Thrown Down (Made in Jersey #2)(3)

But no. No, she’d been drawn, instead. As she was now, swerving around tables, coming closer to where he stood, still just inside the entrance. She wasn’t the only one, either. Men were standing up, cracking their knuckles in the New Jersey state signal for shit-is-about-to-go-down. In the corner of his eye Vaughn saw the owner rousing on the floor, noticed him gesturing to the apparently lazy security staff, who also headed in Vaughn’s direction. So he did what every levelheaded man would do in a situation where he was outnumbered about two hundred to one.

He lifted his fists, pounding one of them against his chest. “Come on, then,” he called out. “Don’t be shy as well as stupid.”

“Vaughn.”

River’s voice was breathless as she reached his side, making everything inside him expand like an inflating raft. His fists shook in the air, so he tightened them. Don’t look at her yet, just get her out. “You got a purse you need to grab or somethin’?”

An expulsion of air came from her lips. “You can’t just—”

She broke off when he sent her a look. The look. It said, come on, you remember how I roll. Can’t isn’t part of my vocabulary. Placing his attention on River was a mistake, however, because now it couldn’t be dragged away by a dozen ox. Oh Lord. Those big, sweetheart eyes were tired. Of course, they were. If everything in the letter from Sarge was accurate, she’d been working day shifts at the local factory, in addition to slinging drinks at night.

My fault.

Yeah, his actions were going to cost her this job. Maybe he’d walked into the joint fully aware of that fact. But regret refused to appear. If fifty years had passed since they’d shared oxygen, he would have done the same thing. River belonged in the Kicked Bucket like a virgin belonged in a brothel. As in, she didn’t. And he was a presumptuous f*cker for assuming the responsibility of that decision, but he’d never claimed to be otherwise. “Hiya, doll.”

This was where she coldcocked him. Screamed at him, scratched his eyes out, and told him she hated his guts. I’m not ready, I’m not ready.

Turns out he really wasn’t ready for what happened next.

River’s lips lifted in the bright, class president smile he remembered like the back of his hand. So angelic, the other angels in heaven had probably banded together to kick her out. Right onto his unworthy lap. “Hey there, Vaughn.” She reached out and patted his shoulder. “Guess you haven’t changed much, huh?”





Chapter Two


River had never considered a career in acting, but realized now she might have been shortsighted. Even after months of preparation for Vaughn’s return—yes, she’d gone back to blonde and refused to apologize—she hadn’t really expected to pull off a warm greeting. After all, this was the man who’d left her broken, bleeding, and sobbing on her knees while he sped off into the night. A woman could take a lifetime to recover from something like that, but in River’s case, she thought it might take three. Because while she stood there, smiling up at the son of a bitch, a metal crowbar was doing its damnedest to pry her ribs apart.

Why did he have to be so ruggedly gorgeous? His dark blond hair was finger combed, longer than the last time she’d seen it, when he’d rocked an army crew cut. Scruff darkened his cheeks, only adding gravity to his soulful, deep brown eyes. Vaughn had always been in good shape. She remembered watching him do pull-ups on the doorframe of her bedroom, pushups on the floor beside the bed, on nights when he snuck in through the window, or afternoons her parents weren’t home. Burning energy, he’d called it. Later, she would realize he was working through a reservoir of sexual frustration, but he’d never once pressured her, never made her feel guilty for his painful condition.

River shook the bittersweet memory loose. Yes, Vaughn’s arms had always been carved in marble, but they’d expanded beneath the woven together tattoos, barely fitting into the sleeves of his gray T-shirt. His body had settled into manhood with a vengeance, maturing in ways that were not convenient when River needed to remain focused on the plan.

Right, the plan. Get Vaughn to turn around and leave Hook, secure in the knowledge that his presence wasn’t needed. Free to go about his business, whatever it was.

He’d fallen off the face of the Earth forty-nine months and three days prior. Unreachable. A lot like he’d been, even when standing right in front of her, all those years ago.

When they’d met in high school, Vaughn’s closed off nature had been mysterious. Then she’d graduated Hook High and spent two years taking night classes at the local community college while Vaughn fixed cars to make money—before he’d surprised her by enlisting in the army, staying away for two more years, before returning to Hook and leaving her for good, on the very night of his homecoming. That air of mystery had grown stale by then, but she’d been too stubborn to quit attempting to reach him. To beat those walls down with love.

Vaughn rolled his neck, a lot like a boxer entering the ring. If River didn’t move soon, one of two things would happen. The crowbar would finish the job it was doing on her ribs, and she’d collapse like a corpse on the floor. Or Vaughn would take on the entire lounge in the most unbalanced fight of the century.

“I know it goes against the De Matteo code,” River started, “but I’d appreciate you living to fight another day.”