Right Kind of Wrong Read online

  I look around. “We’ve only driven two miles from the motel. Do you have to go to the bathroom already? My God. You have the world’s smallest bladder.”

  “No, Jack. Look!” She points out the window at the sidewalk, crowded with people and paintings. “It’s the art festival that woman was talking about last night.”

  I open my mouth to object, because going to a morning art festival is pretty much the last thing I want to do at the crack of dawn, but when I see the joy in Jenna’s eyes my lips press together in silence.

  God, she’s beautiful when she’s happy. Why can’t she be beautiful and easy to deal with? Is that so much to ask?

  “Can we check it out?” She looks at me like a three-year-old asking for candy and I already know I’m at her mercy. “Please?”

  I sigh. “Sure.”

  “Really?” Her eyes sparkle and it does something to my chest. Something irritatingly wonderful and I want to make her eyes sparkle like that all the time.

  God, I’m so lost to her, it’s pathetic.

  “Really.” I nod.

  We get out of the car, Jenna leaping out like she’s heading to a carnival, and me stiffly unfolding myself from the passenger seat, and she leads me by the hand down the sidewalk.

  I look down at our adjoined hands and smirk. She’s so giddy, she doesn’t realize she’s holding my hand. This little art festival detour might not be so bad after all.

  We go from tent to tent to vendor to tent to vendor, looking at paintings and sculptures and jewelry and metalwork. Blown glass and quilts and every other form of art seems to be on display at the festival, dotting the scenery with bright colors and shapes.

  Jenna looks like she’s in heaven, smiling at every tent and cooing over every sculpture. She touches a silver necklace and a ring with a red stone, and stares at melancholy paintings and dancers in the street. Then she cheerfully moves along, chatting with every artist she sees and smiling for no reason.

  I don’t think I ever realized how happy art made her. I know that it’s her passion, of course. But passion and happiness are different things—sometimes even rivals—so I never thought to connect the two.

  But seeing her now, here, surrounded by all these colors and works of creation, I want nothing more than to bring her to an art festival every day.

  “Ooh! My sisters would love these.” She picks up a few handheld fans, each painted with a different colored peacock, and opens them up. She smiles as she fans herself with one. “My mom calls us girls her little peacocks, because we’re loud, colorful, and filled with attitude.”

  I snort. “That’s you, spot-on.” I think about my friend Ethan and bite back another snort because it’s also him, spot-on. “How many sisters do you have again?” I ask.

  “Three.” She nods. “I’m my mom’s only biological child, but she fostered Penny, Raine, and Shyla when they were all younger and ended up adopting each one, which was great because I was attached to them the moment I first saw them.”

  I nod. “Was that after your dad left?”

  “Yeah,” she says. “He took off when I was little and Mom could barely afford to feed me.”

  “Whoa,” I say quietly to this new information. “That sucks.”

  I had no idea Jenna’s childhood faced any struggles like that.

  She shrugs. “We were better off without him, you know? Eventually Mom got a decent job, though. Then we were able to move into a little house. That’s when Mom started fostering.”

  I smile. “It sounds like your mom is pretty amazing.”

  “Oh, she is.” She smiles back. “She definitely is.”

  She buys a few of the painted fans then we head back toward her car. We pass the jewelry tent again and she stops to admire the red-stoned ring once more. Her fingers turn it over and her lips part as she takes it in.

  “Do you like it?” the woman behind the makeshift counter asks.

  “Oh, yes,” Jenna says. She looks at the price tag and tries to hide her grimace.

  I glance at the price. It’s an exorbitant amount of money, but I can understand why it’s priced so high. It’s really unique.

  “It’s the only one I’ve ever made,” the woman says. “There is no other ring exactly like that one anywhere in the world.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Jenna says in a hushed tone. “It’s red like fire, but has a streak of blue down the center, like water. A perfect blend of two opposite elements.”

  The woman nods in proud agreement. “It’s quite rare.”

  I cock my head at Jenna’s examining eyes. I rarely see her so fascinated with things. She’s typically so guarded and sharp. But watching her look into the ring is like seeing a glimpse of her as a child. Lost in wonderment. Believing in unicorns. Chasing rainbows.

  “I’ll take it,” I say, looking at the woman.

  Jenna’s big golden eyes turn to me. “What?”

  I shrug. “You like it. I can afford it. Let’s get it.”

  She keeps staring at me, her mouth slightly open. “But that’s not—I can’t—”

  I look right at her. “Do you want the ring?”

  She blinks. “Yes.”

  I look back at the woman and hand her my debit card. “We’ll take it.”

  The woman charges an insane amount of money to my card before carefully untying the price tag from the ring. Then holds it out to Jenna, who stares at it with such reverence that I’m afraid she’s going to freak out.

  Jenna looks back to me. “You just bought me a ring.”

  Oh shit. She really is going to freak out.

  “Don’t over think it, Jenn,” I say. “Just take the damn ring and let’s go.”

  Carefully, Jenna takes the ring from the woman’s hands and slides it onto the second finger of her right hand. We don’t speak about it again, but as we get into the car, Jenna examines the ring on her hand and her eyes sparkle.

  Worth every penny.

  * * *

  Because of our unexpected stop at the art festival, we don’t reach Little Vail until nearly ten p.m., and I’m exhausted. My phone rings and I glance at the screen before answering.

  “Hey, Mom. I’m almost home. I’ll be there in twenty—”

  “I need you to go get Samson,” she says, irritated. “He took my car to Vipers and got completely wasted, and now Jonesy won’t let him drive home and I have no way to pick him up.”

  I inwardly groan. “I don’t get it. He knew I was almost home and we have serious shit to handle. Why the hell would he go get wasted?”

  “I don’t know, Jack. He was fine this afternoon, but then he got a call tonight and started freaking out and then took off with my car.”

  “Why didn’t he take his Harley?”

  She pauses. “Because he sold it. Didn’t you know?”

  “No.” I shift lanes and make a U-turn, heading toward Vipers, a bar at the edge of town. “He failed to mention that.”

  Drew’s missing. Mom’s out of her mind. Samson’s selling his goddamn bike? What the fuck is going on with my family members lately?

  “Can you please go pick him up so Jonesy doesn’t throw him out?” My mother’s pleading voice isn’t something I’m good at saying no to, so I answer the way I normally do.

  “Of course. I’ll see you soon.” I hang up the phone and look at Jenna with a sigh. “I have a huge favor to ask.”

  She nods. “You need to pick your brother up from some bar called Vipers?” I frown and she explains, “Your mom was talking kind of loud. I heard her through the phone.”

  “Right.” I turn my eyes back to the road. “I know it’ll mean you won’t get to New Orleans until later, so if you say no that’s totally fine. I’ve got friends you can drop me off at who will give me a lift to Vipers.”

  “No, it’s fine. It’s just a few extra minutes. It won’t make that much of a difference anyway.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  I nod and let out a slow breath. �
��Thanks, Jenn.” From the corner of my eye, I see her glance at me, but she doesn’t say anything else as we drive through the small-town lights of Little Vail to the shadiest bar in four counties.

  Vipers is known for being a hub of criminal activity, complete with police raids and the occasional murder, and it’s where I practically grew up. Not one of my proudest personal facts.

  Pulling into the gravel lot, I park us in the back, more out of habit than convenience, and kill the engine. Then, as I watch the comings and goings of the who’s who of big crimes in small towns, I ponder which is safer—the dark parking lot adjacent to a run-down industrial park, or the crowd comprised of questionable individuals inside the bar.

  “You wait here,” I say to Jenna as I get out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Uh-uh.” She opens her door and climbs out as well. “I need to pee.”

  I look at her, trying to conceal my panic. “Can’t you hold it until we get Samson back to my place?”

  She arches a sassy brow. “Hold it? No, Dad. I’ve been holding it for three hundred miles.”

  “You don’t want to use the bathroom in this place. Trust me.”

  She scrunches her face in confusion and annoyance. “What’s your deal right now? Let a girl pee, okay?” She starts marching for the front doors.

  In three quick strides I’m beside her and talking in a hushed tone so my words come across less scolding than I mean them to be. “If you go in here with me, I need you to stay by my side. Do you understand?”

  She snorts. “In the bathroom? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “I’m being serious.” I pull her arm and she spins to face me. But her look of irritation quickly dissolves into bafflement when she sees my expression. “This isn’t a bar like the Thirsty Coyote. Hell, this isn’t really a public bar at all. And you…” I glance her over and hot possessiveness courses through my veins. “You are going to draw attention.”

  She’s wearing a tight black tank top, which molds to her chest in an all-too-delicious way, with a pair of tiny red shorts that show off her long, flawless legs. Rings cover her fingers and climb up her ears, while a diamond stud marks the side of her nose and the arch of her eyebrow. Her long lashes are thick and dark, sweeping over amber eyes filled with spirit. And tattoos wind over her shoulders, down her arms, and peek beneath the hem of her shorts, curving around her left thigh with the bottom half of a mermaid’s tail.

  My eyes trail up and over every inch of her and I swallow. “I need you to stay right by me when we go inside.” I lower my voice. “Please.”

  She shifts her jaw back and forth, like she’s not sure what to think, but finally shakes her head. “Fine. Whatever. But so help me Jesus, if you try to follow me into the bathroom stall I will yank off your balls and flush them. Understood?”

  I narrow my eyes and move forward for the door. “Murder. Castration. You’re a violent little thing, you know that?” My tone is relaxed but I’m anything but as we near the door.

  Not just because I know what waits for us inside, or because I hate who I’m about to turn back into, but because there is a very good chance that I might have to follow Jenna into the bathroom stall to keep her safe. And I really don’t feel like guarding my balls.

  11

  Jenna

  So… Jack’s being weird.

  I get it. This isn’t a girly bar and he doesn’t want guys to mess with me and blah blah blah, but come on. Stay by my side? I’m an adult with an overstuffed bladder, not a toddler wandering around Disneyland.

  He opens the door to the bar, but unlike usual, he doesn’t hold it open for me. Instead, he steps inside and pulls me in behind him, keeping me hidden behind his massive shoulders as the door closes at my back.

  Okay, not cool.

  I start to move around him, curse words ready to leap from my tongue, but stop in my tracks when I realize the loud chatter inside the bar has significantly quieted. Peeking out from behind the big shoulder in front of me, I watch people, one by one, turn their heads to the door and park their eyes on Jack.

  An odd tension fills the air, almost dangerous and definitely careful, but curious as well as more of the crowd turns our way.

  These are Jack’s people, apparently, and they all look… hard. Like, motorcycle-gang hard. Even the women look like they could slice my head off with a single swipe of their excessively long, acrylic fingernails. I look at Jack and frown.

  His playful smile is gone, replaced by a hard scowl, and his chest is puffed out more than usual. I’m suddenly not as desperate to pee anymore. I can hold it for another few minutes. Hell, I can hold it for another few hours, if need be.

  And need might very well be.

  A hefty man, who I assume is the bartender, stands behind the bar with his dark eyes trained on Jack in a confrontational way. He looks to be in his fifties, with leathery skin and fat knuckles, and his shoulder-length gray hair is pulled back into a neat knot, matching the gray handlebar mustache curving out beneath his nose.

  One second passes. Then two. Three.

  “So the prodigal son has returned,” the hefty bartender says, and the quieting chatter fades even more as ears perk up in every corner.

  “I hate to disappoint,” Jack says in a rough voice I’ve never heard him use before, “but I’m only here for Samson.”

  This is clearly some kind of standoff. I’m not sure if I should be worried, scared, or on my way to getting the hell out of Dodge. But one thing’s for certain: Everyone in this bar knows Jack. And not in a friendly way.

  “I wasn’t sure if we’d ever see you again,” the bartender continues. “Especially after…” He shrugs. “You know. But I was hoping we would.”

  A tight smile pulls out Jack’s lips. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

  The legs of a chair screech as a tall man with a long, red scar down his cheek scoots out from a nearby table and stands. He slowly steps up to Jack, gets right in his face, and meets his gaze with violence in his eyes. Jack’s gray eyes stare back with matching danger.

  “You want me to take care of this, Jonesy?” the scarred man says, his words tumbling over the bulge of chew wedged in his bottom lip as his eyes stay on Jack. He deftly slides a set of brass knuckles over his thick fingers before making a fist and cupping it into his other hand—and all the while, his eyes never leave Jack.

  Yeah, Jack’s definitely not friends with these people.

  A thread of nervousness weaves through the crowd as people here and there shift in their seats, waiting for the bartender—Jonesy, apparently—to answer.

  But Jack speaks first. “You sure that’s a good idea, Murray?” he says to the scarred man. His voice is so low I can barely hear him as he nods at the thick red gash marking his opponent’s face. “Things didn’t work out well for you the last time you tried to ‘take care’ of me.”

  The Murray guy snarls. “You son of a bitch—”

  He lunges at Jack, plowing into his chest with the full force of his body weight, but Jack doesn’t budge. He simply grabs the guy by the throat, with one hand, and squeezes, his dark gray eyes glinting in the dim bar lights. Then he calmly says, “I suggest you back down.” Murray gurgles and sputters as Jack puts more pressure on his windpipe. “What do you think, Jonesy?” Jack’s gaze stays on Murray’s beet-red face.

  My eyes widen in shock. What the…?

  Is Jack really choking some biker guy right now? Is this really happening?

  “I think you’ve made your point,” Jonesy says, slightly amused.

  Jack releases Murray and the scarred man coughs and wheezes as he stumbles backward. “Fuck you, Oliver.”

  I stare at Jack. Who the hell is this guy?

  “I appreciate your eagerness, Murray,” Jonesy says to his lackey, “but you can stand down. I’m sure Jack isn’t here to cause any trouble. Are you, Jack?” The bartender’s dark eyes drift to me, still half-hidden behind Jack’s broad back, and flash with intrigue.

  “Th
at depends,” Jack says, shifting closer to me as he addresses the bartender. “Are you looking for trouble?”

  An uneasy trickle makes its way down my back as I scan Jack’s face. Everything about him is suddenly unfamiliar, different. His body language. His tone. His entire demeanor. As if he’s just stepped into someone else’s personality.

  Jonesy the bartender pulls his gaze away from me and curls a smile in Jack’s direction. “Not particularly.”

  Jack lifts his chin. “Where’s Samson?”

  Jonesy nods to a red door at the end of a dark hallway behind the bar. “The back.”

  A muscle works in Jack’s jaw as he mutters a curse then looks at the bartender. “Well?” He exhales. “Are we good or not?”

  Jonesy eyes him, then me, and a small smile tips the corners of his mouth. “We’re good.” He nods. “For now.”

  Jack’s shoulders slightly relax as he shifts his stance, throws on a crooked grin, and says, “Then what’s a guy got to do to get a beer around here?”

  Jonesy chuckles and the tension, still draining from Jack’s shoulders, seems to fall away from the crowd as the patrons go back to their chatter and drinks.

  Jack steps up to the bar with me in tow and I try to ignore the many pairs of eyes glued on me. Not us. Me.

  There are only a handful of females in the bar and I’m by far the youngest, which might explain why every guy in the place is looking at me like I’m a walking piece of prime rib. Jack notices this as well and makes no attempt at being covert about the warning glares he stabs at the gawking men. He places his large hand on my lower back, his fingers splayed, and keeps it there. A gesture of ownership, no doubt. But I let it slide because the many sets of greedy eyes slipping over my body make me slightly uncomfortable and Jack’s hand quells the shameless hunger of the onlookers, if only a smidge.

  “Welcome home, Jack,” Jonesy says with a genuine smile as we stand at the counter. “We’ve missed you.”

  Jack scoffs. “God, I hope not.”

  I run my eyes over the shadowed lines of Jack’s hard expression and frown. This isn’t the same guy I left Arizona with. This is someone else entirely. Someone darker. Someone… dangerous.