guard. She had surprised him, and just remembering that fake little sucker-punch, the soft graze of her knuckles against his chin, made him feel strangely weak-kneed. He didn’t like that feeling. In the ring, he felt invulnerable, so how could one little slip of a girl make him feel so…

  “Distracted!” Will said again, literally boxing Jack’s ears, a tinny ringing sound filling his head.

  Will ducked, laughing when Jack turned and angrily threw a wild punch at him.

  “Better get your head in the game, boy.”

  “I’ve got this.” Jack glowered, feeling the ember of rage inside him spark and begin to burn.

  “Naw. She’s got you.” Will raised a knowing eyebrow and Jack felt his face burning. He didn’t answer his mentor as he turned back toward the sack of beans and began throwing punches again.

  Will backed off, sitting on a pile of 200-pound bean bags sitting on the floor next to the training ring. Jack had spent hours, his whole life, training with these types of bags, hurling them on and off trucks or using them, as he was now, as punching bags .