“I disagree.” He placed his beer on the bar top. “For starters, we need to talk about—”
“Excuse me, ma’am, is this boy bothering you?”
Jackson glanced over at the Bubba standing to his left. Garden-variety redneck, though there was a softness about him that implied he only played the part on the weekends. Blue jeans, flannel shirt, cowboy hat and boots, and a huge wad of tobacco jammed between his cheek and gums. The only thing missing was a mullet. At some point in time, the guy might have been fit, but now a soft roll of pudge threatened to spill over that ridiculously huge belt buckle.
He knew “boy” was meant to piss him off. It did, but he refused to let it show. “Ain’t nothing for you to worry about. I’m just talking with the lady.”
“Yeah, well, the lady made it real clear she don’t want to talk to you.” Bubba stepped closer, chest puffed up, feet firmly planted, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. A couple of his buddies had fallen in behind him, clearly itching for the opportunity to pound Jackson into next week. The thin guy on the right wasn’t much of a threat, but the bearded hulk on the left looked as if he spent every waking moment at the gym. That didn’t necessarily mean he could fight worth shit, but if he landed a punch, there’d be some power behind it.
Tension charged the air. The slightest spark would cause it to explode. A crowd began to form around them, clearly hoping to get a good view of the coming shitshow.
Navarre slid in behind the hulk, an almost-empty beer bottle in his right hand. Not particularly big in height or build, he wore weathered jeans, a plain green shirt, and an old pair of hiking boots. With his lightly tanned skin and short brown hair, nobody gave him a second look, because unlike Jackson, he fit right in with this crowd. Most people underestimated him, an assumption he wasn’t shy about exploiting to his advantage. If pushed too far, or if the situation warranted it, he could go from cool, calm, and collected to Tasmanian devil on crystal meth.
“Cody, leave the man alone.”
That was one of the bouncers, dressed in all black, a brick shithouse with muscles on top of muscles and absolutely no neck to speak of. He inserted himself between Jackson and the redneck, hands planted on his hips, his expression making it clear he didn’t want to be there. Jackson didn’t blame him one bit. After leaving the Army, he’d worked security at a few bars around town, and the experience had taught him that dealing with a building full of drunks was about as much fun as going to a strip club with your grandma.
“I’m only helping the lady.” Cody’s chin jutted up as he talked to the bouncer, his Southern drawl tinged with righteous indignation. “This boy won’t leave her alone, even after she told him she wasn’t interested.”
The bouncer had the look of a man who saw the odds of making it through his shift without having to call the cops dwindling. “Ma’am, is this man bothering you?”
The glare Essie slanted at Jackson could have frozen a volcano. “Yes, he is.”
“All right, you heard the lady.” The bouncer jerked his thumb toward the front double doors. “It’s time for you to call it a night.”
Getting angry wasn’t going to get Jackson anywhere. The bouncer was only doing his job; it wasn’t right to get mad at him, though it was tempting to punch the smug smile right off Bubba’s face.
Telling them that Essie was his ex-wife wasn’t going to improve the situation, either. To the contrary, it would compromise whatever job she was on—maybe even get her kicked out as well—and that would make her madder at him than she already was.
That left tactical retreat as his only viable option, even though it was the very last thing he wanted to do.
Jackson’s gaze met Essie’s, and he felt that all-too-familiar jolt of heat flash through every nerve in his body. The need to touch her was damn near overwhelming, but he knew better than to act upon it, so he kept his hands at his sides. “We’ll talk later.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Patrons parted like the proverbial Red Sea as he strode toward the exit. He didn’t need to look to know Navarre was trailing behind, though staying back a respectable distance, just in case Cody and his buddies decided to take a cheap parting shot.
As he opened the door, the band started to play again, and he heard the cheap shot come in the form of Cody’s taunting voice. “Don’t even think about coming back, boy.”
Hands clenched into fists, Jackson stalked across the lot, and it took until the third row of cars for Navarre to finally catch up. His friend didn’t say a word as he walked beside him, and for that Jackson was grateful.
When they reached the next row, Navarre took out his keys and unlocked the door of his classic Plymouth Barracuda. He slid behind the wheel and stretched across the passenger seat to unlock the other door. A year or so ago, when he’d bought the old hunk of junk at an auction, it had to be towed to the house. He’d spent countless hours meticulously rebuilding or replacing every last part, all the way down to the cigarette lighter he’d probably never use. Now the only thing it needed was a fresh coat of paint for it to look as if it had recently rolled off the assembly line.
A turn of the key, and the engine roared to life, a deep, heavy rumble that turned a few heads in the lot. Slowly, he pulled out of the spot, stopping for a few seconds when a drunk staggered across the car’s path. “Well, that went about as well as expected.”
Jackson knew the I-told-you-so was coming. Best buddy or not, he wasn’t in the mood for that shit. “Don’t start.”
“Hey, I’m just saying. Don’t kill the messenger.” But he didn’t say another word about it.
That was the way it had always been with Navarre, which might explain why they got along so well. He wasn’t shy about reminding you of your colossal fuck-up, but once he made his point, he didn’t beat it to death.
As he drove out of the lot, Navarre flipped through the radio channels until he found a hip-hop song he deemed worthy. He was actually more of a hard rock kind of guy, and Jackson appreciated the concession. “Where to now?” he asked. “We going home, or do you want to blow off some steam?”
For Navarre, blowing off steam could mean anything from hitting a club, lifting some weights, destroying paper men at the firing range, or playing video games until his thumbs went numb. Every now and again, it meant seeking out a willing woman, but he preferred to do that particular activity on his own.
None of those options appealed to Jackson. All he could think about was Essie, still in that bar, probably getting hit on by Cody at this very moment. Just thinking about that asshole pawing his woman made his grip tighten around the door handle and his blood pressure shoot up like a rocket.
Forcing the unpleasant thought from his mind, he stared out the window at the passing scenery. “Let’s stop by the store and pick up some beer. Then I’m kicking your ass atDemon Scourge.”
