Chapter 1
Even under themostideal conditions, blending in with a crowd was difficult for a guy like Russell Jackson. A tall, muscular Black man with a lot of tattoos, he’d spent a good chunk of his adult life attracting unwanted attention. And in a redneck bar like the Salty Dog Saloon, the task was all but impossible.
Not that it really mattered. He’d never been a blend-in kind of guy. If given the choice, he’d rather employ the kick-down-the-door-and-take-no-prisoners approach to whatever life threw in his path.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option in this particular situation.
Onstage, the three-man band finished their set, and as the sound of music faded, hooting and applause took its place. Someone let out a piercing wolf whistle, and then pre-recorded country music piped over the house speakers.
Ignoring the stares of a pair of women playing eight-ball, Jackson skirted around the dance floor and wove a path through the building in search of Essie, his wife. Correction: ex-wife, though he hoped to rectify that soon. She was in here somewhere; he’d seen her enter the building, but finding her among the sea of bodies felt like a giant game ofWhere’s Waldo?
Hindsight being twenty-twenty, he never should have agreed to the divorce. He sure as hell hadn’t wanted it. He’d never stopped loving his wife. But he’d been hurt and angry when the process server slapped him with those damn papers, and by the time he got his head screwed on straight, the proceedings were well underway.
A tall, skinny, good old boy knocked shoulders with Jackson when their paths crossed near the restrooms, a common occurrence for Jackson whenever he patronized places like this. Liquid courage made some people aggressive, and that usually meant they wanted to try their luck with the biggest dude they could find, which unfortunately often ended up being him.
Sure enough, the guy whirled around, a sneer on his face and his shoulders thrown back as he snarled, “What the fuck!”
In response, Jackson straightened to his full height and gave his best don’t-mess-with-me glare, and the guy suddenly decided that maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
At last, Jackson spotted Essie at the bar, and the sight of her made his whole body come alive in a way it hadn’t in more than a year. He’d tried to forget her, to move on with his life, but it just wasn’t going to happen. In the eyes of the law, they were no longer husband and wife, but that didn’t mean a damn thing to him. He had every intention of keeping his vow to love, honor, and cherish this woman until the day he drew his last breath, and he planned to do everything in his power to convince her to give their relationship another chance.
For months, he’d respected her boundaries and given her space, hoping she’d come around on her own. He was tired of waiting. He wanted his wife back. And if he had no chance of getting her back, he needed to know so he could begin to heal the huge hole in his heart.
As if sensing his approach, her head turned toward him, and for the briefest of moments, her lips parted with what appeared to be genuine surprise. Was there longing as well, or was that wishful thinking on his behalf? God, he hoped it was the former.
In her left hand was a bottle of Coors Light, which struck him as strange, considering her distaste for beer. She wore cowboy boots, skin-tight denim, and a bright-red blouse cut low enough to show a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage. Her brown hair was loose, and the long, soft waves hung past her shoulders. She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, the color of Caribbean waters on a summer afternoon. It was sappy, he knew it, but he could drown in the depths of those eyes and be perfectly content.
Back when she worked covert ops for the United States government, she’d often worn colored contact lenses to darken the blue to brown because in that line of work, having memorable features could get a person killed. She’d been among the best in her field, and she’d always taken precautions. Even so, he’d lost track of the number of times she’d come home bloodied and bruised—though from what, he had no idea. She couldn’t tell him, and he’d learned not to ask.
Now she worked in the private sector, because corporations utilized spies just as much—if not more—than governments around the world. Of course, they didn’t call them spies. They preferred the term “security consultants.”
He claimed a spot beside her at the bar and ordered a Budweiser draft from a bartender who looked at him as though he’d never seen a Black man inside his bar before, which could very well be the case. This place was whiter than Wonder Bread. He paid for the beer and took a sip. Cold, crisp, and a little watered down, pretty much what he’d expected.
Almost a full minute passed before she finally acknowledged his presence, though her focus remained fixed on the mirror behind the bar. “Where’s Thing 2? Never mind, I see him.”
Jackson tracked her line of vision and saw his buddy, Navarre, near the dartboards, chatting up a curvy redhead with a chest large enough to put Dolly Parton to shame. Every ten seconds or so, Navarre’s gaze cut to Jackson and then back to the woman, a sign he was paying attention to what was going on and ready to help if the need arose. In a place like this, things could go south in the blink of an eye, and it was comforting to know a close ally was watching his six.
Jackson turned his attention back to his wife. “If you gave him a chance, you’d see he’s a really good guy.”
She made a noise to convey exactly what she thought of that statement. From day one, the two had disliked each other, and for the life of him, Jackson didn’t understand the animosity between them. He’d asked each of them about it on multiple occasions, and their responses were usually something along the lines of, “You need to ask him/her,” or “He/She isn’t good for you.”
The music changed, from something fast and twangy to something slow and twangy, and a dozen or so couples made their way to the scuffed parquet dance floor in front of the stage. It reminded him of that dive bar outside Baidoa, and how perfect Essie had felt against him on that sultry summer night.
Fighting the urge to reach for her, Jackson leaned against the scarred wooden counter and sipped his beer. He waited for Essie to speak again, and when she didn’t, he filled the void. “So who’s the bunny?”
Her expression remained unchanged. On the outside, she appeared aloof, but he knew from experience that she was hyper-aware of every sight, sound, and smell around her. Most likely, she knew the location of every exit and what she could grab in a pinch to use as a weapon. “There is no bunny.”
“Oh, come on, Es. You’re a world-class liar, but I know you better than that.” He inched a little closer and dropped his voice to avoid being overheard. “You hate country music. The only way you’d be caught dead in a place like this, wearing clothes like that, is if you’re on the hunt. So who is it?”
The muscle along her jaw twitched a fraction, one of the few tells in her otherwise flawless ability to mask her true emotions. “None of your business.”
“I can help.”
“I doubt that.” Turning toward him, she pinned him with her fiercest icy stare. Most folks would have been intimidated by it, but he’d seen it so many times, he’d become desensitized. “Go away, Jackson. You’d get pissed if I bothered you on the job.”
“Well, ain’t that a shame? I wouldn’t be here if you’d answered my calls.”
She let out a huff of annoyance. “I didn’t answer your calls because there’s nothing for us to discuss.”
