Page 2 of THE EX-Con

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.”

2

JENNY

“Okay, this is going to sting a bit,” I tell the guy who just came to my rescue earlier. We sit on the single bed in my tiny studio apartment. I don’t have a couch, and I typically eat on the floor, so this is the only decent place to sit, especially for someone his size.

He hasn’t told me his name yet, but here I am, tending to his wounds like I’m his personal nurse. I have never brought anyone here, so I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Everything so far feels like a dream and I’m just on the sidelines, watching this happen to another version of me.

He’s a massive guy, rough around the edges. He just has a black Henley shirt and dark jeans on, but his muscles ripple with every small movement. He’s at least three times my size, and the first and foremost emotion that should elicit from me is fear.

Right?

Well, for reasons I cannot explain and things I will unpack later, I don’t feel afraid of him. On the contrary, I feel safe.

The way he helped me with those perverts, the way he swung his fists and moved like a seasoned fighter. This is someone who’s no stranger to fights. This is someone who’s had to use his strength to survive … and win.

“It’s fine. Let’s get this over with.” His voice is deep, and my body responds like it’s a caress. It doesn’t help that his knee grazes my bare one, making me sit up straighter. Even with the thick layer of denim in between, I feel the heat all the way to my toes.

Electricity pulses between us, and I draw a deep breath, struggling to ground myself. Naked hunger flares in his eyes, and I’m pretty sure I have the same look.

My apex clenches, and my thighs cinch together.

It’s what I felt earlier when I first saw him. The dark eyes. The tattoos peeking from under his shirt. The dark hair cut close to his scalp. The roughness. The raw masculinity.

I could tell he was massive as he sat by the bar, but when he stood to his full height, I felt sorry for the guys harassing me almost every night.

Danger comes off him in waves, and I don’t know why I find it hot. Am I the kind of woman who gets turned on by guys who look like trouble? Or is it just because of this one particular man?

“I don’t mean to interrupt whatever debate you’re having with yourself, miss, but you’re rubbing the antiseptic on a different finger.” His voice shakes me out of my thoughts, and I find the corner of his mouth quirking upward. God, he is handsome. Ruggedly so. Like the kind who will sling me over his shoulder and throw me to the bed before he’ll pound into me.

“I-I’m sorry.”

“What’s your name?”

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