Jersey Six(23)

After she kicked his ass, showing off on the bar long after the dead weight of his body thunked to the ground, Jersey let go.

The stranger shook his head and grinned, massaging his forearms and hands. “I’m not worthy.” He held out his hand and she shook it. “Enjoy your day, young lady.” The stranger walked off, picking up his pace to a jog.

Behind her, a slow clap sounded like the rhythmic slaps of a horse’s shoes against the pavement. Jersey turned.

Ian.

“Impressive.” He continued a slow clap.

Weird, fluttery things happened in Jersey’s belly when Ian grinned. “I impressed one person. You sent thousands of women into a frenzy by just stepping into the spotlight.” The wind gusted, attacking Jersey’s face. She winced.

But his face … it was chiseled to perfection, shadowed with a light outgrowth of stubble, slightly softening each sharp angle. Ian wore a kind smile with a hint of mischief like he kept the best secret ever. Jersey couldn’t believe that secret involved killing two innocent people.

“What’s it like to have that effect on people?”

He shrugged, tugging his blue beanie down over his ears. “I don’t care about their reaction. I’m just so fucking happy that they show up. It’s that simple for me. I want to sing—to one person or twenty thousand people. It never stops blowing my mind that they just … show up.”

“That’s it, Coop?” She erased the space between them with several calculated strides. “Just showing up does it for you?”

He curled his lower lip into his mouth, scraping his top teeth over it. “I think I could listen to you say my name like that all day.”

“Yeah? Well, Coop, I slept like the dead last night in that bed you paid for, so I’ll chirp on repeat whatever you want if it leads to a warm bed and a hot meal.”

Ian gave her a full grin that reached his eyes. “That’s it, Jersey? A warm bed and a hot meal does it for you?” He rocked back and forth on his heels, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jogging pants, shoulders lifted toward his ears.

In that moment, he didn’t look like a rock star. Ian Cooper resembled a young man Jersey met on the streets. He left an abusive situation—a boy too young, like Jersey, to be on his own. But unlike Jersey, he didn’t have what it took to survive in a world where right and wrong didn’t exist. He chose right over necessary. And Jersey mourned over his dead, badly beaten body behind a dumpster before anyone found him.

So many people had come and gone from Jersey’s twenty-four-year-old life.

That boy flirted with her, curling his bottom lip between his teeth like Ian. Grinning to his eyes like Ian.

No. The man before her didn’t kill anyone. Killers didn’t find joy in the simplicity of someone showing up. Jersey knew this … she was a killer, and she didn’t know joy. She knew how to breathe in and breathe out and live life looking over her shoulder, one hand curled into a fist, the other clenching a knife.

“So … your friend. How long have you known him?”

She shrugged. “Not quite two months. Why?”

“Just curious. He seemed angry with me last night and protective of you.”

“Yeah, well you wouldn’t stop staring at him.”

“Sorry.” Ian frowned. “It … he was just unexpected.”

“Like a rock star in a rundown Newark neighborhood?”

He smirked. “Fair point.” Pulling his left hand out from his pocket, he looked at his watch. “We have an hour before Max drags us to the car by our ears so we’re not late for our flight.”

Jersey glanced around, making a complete circle in place.

“You’re lost.” He chuckled.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, trying to gain her bearings. “I’m so lost.”

“This way.” He nodded to her left. “Are you a runner, or were you just here putting on a pull-up clinic?”

Her eyes narrowed.

“It’s a compliment. It means you’re better than everyone at something. You were schooling that guy.” Ian took off jogging, and Jersey caught up. “Shredding his ego, slowly ripping apart his manhood.” He grinned.

She glanced over at him for a few seconds before returning her attention to the paved path before them. A grin crawled up her face. Jersey liked his compliment—very much.

“Have you always been a runner?” he asked as they approached the crosswalk at the end of the park entrance.

“Yes.” She slowed to a stop as they waited for the light to change. “When I was much younger, I lived in a foster home, and the husband wasn’t very nice. He liked knocking his wife around as well as me and the three other foster kids that lived there at the time. The oldest girl tried to watch out for us, took the brunt of the abuse.”

The walk light illuminated and they took off jogging again.

“I was the youngest, and I hadn’t been there as long as everyone else. So when Mr. Fisher decided to do … um … really bad things to me, G beat him over the head with a baseball bat. Then she told me to be brave and run fast.” Jersey grunted a painful laugh. “So, yeah … I’m a runner. I’ve been running ever since that day.”

Ian remained quiet for several blocks. Jersey thought maybe she shared too much. Stories of sexual abuse to children weren’t the best conversation starters.