Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(2)

He repeated that to himself but continued reading.

As you can see from the pictures, all is good here. We had a full house for Christmas. I was supposed to work but Aunt Maggie swore she’d hunt me down if I didn’t show up. Mr. Bowen came from Florida. Christy’s mom from L.A. All the Bowens and their women were there. Lots of fun. It would have been funnier with you, of course, barrel of laughs that you are. Life and soul of the party, really.

Right. She was the life and soul of the party. Of any party. She just had to smile to be the center of attention. Hell, all she had to do was show up.

He glanced at the second attachment. Pictures probably. Elle always sent him photos, which he normally refused to look at, stashing them in a file in the cloud. It was bad enough this idiocy he had going on; no need to go the whole nine yards. But today he needed too much. In three minutes it would be his birthday. Thirty-six and shit to show for it. No wife, no kids. A half-decent day at work was one he survived unscathed while dealing with crazy fanatics. He was so wound up he couldn’t contain himself, and, gut churning, he opened the file where he’d gathered everything she’d sent.

One look and his throat clogged. Fuck, she always knew what he needed. There were shots of Alden and the Bowens, all laughing. Barbecues. Birthday parties. The newest were from Christmas Eve. Max with his hands on the pregnant belly of his new lady friend, the one Elle had talked to Jack about. The one prone to weird accidents. It seemed like the last Bowen had already bit the dust, willingly, with a big, sappy smile on his face. Jack’s chest tightened. Love and family and friends, the very things he was missing the most.

He reached into his pocket and took an antacid. His stomach had been bulletproof. Until Elle. Now he had a f*cking hole the size of Texas, or so he thought. He was still in denial and refusing to go to the doc, living under the illusion that whenever his exposure to her ended, the ulcer would disappear.

He chewed the tablet, ignoring the chalky taste, and continued with his foolish task. Rosita’s was featured very prominently too. Not so much Elle, who was always the one behind the camera. She was only in a couple of shots. In one she was showing her tongue and making a face. In the other she was laughing, hugging James and her sister Tate.

At that moment an e-mail appeared in his inbox from Party Girl. He looked at the time stamp: 00:01, rather early for her.

Without thinking, he clicked on it.


Happy birthday, Borg!!

Don’t look so surprised; you know I’m very resourceful. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, to get it out of James. It was a slip, long time ago, but I have a great memory. He never said your actual age so don’t freak on me, big boy, your secret is safe.

I would have never pegged you for a Capricorn though. I thought you’d be a Scorpio; after all, most dangerous sociopaths are born in November…

Then again, being a goat suits you too.

Wherever you are, whatever you are doing, I hope you have a fabulous day. You would have a much better time with us, but you can’t have everything in life, can you?


No, he couldn’t. Learned that long ago.


Don’t have much time now, too busy at Rosita’s. Just wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your birthday—or your assembly day—however your kind of people are made.

I’ll write to you later.


This time, the attachment was a video. Before he realized how stupid it would be, he opened it, and his heart tumbled the second he heard her laugh. Someone, Tate by the sound of it, was filming her and Elle was joking with her. Then, as she stood under the mistletoe, she threw an air-kiss to the camera and winked an eye. His chest clenched so f*cking hard his lungs burned from the lack of air.

Jack stared at the image greedily, like it was air and he was a drowning man.

Which he was. Drowning in filth and lies and human misery. Dealing with the worst of the worst, risking a Colombian necktie and God only knew what else for just a peek at Elle’s words and a world he didn’t belong to. His chest in a fist. His cock f*cking hard.

He slapped the laptop closed, pissed at himself. This was no place to lower his guard. He was surrounded by scum. He ought to behave accordingly and stop daydreaming about the only woman in the world he couldn’t allow himself to have.



Two months later, Boston

Elle looked around the hospital chapel. It couldn’t be denied; Bowen men were extremely original when it came to weddings. First it had been James with that romantic midnight ceremony in the backyard, a thousand small lights illuminating the garden. Then Cole had pledged himself to Christy surrounded by aliens in Las Vegas. Elle hadn’t been there, but she had irrefutable proof of it at Rosita’s, framed, in a central position on the wall of fame.

And now Max had gathered a bunch of trigger-happy preppers on one side and some stick-up-their-ass socialites on the other and was getting hitched in a hospital chapel, before taking his woman and his newly born daughter home with him. A last-minute, simple ceremony. After what had happened, Elle couldn’t blame Max for not wanting to waste a second. Staring death straight in the eye—even worse, watching the woman you love almost be killed—would do that to you.

The brothers were talking while waiting for the bride, Mr. Bowen by their side, standing proud. Once he’d finished fussing over Tate, James joined them.

Elle walked to where Tate was sitting. “How are you doing, sis?”