Chapter 1

1

JACKSON

N ot my circus, not my monkeys.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

I repeat the mantra over and over again as I toss back the first and last shot of whiskey for the day. It burns my throat and warms my body, the liquor biting sharp and bitter.

I hate alcohol. Always have. Always will. I hate how it impairs your mind and saps your strength.

But my cellmate’s words ring through my head. “Have one drink for me, buddy. Cheap whiskey or beer will do. I’ll see you on the outside soon enough.”

That’s why I’m here. In a small, dingy bar tucked between a hardware store and a barber shop. Dim yellow bulbs, some flickering, dangle above the cracked linoleum floor.

The air reeks of cheap liquor, stale cigarettes, and something fairly greasy. I don’t even want to think why the floor feels sticky against my shoes, and even if my bladder bursts, there’s no way I’m going to the bathroom. This shithole is where you go when you want to get an infection just by sitting on one of the chairs.

Somewhere to my side, a group of men tries to grab the attention of a waitress. I see her out of the corner of my eye. I want to step in, my instinctive need to protect women, but I remind myself that I got out of prison today after serving my sentence of almost five years. I only came back to my hometown to visit Mom’s grave and give her some flowers.

The plan was to catch a bus immediately after, but the unexpected grief hitting me like a freight train landed me here, plus the reminder of my cellmate’s last request.

One drink. One drink, and I’m off. Never to step foot here ever again.

Besides, getting involved in a fight will land me back behind bars, which is not something I want to happen. I should mind my own business. They must have bouncers or guards. That’s their job, not mine.

Not my circus, not my monkeys.

“Take those filthy hands off me!” the waitress shrieks. Despite myself, my head whirls toward her, drawn by an unexplainable pull, and my breath stutters when my eyes land on the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my thirty-five years on this planet.

Her arms are wrapped around a circular tray, which she uses to cover what looks to be clothes a size too small for her. The Daisy Duke shorts do little to cover her ass, and the shirt is tied above her midriff, showing off a flat, toned stomach.

Even all the way from here, I can see her chest heaving, her eyes flaring with anger. Not fear, but anger. Pure, undiluted rage.

I’m powerless to look away.

One thing that strikes me is how small she is. At 6’5, everyone is small to me, but her? She looks tiny. I bet she doesn’t stand over five feet. With those killer black heels, she can push maybe five-three and nothing more.

“Come on now, sweetheart. You want a huge tip, don’t you?” My gaze falls on someone who looks like a washed-up jock. Greasy, shoulder-length blonde hair and a beard that probably gets washed every three months, if he’s feeling hygienic.

He’s slumped on the wooden chair, his legs splayed, the paunch more prominent with the way his belt is working overtime to keep his pants together.

“I also got another huge thing for you.” He smiles and wiggles his eyebrows at his three buddies, who look no better or cleaner than him. “Hope you like it big.”

They all burst out laughing, and I laugh along with them. They turn in unison and squint at me, testosterone oozing out of their pores. So fucking predictable, and here I thought my social skills were rusty.

The waitress looks at me, too, and her eyes widen just a fraction.

I hold her gaze and momentarily forget where we are, what I’m doing, and why I’m here. The oxygen is sucked out of the place, and the ground seems to disappear from under me. If I were standing, my knees would have buckled.

My God. Who is she?

Her tongue darts out, and she takes the tip between her teeth, her eyes sweeping over me. She’s checking me out, and based on how she swipes her tongue along her bottom lip, I can safely assume she likes what she sees.

“Who the fuck told you to laugh?” The washed-up jock stands and points a beer bottle at me.

I turn my body on the bar stool to face them fully. “You were pretty funny; I couldn’t help it. I mean, if you think what you have is big, then you probably believe a cigarette butt is colossal.”

Whatever brain cells he has left work overtime. It takes him a few beats before he realizes what I’m saying, not until the waitress snorts and tries to cover it up with a cough. I smile at her and give her a two-finger salute.

This wasn’t in my plan, but what the hell? I’ve always been good at thinking on my feet and improvising. Besides, with no bouncer or guard in sight, I can’t ignore the way these men disrespect her. Not on my watch.

“You’re new here, so I’m giving you a chance to scoot.” He dismisses me with a wave, even though we both know he can never take me on. “Now, where were we, sweetheart?”

His hands slide to her waist, and I’m standing before I even know what I’m doing. The raw fear on her face when he touches her ignites my anger. It’s the same look I’ve seen on Mom’s face when she knew she was about to get hurt and there was nothing she could do about it.

As I close the distance between us, I briefly debate whether this is a good idea.

I just got out of prison.

One fight and I’d be on my way back.

Then again, so fucking what? I am not going to sit here and watch these scums of the earth harass this woman, or anyone for that matter.

Fuck it.

This will be worth going back to prison for.

“You touch her, buddy, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.” My voice is low, but I don’t miss how he swallows hard.

We’re always told there’s safety in numbers, so this asshole gets a false sense of security because he’s with three of his friends. He puts down the bottle and spits on the floor, which probably answers my earlier question as to why it’s sticky, and moves to a boxing stance, standing with his feet shoulder-width apart, tucking his elbows, and raising both hands. “I won’t go easy on you. You think you’re tough? You haven’t met me, fucker.”

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck, feeling the burst of adrenaline warm my limbs. “No, shitface. You haven’t met me.”