down
low.
Sliding the looped cable around his left bicep, Jackson held the end with his
teeth and pulled the cable taut. He pumped his fist as the cord constricted the
blood flow and juiced up his veins. Swiping the fat vein in the crook of his
arm with an alcohol wipe, Jackson thanked his lucky stars his tattoos would
hide the bruising certain to follow. With shaking hands, he grabbed the
syringe, uncapped it, and jammed the spike into his vein. Letting loose his
hold on the tail of the tourniquet, he slammed the plunger
of the syringe home.
And released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The combined rush
spread through his body like wildfire, its warmth coursing through him as his
nervous system struggled to process the conflicting signals. He was soaring,
strapped to a rocket as he blasted through the stratosphere. He was alive as
never before. There was nothing like it. Sure, he’d done coke before, and God
knows he’d done plenty of heroin , but nothing compared to the rush of the two together.
As the initial rush faded, the familiar high of cocaine set in. He could do
anything. Be anything. He had a show to put on. It was time to grab his guitar
and get out there. Time to rock Melody’s world.
A
“Hey, J.”
Jackson looked up from tuning his guitar at the sound of Melody’s voice. He’d
never get used to the way his heart soared every time she came near. Surely the
coke played its part, but his pulse raced on its own accord at the sight of
her. Being around Mel was like stepping out into the sunshine after years of
being locked inside. She made Jackson want to tip his head back and soak her in
like the warmth of the sun.
But then he saw who she was with and his heart plummeted back down to the Shitville he called ‘reality.’ Melody stood a few feet
away, holding hands with the man Jackson could only presume was the ass-wipe
boyfriend she talked about.
With a stick up his ass and an I ’m-too-good-for-this-place-and-everyone-in-it attitude, the guy may as well have tattooed ‘douche bag’ on his forehead.
Jackson considered telling him so, but then thought better of it. Mel’s face
would probably turn the color of her hair and, while she was cute that way,
pissing her off would take him in the opposite direction of his goal.
“Jackson, this is my boyfriend, Richard. Richard, this is my old friend and new
boss, Jackson.”
Richard cleared his throat and inspected Jackson as though he was an unexpected
smear of dog shit on the bottom of his tacky, tasseled loafers. “Richard James
Worthington, the Fourth.”
The fact that Richard didn’t extend his hand wasn’t lost on Jackson. Not that
he cared. Hell, the tool probably carried a handkerchief to cleanse his hands
of any unworthy contact. Never mind that Jackson could buy him and his
pretentious suit a million times over.
But that was beside the point. Jackson didn’t give a shit about the money. It
was about Mel. As he’d expected, the guy was a tool and didn’t deserve her. Who
the hell wore a suit to a rock concert? Apparently, this
dude.
Setting aside his guitar, Jackson rose to his feet. Unfolding to his full
height, he towered over the other man. Richard puffed out his shoulders as
though he hoped to make himself seem bigger. Jackson smirked down at him with
masculine pride. The dude probably overcompensated with a big truck too.
Neglecting to offer his hand as well, Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets
instead. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dick. I’ve heard so much about you.
That said, Mel’s words were nowhere near adequate ,” Jackson gushed,
knowing full well that Mel would recognize the jibe.
Richard’s jaw tensed until Jackson
low.
Sliding the looped cable around his left bicep, Jackson held the end with his
teeth and pulled the cable taut. He pumped his fist as the cord constricted the
blood flow and juiced up his veins. Swiping the fat vein in the crook of his
arm with an alcohol wipe, Jackson thanked his lucky stars his tattoos would
hide the bruising certain to follow. With shaking hands, he grabbed the
syringe, uncapped it, and jammed the spike into his vein. Letting loose his
hold on the tail of the tourniquet, he slammed the plunger
of the syringe home.
And released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The combined rush
spread through his body like wildfire, its warmth coursing through him as his
nervous system struggled to process the conflicting signals. He was soaring,
strapped to a rocket as he blasted through the stratosphere. He was alive as
never before. There was nothing like it. Sure, he’d done coke before, and God
knows he’d done plenty of heroin , but nothing compared to the rush of the two together.
As the initial rush faded, the familiar high of cocaine set in. He could do
anything. Be anything. He had a show to put on. It was time to grab his guitar
and get out there. Time to rock Melody’s world.
A
“Hey, J.”
Jackson looked up from tuning his guitar at the sound of Melody’s voice. He’d
never get used to the way his heart soared every time she came near. Surely the
coke played its part, but his pulse raced on its own accord at the sight of
her. Being around Mel was like stepping out into the sunshine after years of
being locked inside. She made Jackson want to tip his head back and soak her in
like the warmth of the sun.
But then he saw who she was with and his heart plummeted back down to the Shitville he called ‘reality.’ Melody stood a few feet
away, holding hands with the man Jackson could only presume was the ass-wipe
boyfriend she talked about.
With a stick up his ass and an I ’m-too-good-for-this-place-and-everyone-in-it attitude, the guy may as well have tattooed ‘douche bag’ on his forehead.
Jackson considered telling him so, but then thought better of it. Mel’s face
would probably turn the color of her hair and, while she was cute that way,
pissing her off would take him in the opposite direction of his goal.
“Jackson, this is my boyfriend, Richard. Richard, this is my old friend and new
boss, Jackson.”
Richard cleared his throat and inspected Jackson as though he was an unexpected
smear of dog shit on the bottom of his tacky, tasseled loafers. “Richard James
Worthington, the Fourth.”
The fact that Richard didn’t extend his hand wasn’t lost on Jackson. Not that
he cared. Hell, the tool probably carried a handkerchief to cleanse his hands
of any unworthy contact. Never mind that Jackson could buy him and his
pretentious suit a million times over.
But that was beside the point. Jackson didn’t give a shit about the money. It
was about Mel. As he’d expected, the guy was a tool and didn’t deserve her. Who
the hell wore a suit to a rock concert? Apparently, this
dude.
Setting aside his guitar, Jackson rose to his feet. Unfolding to his full
height, he towered over the other man. Richard puffed out his shoulders as
though he hoped to make himself seem bigger. Jackson smirked down at him with
masculine pride. The dude probably overcompensated with a big truck too.
Neglecting to offer his hand as well, Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets
instead. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Dick. I’ve heard so much about you.
That said, Mel’s words were nowhere near adequate ,” Jackson gushed,
knowing full well that Mel would recognize the jibe.
Richard’s jaw tensed until Jackson
Similar Books
