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“I can see you’re a historical revisionist, because that’s not what Shiloh told me,” Jackson tells him.
He turns to me. “Are you letting this guy speak for you?”
I wrap Jackson’s warm sweatshirt around me, letting the sleeves swallow my hands. “Sure.”
“Are you fucking each other?” Mark asks, his voice growing louder.
There’s a collective gasp behind me. People watch us like Jackson is an endangered species at the zoo. This is the most they’ve probably seen from Jackson, and it’s all because of me. It’s sick how much satisfaction I’m getting from this.
“Are you fucking her? It’s a simple question.”
“No, I’m not,” Jackson says. That admittance, although true, saddens me. “But if I was, everyone would know she was my girl. She would go everywhere with me. I wouldn’t leave her at home because I was so immature I couldn’t drink around my sober girlfriend. You fucked up, buddy. That woman—” He points to me, and our eyes lock. My mouth parts as he turns back and points to him. “Is the best thing you’ve never had.”
“Did he just quote Beyonce?” Emily mutters next to me.
Mark’s lips part, and he’s vibrating with anger.
“She’s in love with me! Not some country hick who drives a truck and drinks Coors Light.”
That does it. You can insult Jackson’s hometown, but he draws the line at assuming he drinks light beer.
“Leave my family’s property. Now.”
“Or what? Are you going to hit me?” Mark walks right up to Jackson, who has at least thirty pounds and three inches on him. Jackson could break him like a twig. My hand is still over my heart for what Jackson said to Mark. How he stuck up for me.
“Back up, buddy,” Jackson warns. I cover my eyes with my hands but create a break in them so I can see what’s about to happen.
Embarrassment creeps through my chest. Whatever did I see in Mark? Jackson has been more of a friend to me than Mark ever was. I want to fold into myself for ever thinking Mark was fantastic, that he was sexy.
He’s nothing compared to Jackson.
While everything about this is problematic, my core clenches watching Jackson stand up for me and insinuate he could please me in bed better than Mark could.
“Is this okay?” I whisper to Emily. “Like the business won’t get in trouble?”
“Please. The PR we’ll get if this guy tries to hit Jackson. Goldheart folks hate guys like Mark. Look at everyone just staring. This is epic.”
“I’m going to ask you again. Please leave,” Jackson says.
“Not until I talk to Shiloh.” Mark touches his chest to Jackson’s. Jackson’s jaw grinds and his nostrils flare, but he’s keeping his cool impeccably.
“Back up, buddy. This is your last warning.”
Woody Finch’s customers are watching like Romans at the Coliseum.
“Or what?” Mark bumps Jackson’s chest again.
Jackson pulls out his cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”
Jackson turns and walks away, and I’ve never been prouder.
It all happens in a flash. Mark follows him and pulls his arm to spin him and lands a fist right in Jackson’s cheek. His glasses go flying and he stumbles a couple steps, but he stands up, cracks his neck, and winds up, delivering a much stronger right hook to Mark’s jaw. Mark lays flat on the ground as Jackson shakes out his hand.
Mark deserved that.
“Get that piece of shit out of here,” Jackson says, pointing, as he rubs his cheek, red from the impact of my loser ex’s fist.
Three men descend onto Mark, picking him up by the arms.
