“No, I see you too much now,” Sovereign says, taking his hat off the bar and fitting it on. “Come on, let’s clear out.”
He leaves, and Westin waves as he follows him, walking backwards until they’re out of sight. Jack sighs, leaning his elbows on the counter. The only person whohascomesclose to the mystique of Brothers Boyd is Jack Russell, cowboy assassin extraordinaire and professional manipulator. He was the first person I met in Montana, coming right up to me for my freshman fight in the stockyards.
He gave me a business card for his bar and told me if I ever needed help,to call him. It took me a while to figure it all out, but Jack Russell is what Brothers could have been if he wasn’t the devil.
He’s a talented killer for hire. Everyone knows when Jack Russell took some politician or businessman out, but nobody can prove it. The death is always so discreet, so clean, but so obvious that it was a paid hit.
Everyone knows, but they can’t prove it.
He kills and collects, making him one of the richest, most influential men this side of the country. The other thing that helps with that is his face. We all make fun of him for it, and he doesn’t mind because it’s his greatest asset when it comes to getting himself laid. He’s too damn pretty—dark hair, green eyes, a serpentine smile—but it gets him whatever he can’t get with a bullet.
“I’m heartbroken,” Jack murmurs.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Pass me the tape under the bar.”
Jack flips it over his back, catches it, and tosses it at me. The bartender appears, glancing sideways at him.
“What are you doing in my bar, Jack?” he rumbles.
“Can I bartend tonight?” he asks, flashing his Cheshire cat grin.
He shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
“Cool, thanks,” Jack says, pleased. “I won’t let you down, bud.”
JackRussell is loaded, beyond the rest of us. He doesn’t need to own a bar or take on random bartending gigs.He’s just chronically bored. I can relate to that. I own a construction company and a ranch, but I’m constantly plagued by the feeling of standing still.
“They’re worried about you because you’re single and sad,” Jack says, watching me tape my hand.
“Thank you.I appreciate that,” I say. “You are too.”
“I’m single, not sad.”
“I’m single by choice. You’re single because you make people uncomfortable.”
“Only because I’m gorgeous.”
“I’m about to deck you in the face and fix that for you.”
He laughs, taking a giant bucket of peanuts from under the bar, and starts cracking them. I think that’s for the customers, but nobody here is about to tell him off.
“I’m not the one hiding from my problems with this macho shit,” he drawls.
I give him a sharp look. Other than Deacon, Jack Russell is the only person in Montana who knows about my past. Despite his many flaws and the way he delights in annoying me, he’s been there like a watchdog. He’s got my back, checking to make sure no one from Kentucky tries to find me, keeping me hidden. Why?I don’t know. Jack just decides he likes certain people and forces them to be his friend. I’mone of those people.
“Okay,” Jack says, holding up a hand.
“What are you doing here tonight anyway?” I ask, pulling off my shirt and mopping my already sweaty face.
“Bored,” he says, eyes sweeping the room. “No clients right now. If you’re fighting, I might bet.”
He leans forward to flick a peanut shell away. The silver dog necklace around his neck catches the light. To get ahead of the inevitable questions about his name, he branded himself and his businesses with a little silver terrier. His calling cards for clients are printed with a silver terrier, his bar is called The Brass Terrier, andhe wears that damn necklace all the time. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had a dog tattooed on his ass.
“Do you want to see a card trick?” he drawls.
“No,” I say. “And no for next time you ask.”
He rolls his eyes. “Alright, you better win,because I might put some real money down.”
