Bad Boy's Last Race (14 page)

I cringe. I’d know that slippery, oily tone anywhere. Fucking Tyler Brennan.

“No, Tyler.” I ladle my own voice with something sickly sweet. “I’m here strictly with friends. It is possible to have fun without harassing women, you know.”

Tyler downs the shot as Nash returns to our circle. Nash’s shot glass slips out of his hand, spilling all over our feet. “No, Jagger, I’m afraid I’m not too certain I get what you’re trying to imply.”

“What I’m saying is that I treat Sophie right. Whether she’s with me or not.” I clench my jaw. “Unlike some people.”

Tyler lurches in front of my face, teeth bared, eyes narrowed. He is red-faced and furious, but my attention catches on something tucked under his armpit. His side-holstered gun. I shrink back as people
ooh
around us, itching for a fight. I only just barely move, but it’s enough that he knows I’ve seen it. That he knows he has the upper hand.

He always does and always will. Him and his fucking carte blanche badge.

I clench a fist at my side. My thoughts aren’t moving fast enough tonight. Too many fucking drinks. But even I know there’s no use giving in to his taunts. He just wants to get a goddamned rise out of me—he’s looking for an excuse. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.

Finally, he eases back, his laughter gusting over me, hot and sour with tobacco. Lennox and Nash tense around me, but even they know better than to make a move. “You’re a dead man, Jagger.” He grins. “You just don’t know it yet.”

“Is that so?”

Tyler snatches a fistful of my collar and pulls my face straight toward his. “You don’t know when, or how, but it’s coming. The best thing you can do, little boy, is run far, far away from me.”

My face is burning up as he breathes on me. All I can see are his dark, furious eyes.

“Sophie deserves better than you. She deserves
me
. And nothing and no one can stand in my way. Not even Sophie herself.”

I draw a shaky breath. “We’ll see about that.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” Big Al, the bartender, asks. He looms over the bar, arms bared in his cutoff shirt, tattoos swirling all over his meaty arms. He’s got at least two heads on Tyler and everyone else in the bar, and with his bald pate, he’s closer to a biker version of Mr. Clean than a human being.

Even Tyler, wisely, shrinks back under Big Al’s stare. He releases his grip on my collar, glances from Al to me and the rest of our crew, then rubs his hands on the front of his shirt.

“No, sir,” Tyler says. “We were just having a friendly chat.” He offers me a cruel, false grin, and I know damned well our ‘chat’ isn’t finished.

Al snorts and gives Tyler a once over, his gaze flinty. “It better stay that way, if you don’t want to get tossed out of my fucking bar.”

Nash and Lennox flank me, their drinks and entourage forgotten. But Tyler isn’t done yet. He rolls his neck side to side with a sickening crack, then steps back toward the three of us.

“I just want you to understand one thing, Jagger.”

“I don’t think we need to understand anything,” Lennox says, crossing his arms.

Tyler eyes him up. “Lennox Solt, right? Oh, yes, the convict. I’d sure hate for your parole officer to catch wind of the kind of scumbags you run around with.”

Lennox holds Tyler’s gaze. “I got nothing to hide.”

Tyler smirks. “We’ll see about that.” He turns toward Nash. “And Nash Thompson, the too-clean pretty boy. We’ll see what kind of secrets you’re hiding in your criminal record.”

“You said one thing, Tyler.” I smile sweetly at him. “You got trouble with numbers?”

Tyler’s upper lip curls back and lunges into my face again. “Anything you do to Sophie,” he growls, “I did first. I did it better.”

My whole body pulls forward, taut, burning for a fight. The fight Tyler’s so desperately trying to provoke. Part of me is dying to give it to him.

“When she’s sucking your dick, she’s imagining mine. When she cries out at night, I promise you, it’s my name on my lips,” Tyler says.

I snort. “Trust me, boy, she doesn’t shout
your
name.”

Tyler’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t ease back. “She may not know it, but she’s dancing on my strings.”

My blood is on fire, itching to sock him for daring to speak of Sophie that way. But it won’t do any good. I can’t. As much as he fucking deserves it—

“But hey.” Tyler claps me on the arm. “I appreciate you keeping her nice and warm for me. It’ll be even sweeter when I bend that juicy ass over my knee and spank her for thinking she could get away from me.” He laughs. “I’ll put her right back where she belongs, after she pays for leaving in the first place—”

I don’t think. I just act. My fist flies out and clocks Tyler square across the jaw.

He staggers back, momentarily stunned. I think we’re both shocked. Nash and Lennox start shouting; Lennox wrestles my arms back. But I’m suddenly perfectly calm. Whatever adrenaline had been itching in before me is all used up. Nothing has ever felt more right in my entire life.

Blood wells in Tyler’s mouth as he tries to speak. “Fuck you!” he shouts. “You’re a fucking dead man, you hear me? Dead!”

I smile back, calm as a clear blue sky.

“You’ll pay for that, you piece of trailer garbage.” His rage tips over, and then he goes lethal, sinister as well. “Assaulting a federal agent is a felony. And I’ve got all kinds of witnesses.”

Big Al clears his throat. “I didn’t see a damn thing,” he says. “How about the rest of you?”

“Not a thing,” Nash says. Lennox stays quiet, but I know he’d speak up if he felt safe to do so. Amber and the other girls shake their heads nervously, but no one comes to Tyler’s defense.

“You’d better scoot,” Big Al says. “I’d hate to have to call the police on a
federal agent
for causing disorder in my private establishment.”

Lennox loops his arm through mine to hold me up. Am I standing up? I’m not sure. My feet slip beneath me. “Come on, Jags. We need to bounce.”

“I’m fine, really—”

“Time to go,” Nash says, moving to stand between Tyler and me.

“We aren’t fucking done!” Tyler screams, as they lead me away. “You’re going to regret this, Jagger Reynolds.”

I feel amazing in the moment. But as we head out of the Crow Bar, I have a sinking feeling he’s all too right.

J
agger picks
me up Monday afternoon for our mystery trip. I’ve spent a long day toiling away at my thesis, and also realizing that I need a lot more books from the university library than I’d initially brought, but I don’t have time to worry about that just now. Every moment I wasn’t working, I was peeking through the blinds, scouting for suspicious cars or trucks lurking around. I’m so tired of feeling awkward around Darla and the kids, as well. I know Darla means well, suggesting I get a restraining order, but she doesn’t understand. There’s no fighting Tyler. Every time I’ve tried, it only made things worse for me in the end.

I just intend to enjoy my time with Jagger—that freeing, weightless feeling—for as long as I can until it’s gone.

A honk sounds from below, and I peek out the window again. Jagger’s Firebird, with the man himself leaning against the driver’s door. He looks all cleaned up, wearing fresh jeans and a snap-button short-sleeve shirt that shows off his lean muscles and tattoos. I grin to myself, double check my makeup, and hoist my bag over my shoulder.

“Hey, beautiful.” Jagger pulls me into his arms for a kiss, and he tastes so good, I can’t help but kiss him again.

I squeeze his hands with mine, then notice the swelling around his right knuckles. “Shit, sorry!” I turn his hand over in mine. “What the hell happened?”

Jagger laughs and slips his hand free. “Oh, just your usual slightly drunken stupidity. Don’t worry about it.” He presses a kiss to my temple, then walks around the car to open the passenger’s door for me.

Within minutes, we’re winding our way out of Ridgecrest and heading north along the high desert, cradled by the orange and purple mountain ridges on all sides. For the first time since I can remember, I feel safe, like it’s just me and Jagger alone in the world. I smile at him before turning to bask in the early spring sunlight streaming through the window.

“Let’s play a game,” Jagger says.

I laugh. “Oh? Are we counting license plates? I Spy?”

“Nah, something a little more personal.” He grins. “I wanna hear the best stupid thing you did as a kid that seemed like
such
a good idea at the time.”

“Oh, boy. There are just so many.” I rub my hands together. “Having an older sister, well—that gave me ample opportunity to be an asshole.”

“I can imagine,” Jagger says. “I only had stepsiblings myself. Or whatever you’d call them.” His smile starts to fade, but he brings it back in full force. “Come on. Pick the highlights.”

“Okay, let’s see. Well, there was the time I was so pissed that she got to go to the junior-senior prom, and I, a mere sophomore, wasn’t allowed to go.” I tilt my head back, remembering Darla’s horrified face. “So I put hair dye in her shampoo bottle.”

“Oh, no,” Jagger says.

“Oh, yes. All different colors, too. Purple, green, you name it. It was really faint because it didn’t have a chance to soak in, but she had this faint aura of bad tie-dye to her hair.”

He laughs. “Yikes. Remind me not to piss you off.”

“Ooh, and then there was the time I borrowed her favorite top and snuck out to go see a concert. I would’ve gotten away with it, too, if a mysterious burger stain hadn’t appeared on the top. Darla kept an exacting inventory of her clothing, you see, and when it turned up with that stain, and then smelling like smoke, she knew immediately what had happened and presented it to Mom as evidence of my treachery.”

“But you all get along fine now?” Jagger asks. “Even after all that?”

“Well, I’m no angel, but she’s grown used to me. Like a tumor.” I grin and rub my hand on his thigh. “Okay, your turn.”

Jagger runs his tongue against his teeth. “Hmm, let’s see . . . Ahh, I know. But here, let me set the stage for you.”

I twist toward him, tucking my feet cross-legged beneath me.

“Thirteen-year old Jagger. Mom’s been seeing this other douchebag in our trailer park off and on, he’s a real scumbag, I don’t like the way he treats her, right?”

I wince, but nod.

“Well, I’m thirteen, but I’ve been driving illegally for a year already. Working in the park, I got good with electronics, and most of the cars around there are pieces of shit, real easy for me to hotwire. And this dickwad drives an F250, you know, real boner of a truck.”

“And you hotwire it?” I ask.

“Oh, yes, but I don’t stop there. It’s got a trailer hitch, you see, so I back the fucker right up to his trailer and start trying to haul it.”

I shriek and cover my mouth. “Oh, my god.”

“My
goal
was to drag it out of the park and halfway down the highway. Of course, I didn’t understand all the logistics of how that shit’s wired and bolted in to the trailer pad. I got
maybe
five feet, and it was making one horrific racket, metal screeching, tires burning, you get the idea. Woke up the whole fucking park. And the guy, who I didn’t realize was asleep
inside
the trailer at the time.”

I start to laugh again, but end up snorting. Real attractive, Sophie. It puts a grin on Jagger’s face, though, and he reaches over and caresses my thigh.

“Of course I had to figure out some way to put it back. Then I got the beating of my life from Mom, but that’s another story.” He shrugs and grins sheepishly. “Anyhow, I wasn’t long for that life.”

“No?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “In a park like mine, either you get knocked up or knock someone up and get sucked into the place like some kind of swampy morass. Or else you do like I did—get the fuck out of there as fast as you can, and set fire to the path behind you as you run. I left the very next year and haven’t looked back since.”

“What about your mother?” I ask.

Jagger presses his lips together. “Well, she’s somewhere else now, but trust me, her situation’s no better than it was before.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I slide my hand into his and give it a squeeze—more carefully, this time. He grins and rubs his thumb over the ridge of my knuckles.

“No need to be sorry,” he says. “I’ve got a good life now. And it’s getting better by the day.”

I sink into his touch. I know the feeling. But I know how quickly it can end. But if all I have with Jagger is this one day, this one perfect getaway—then I intend to make it last and last.

* * *

W
e reach
our destination at sunset. Jagger wraps the Firebird up around a lengthy butte trail. At first it’s nothing but rocks and cacti, then suddenly, at the top, it gives way to a beautiful resort, spread across the butte’s top. A swimming pool and row of private cabins line one side, while the peak holds a restaurant and spa area. And beyond the private cabins stretches the endless high desert, framed in all directions with the jagged mountainsides.

“Oh, my god.” I crane my neck out the window, taking in the incredible view of the sunset as we pass the pool. “Jagger, this is incredible.”

“Glad you like it.” He runs his hand along my thigh.

“But—it must be expensive.” I shrink back into my seat. “Are you sure this is all right?”

He waves his hand. “It’s off-season. Plus, my buddy manages the grounds—he got me a killer deal. Seriously, they’re so hurting for guests this time of year, it was nothing. Plus, bonus, we’ve got the place to ourselves tonight.”

“The whole place?” I peer over my sunglasses at him.

“You heard me right.” He grins and parks the Firebird right in front of the cabins. “Go on, pick us out a winner. I’ll get our bags.”

I walk around the pool toward the cabins, which are more like adobe huts carved into the face of the butte. I found one close enough to the pool for easy access, but that still looks out across the wide, sunburnt expanse of desert with the mountain caps in the distance. A little slice of heaven in the high desert, all our own.

Warmth rushes through me as I take it in. Jagger doesn’t owe me a damned thing—especially not after all the trouble I’ve brought on him with Tyler and everything else. It’s too much. It’s perfect. I’m not used to being taken care of like this—truly cared for. Tyler always took care of me when it was for an audience and he could put on a show—fresh flowers when people were coming over; a new dress for going out to dinner to show me off. But this is different. This is just for us.

Jagger drops our bags inside the private cabin, then joins me on the balcony, looking out across the desert. He stands behind me, hands to either side of mine on the railing, but it’s protective, not imprisoning. And in that moment, I know I’m his.

I’m willing to fight for this.

“You like it?” he asks. Shyly—like he thinks I might actually say no.

I spin around in his arms and pull him in for a deep kiss. He is warmth and spice, like a comforting fire in winter. He is a good, safe kind of exciting, the kind that doesn’t have me fearing for my life. Just enough fun to laugh and look forward to the next adventure.

He’s everything I want.

“It’s perfect,” I whisper.

Jagger grins. “Just like you.”

After washing up and changing, I meet Jagger at a poolside dining table, complete with candles and a wooden arbor strung with lights. The lights twinkle like fairies in the inky dark of night. The waiter, who must be Jagger’s buddy, wheels a massive tray down for us from the mountaintop restaurant. “Trust me, view’s better down here,” he says. “Chef’s thrilled you two showed up, by the way. He likes cooking for two because he gets to make whatever the hell he wants.”

“No pork, though,” Jagger says, and I laugh.

His friend grins. “No pork.” Then he starts uncovering the trays and passing them around.

A feast of southwestern delights appears before us—from tamales and rellenos to specialty ceviche and all the salsa verde I can eat. I try a little of everything, from a cornbread drenched in poblano mole to roasted honey-glazed jerk chicken. I’m trying not to stuff myself so I can actually swim and partake in . . . other activities . . . with Jagger later, but it’s a challenge.

“Everything is to your liking, Doctor Gallagher?” Jagger asks, after polishing off his fourth enchilada. His stomach appears to be bottomless.

I laugh. “Not Doctor yet. Maybe never.” I shrug. “I don’t know if I want my PhD.”

“No? What do you want to do, then?”

“I’m interested in therapy work—something like what I’m doing at the youth center, maybe, but more systematic.” I swirl a forkful of chicken in poblano sauce. “Maybe some research, too, to develop best practices for at-risk youths.”

“That sounds perfect for you.” He grins and rubs his foot against my shin under the table. “You can do whatever you want, I’m sure.”

“I guess I haven’t given it that much thought,” I admit. And it’s the startling truth. I haven’t thought much about my future—just chasing one day to the next, doing whatever came my way. I was too afraid to think much further ahead, especially when I was in Tyler’s grasp. And now I’m scared to start. Not while Tyler’s still out there.

I force myself to smile back at Jagger. “What about you? Is racing cars what you always wanted to do?”

Jagger laughs, his eyes dancing in the gorgeous purple sunset. “Not exactly. It’s not so far off, though, I guess.”

“How so?” I ask.

“Well, I’ve always been good with mechanical things—cars, appliances, whatever. Like I explained to you with the trailer park debacle—I can hotwire a car in no time.” He winks. “But it’s more than that. I’d ride dirt bikes with these other kids in the park. I prefer cars, though. Big, powerful, and a hell of a lot more impressive when you pull off a trick.”

“And your mom never cared that you were off riding dirt bikes with all the local miscreants?” I ask.

He lays his fork down and bends forward, linking his hands together. Some of his smile has faded, though he’s still got his Jagger ease about him. “Yeah, well, the thing about my mom . . .” He exhales. “She wasn’t what you might call an ‘active parent.’ Maybe you’ve got a fancier word for it in your therapy work.”

I nod, pressing my lips together. I’d gathered as much, though I never wanted to pry.

“She had a lot of boyfriends. Most of them dealers, all of them junkies, like her. She was always off with one guy or another, cooking up meth, dealing, doing whatever it took to get her next fix.”

“I’m—I’m really sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject.”

Jagger waves his hand. “Please, don’t be. Honestly, it was the best bit of parenting she could have done for me.” He smiles sadly. “It gave me serious incentive to do whatever it took
not
to turn out like her.”

“And how did that come about, then?” I ask.

“I was fourteen years old, sneaking into the street races, hanging around garages, hoping to get some work. And that’s how I got mixed up with Drazic.” His smile turns deeper, more genuine. “He never gave me a handout—he made me work for every goddamned thing—but it was enough. I was able to get the hell out of the park. I ran away and never looked back. He kept me on the right track, or at least, as much as anyone could.”

I laugh and nudge his knee with mine. “Sounds about right.”

Jagger grins slyly. “I’m not saying I’m the best-behaved guy around—”