Ace of Spades by Elle Bright Page A

thought it might crack. Good . Let him
break his own jaw. It would save Jackson the trouble.
             
“Jackson,” Mel scolded, her tone low and warning.
             
Jackson shrugged at her. “What? Don’t you remember Little Dickie Anderson who lived down the street from us as kids, Mel? His name was Richard,
but his parents called him ‘Little Dickie .’ Poor
bastard never lived it down -- got called that all through school. Hell, he’s
probably still running around hiding from that awful name. Dick, however, is a
much more respectable nickname. Although, it might be giving more
credit than credit is due.”
             
“I remember, but—” Melody started, but was cut off.
             
“It’s Richard James,” Richard corrected through gritted teeth, eyeing Jackson
as though he was a spider he’d caught scampering across his pillow.
             
Jackson couldn’t help it -- the name made him think ‘Rick James,’ which led to
a rousing rendition of ‘Super Freak’ playing on repeat in his head. Only Rick
James had a hell of a lot more personality in his little finger than this idiot
had in his whole body. Oh, wait, he was still talking…
             
“But I understand if that’s too much for someone of your intellect and
background to remember. You may call me Mr. Worthington, if you prefer.”
             
“Rich—”
             
“Oh, I think I can come up with something better than that,” Jackson
interjected with a mischievous grin. “How about Richie?” He raked the man from head to toe with his own imperious gaze. “Although, by the looks of it, maybe Not-So-Richie would be more
fitting. How does it feel to know someone of my background, as
you call it, can make more in one night than you can make in a whole year,
Ricky-Boy?”
             
“All the money in the world couldn’t buy you class, you worthless piece of
trash,” Richard growled, inching closer to him.
             
“Boys, boys,” Melody shouted, squeezing her curvy, little body between them. “That’s
enough. From both of you.”
             
“Sorry, Mel,” Jackson muttered, fairly certain his pants were on fire thanks to
the lie.
             
Richard straightened, resuming his forgotten dignity. “Yes, well.”
             
If that was all the apology Mel ever got out of him, the bastard better never
screw up.
             
“Jack, they need you in position,” Kip called from behind Richard.
             
“Duty calls,” Jackson said, turning to collect his guitar. Body checking
Richard, he shouldered his way past the pair, then tossed over his shoulder. “Mel, I’ll see you after the show. We need to talk –
alone.”
             
Without so much as a backward glance, Jackson followed Kip. “Nice to meet you
too, Dickhead,” he added as he walked away.
     
    A
     
             
What had she expected? That they’d shake hands and be friends? Well, yeah. Was
that too much to ask?
             
But no, the two men had immediately locked horns like bulls vying for a mate,
engaging in a petty pissing contest with her as the prize. Men. She was not a prize and this was not a contest.
             
Melody stood beside Richard, bristling with her arms crossed, as they waited
for the benefit concert to start. Sure, she was irritated at Jackson for poking
Richard like a bear with a stick. But she was pissed at Richard for not taking
the higher road. He could’ve been the bigger man. Jackson was her oldest friend
and now her boss too. The least he could’ve done was played nice.
             
Not that she was taking sides. But Melody found it hard to be mad at Jackson
when she was so proud of him. He’d done it. He’d conquered his addiction. And
he looked so much better than when she had seen him a few days earlier. Though
still not the perfect image of health, he’d