Jacked Up (Bowen Boys #4)(81)

Was Ronnie right? Was he taking the easy way out? Was he scared? He stilled at the thought. Scared? Fuck, no. He was terrified. Of giving in to this and making the biggest mistake of his life and of not giving in to this and making the biggest mistake of his life.

Not sure how it happened, he found himself in front of the bar where Elle’s favorite band was jamming. He had no clue what he was doing there. Well, he did; he wanted to see her. Just for a second. See her smile. Get his fix. That was all. No talking. Because he didn’t have anything to say to her, did he?

Fuck, shit, he did.

Furious with himself, Jack stepped out of the truck and stalked to the bar. He must have looked scary, because the crowd at the entrance parted for him and the bouncer let him in right away. Good; standing in line with all those groupies would have been the last f*cking blow to his male dignity. The place was packed, again. He lifted his glance to the stage; no Elle. There was that at least. Making a scene and throwing her over his shoulder wouldn’t have made that upcoming talk easier. The music and the pulsing lights were going to give him the mother of all headaches, but whatever. He pushed his way through the crowd. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find her; how many women could be there with glow-in-the-dark tattoos, right?



Elle straightened the black dress in the bathroom of the bar, took her lipstick from her purse, and reapplied it. She should have picked another outfit, one that wouldn’t remind her of Jack, or smell like him, really. But what would have been the use? He’d been gone almost two weeks, and she could still smell him in the house. On her. Ronnie visiting Rosita’s had just been the icing on the cake.

The need to ask about Jack had been overwhelming, but she hadn’t caved. It hadn’t stopped Ronnie from sharing, though. It seemed like the ass was playing Unabomber up at that cabin of his. Scared, probably, that if he remained in his apartment, Elle would go harass him. Ha! Like she hadn’t crawled enough already. The sky would fall before she’d lower herself for him to stomp all over her feelings again.

Lost in her reveries, she opened the bathroom door and all but stumbled into a man’s chest.

Strong arms steadied her while a whiff of very expensive cologne filled her nostrils.

“Sorry,” she said absentmindedly, lifting her gaze to his face.

It was dim and her eyes were still adjusting to the darkness but she would recognize Mr. Asshole anywhere in the world. Apparently, he recognized her too.

“You following me now?” he asked.

A snort escaped her. “Not likely. You can let me go now.”

Aston Biggs didn’t release her. “You know, I had a flight from hell last time.”

“How unfortunate. I won’t say it twice. Let go.”

He did, but he was still blocking her way. He took a step forward, his drunk eyes narrowed on her. “I see now what’s happening here. If you’re into me, you don’t have to resort to those nasty tricks to catch my attention. All you have to do is ask. Nicely.”

Oh God. “Which powerful hallucinogen are you on?”

“You are not hard to look at,” the * continued, ignoring her words. “I could be convinced to grant you some of my time.”

“Move,” she demanded, running out of patience.

He grabbed her again. “Playing hard to get?”

That was it. She was going to smash his balls and deal with the fallout and the lawsuits and whatnot later.

She was wrenching away when suddenly someone punched Mr. Asshole’s face and a voice she didn’t recognize said, “Disappear. Ms. Cooper and I have things to discuss.”



Jack was losing his goddamned patience. Although he towered over 95 percent of the people around him, this joint had two levels and numerous private sitting areas. It was going to take a century to find Elle. He had a tail on her, didn’t he? Time to use it.

While reaching for his cell to call Simon, he spotted him in a far corner, scrambling to his feet and rubbing the back of his head.

“What happened?” Jack asked after making it to him.

Simon looked at his hand, blood smeared all over his palm. He squinted, trying to get his bearings.

“Elle did that to you?”

Simon shook his head. “She headed for the bathroom. Some suspicious guy intercepted her as she left, started harassing her and trying to corner her, so I decided to intervene, but on my way there was a brawl and I was hit.”

Jack’s blood froze. “Which guy?” He’d given Simon detailed files about Maldonado’s people.

“Didn’t recognize him.”

Pushing people left and right, he got to the women’s room. Some irate ladies screamed at him but he didn’t give a f*ck.

“Elle?” he yelled, flinging open the doors of the stalls.

Nothing.

He ran back out and scanned the surroundings. The band was playing some popular song that had everyone singing and bouncing, those damn pulses of light hindering his sight. In all that mayhem, he thought he saw a glimpse of what looked to him like her leg tattoo, shiny white, flanked by men and about to go through the front door.

He burst into movement, but when he made it out of the bar, there was no sign of Elle anywhere.

Then he remembered all the bugs he’d had on her. She’d disposed of some of those in one of her defiant stunts, but he’d planted more in her clothes and accessories. Would she have any on? Blood roaring in his ears so f*cking badly that he was sure that people around could hear his heartbeat, he rushed to his truck. From the hidden compartment at the back, he took his computer and turned the tracking program on. Praying to all the gods he knew, all of those he’d stopped praying to as soon as his mother had started beating the shit out of him regularly, that something would fire on the screen, a small bleep. Just one. All he needed was one. And there it was, a green dot, blinking and moving slowly but surely away from the bar, going south down Pasadena Street. Fuck, he felt like crying. No time for that. He broke into a run toward a group of people and tackled one of them.