Lust Is the Thorn Read online

  Friend Loveswept and let the romance begin!

  Until next month—Happy Romance!

  Gina Wachtel

  Associate Publisher

  Read on for an excerpt from

  Jagger

  by MJ Fields and Chelsea Camaron

  Available from Loveswept

  Prologue

  Jagger

  With paper-thin walls and a bastard next door, I hear the whimpers, the slaps, the crashing of shit in the apartment beside mine. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard the noises in the six months since I moved in. After Momma died, home wasn’t home, and I needed the escape. The apartment complex isn’t upscale by any means. No, it’s a dive. What the hell do I need to live in some nice-ass place for? I’m only here to shit, shower, and sleep.

  Standing at my door, I grip the handle, knowing I need to hold back. This will become another trip to lockup, another case against me. I give my lawyer more of my winnings these days than I get to keep.

  Leaning my forehead against the door, I fight the memories of my old man, who used to toss Momma around. He tried to get to us boys, too, but she took the heat until Hendrix and then Morrison were big enough to step in.

  I gaze down at my bulging forearm as I struggle against opening the door, and the black and gray script of my tattoo dances as my muscles flex.

  Legacy.

  Momma asked us boys to be a legacy of good in a world full of bad.

  With that thought in mind and not a second thought of the consequences, I take off, storming over to my neighbor’s door—where I halt in front of it, realizing whose it is.

  My landlord.

  Mr. Rand, the Russian motherfucker who pretends not to speak English when anyone tries to complain, yet he certainly can understand the language enough to have you sign on the dotted line and take your money.

  I feel the vibration of a body hitting the door on the other side, hear the whimper of a female, and I see red.

  Nothing matters except saving her. Once upon a time, I couldn’t save Momma, but I damn sure won’t be in that position again.

  I feel the door give as the weight is removed from the other side, allowing me to open it safely. As the door swings open, I’m not prepared for the rage that builds so rapidly inside me.

  The apartment is tidy, which is more than I can say for my own place. Although it’s small, someone has put effort into keeping it clean and clutter-free.

  I watch as this frail young woman is tossed across the living room, and then she immediately gets up and runs down the hall, halting when she reaches the end, where she falls into the corner, planting herself against the wall. She curls into herself, her dark hair stringy and matted with blood and tears that roll down her swollen face. Blood trickles down her nose and from her lips. Her right eye is swollen shut and multiple shades of red and purple. I can see her arms are skin and bones as she holds her knees to her chest. When she lifts her head, I see the welts across her neck.

  She looks up at me with the one dark brown eye she can open. It’s so glassy with tears I’m not sure she can even see me. She gives a slight shake of the head that I assume is an effort to stop me. Her mouth opens and closes slowly, but no words come out.

  I sense movement beside me, and that’s when I see the bear of a man who is my landlord lunging at her, the belt in his hand swinging wildly over his head. He’s a dark-haired, beer-bellied asshole with one giant chip on his shoulder.

  Without hesitation, I storm toward him and crash us into the wall, and pictures fall as the place rattles with the impact.

  “You wanna pick on little girls, huh? Why don’t you try out a real man?” I grab him by his shirt collar and shake him as the anger consumes me. I can smell the alcohol on him. Cheap bourbon is his poison.

  I draw back and slam my fist downward into his face as he paws at me. Then I kick at his knees, bringing him to the ground. Straddling him, I pound away at his head, face, and torso while he lies under me, swinging at the air, grasping for anything as I continue my onslaught.

  I feel the burn in my knuckles as they bust open on his jaw. Lights out, motherfucker.

  He goes limp, yet I can’t stop myself from throwing the last few hits before standing up and taking a step back to look at my prey.

  His face is already swelling, and I’m pretty sure I broke his jaw and nose. Blood is running out of the corner of one eye, over his nose, and down his ear. Maybe next time he will think of this before he puts his hands on her.

  Her.

  I look over to his victim. She looks so much like a young version of him that the resemblance is uncanny. I just beat the hell out of her father, who, from the looks of her frail body and the scar on her cheek, beats the hell out of her on a regular basis. Fucking bastard.

  As my eyes meet hers, I get lost in the emotion coming from the overly large, dark circle of the eye I can see. Going over to her, I extend my hand. She takes it, her small fingers cold as they slide into the warmth of mine, and I pull her up. Instinctively, I pull her into me and hold her close for a moment. She tenses in my embrace, but I continue to comfort her, running my large hand over her mess of dark tangles before I kiss the top of her head and release her.

  Reaching in my back pocket, I pull out my wallet and then a business card before I put my wallet back in place and look at her. She stares at me, wide-eyed and wild. The blood is drying on her face, so I take her by the hand and walk her to the kitchen sink.

  Leaving the card on the countertop, I wash my hands, cringing as the soap stings my open knuckles. After letting my own blood wash down the drain, I wet a paper towel, then tenderly wipe around her swollen eye and then the tear-filled one. Her skeleton fingers come up and wrap around my wrist as I clean under her nose and ever so gently wipe her lips.

  I hear the grunt of her father waking up—my exit cue. It’s time to go before we have round two.

  “He’ll most likely be angry, but too exhausted to fight you. Let him sleep it off while you find a way to get the hell out.” I point at the business card as I say, “If you need anything, call me at Caldwell’s.”

  Hastily, I kiss her forehead, hating to leave her behind to clean up my mess yet knowing that if she’s going to leave, it has to be on her terms. That is the one thing I learned from my momma. Neither hell nor high water would make her give up everything she had worked for, even if she lived in the worst nightmare day in and day out.

  “I have nowhere to go,” she whispers, causing my heart to beat loudly in my ears. “I just turned seventeen.”

  Fuck! This man is beating on a minor who is helpless to leave. What the hell have I gotten myself into now?

  “I’ll help you.” I pick up the card, place it in her palm, then close her tiny hand around it. “Name?”

  “Tatiana,” she whispers, and her dad stirs again.

  “Come with me. We can call the cops, and his ass can go to jail. Social Services—”

  “You have to leave.”

  “But—”

  “Thank you,” she says, pulling her hand away before walking toward the open door.

  I follow her, though everything in my head is telling me to finish this asshole off.

  “Come with me, Tatiana. I swear I will help you.”

  She steps into the hall, and I think she is going to follow me. Hell, I want to pick her up and put her in my pocket so that fucker can never touch her again. Then she steps back inside and starts to close the door.

  “What are you doing?” I know the shock registers on my face.

  “I know where to find you.”

  As the door shuts, my stomach turns. I want to smash it open and take her away. Then I remember her words. Maybe she just has to grab some things.

  I beat feet to the bar. I know she will show. I know she will. She has to.

  I walk in as Lola, the bartender, walks past me all teary-eyed.

  “Lost another one?” I laugh.

  “Maybe,” my brother Hendrix answers indifferen
tly.

  “Seriously, bro, you need to learn to play nice with others.” So do other assholes in this ugly fucking world, I think as I look toward the window to see if she followed me.

  “Look, unless you’re here to take on another night, step it up a bit. I don’t wanna hear shit.”

  “I liked Lola.” I sit down at the bar.

  “You hear heels clicking up the wooden stairs into the apartment?”

  I give him the what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look. He raises his eyebrows and shakes his head, and then I hear them.

  “No shit?” Lola is in the apartment above the bar, the apartment our asshole father still lives in because Hendrix lets him after promising that to our dying momma.

  “Just found ’em in my fucking office. Told him a month ago when I caught him skimming from the till that he was out, not to step foot in my fucking place again, or he could pack his shit.”

  I shake my head and clench my fists. I fucking hate my father. Abusive assholes—I hate all of them. I look at the window. Come on, little Tatiana. Be brave.

  “What are you gonna do?” I ask Hendrix, still looking for the tiny one.

  “He’s packing his shit.”

  “You for real, man?” That’s music to my ears, a win for the good guys.

  “As fucking real as terminal cancer.”

  Momma died of cancer, and although some people wouldn’t find that statement funny, we laugh since sometimes you have to find humor in your misfortune. Unfortunately, I am finding no motherfucking humor in the fact that Tatiana isn’t showing up. I wish someone would superglue my ass to this barstool because I know if she isn’t here in about ten minutes, I’m gonna fuck shit up.

  I look back at Hendrix. I know he’s fighting inside. He holds shit in, whereas I am a little less…introverted.

  I look up when the door opens to see Hendrix’s buddy Johnny, the cop.

  Fuck, I think to myself when I see the pissed-off look on his face, his angry eyes directed toward me. I know what’s next, so I make it easy on all of them and stand up.

  “Got bail?” I ask Hendrix.

  “You’re fucking joking, right?” He looks down at my knuckles and shakes his head.

  “Jagger, you know I have to take you in,” pissed-off Johnny says. “You beat the shit out of your landlord.”

  “His kid was crying. Heard her through the wall, opened the door, and she’s running down the hall. Fucker came out chasing her with a belt.”

  “So you beat him to the ground?” Johnny asks, taking the cup of coffee Hendrix slides across the bar. “How about call 911? That’s my job, man. Now she’s so scared she’s not talking and won’t press charges—”

  “What do you mean, ‘won’t press charges’? She had switch marks across her goddamned neck, Johnny. She’s a fucking kid. She needs someone—”

  “She’s seventeen. Can’t make her do shit, you hear me?” Johnny states, then points to the door. “Restraining order, so now you got nowhere to live, and when the judge asks where you work, what are you gonna say? ‘I smash people up in abandoned warehouses while others stand around and watch’? It’s fucking illegal.”

  I am pissed, so fucking pissed. I should have just snatched her up and shoved her in my fucking pocket.

  “Nah, man, I got a job. I’m a motherfucking astronaut. Just got back from the moon last night. Shit looks good up there.”

  “Last time you told the judge you were a fucking ob-gyn apprentice, and that got you a week in county.”

  I look at Hendrix. “Do I have a place to live?”

  Hendrix nods. “Of course you do.”

  “I work here, right?”

  “Yeah, man, you do. Call me after your photo shoot and fingerprints. I’ll be down to pick you up.” Hendrix smirks as he shakes his head.

  I walk outside and have to laugh. I mean, fuck, what else can I do? I’m going to jail because I tried to do the right thing. Momma would be proud. I did good. I am her legacy.

  I rub the tattoo on my arm.

  Legacy.

  I hop in the back of the squad car and chuckle again. “It’s like you’re my own personal driver, Johnny.”

  He shakes his head, and I know he’s trying his hardest not to smile. “Only you, Jagger. Only you.”

  This isn’t my first ride in the back of Johnny’s patrol car, and I can’t promise it will be my last. At least he doesn’t bother with the cuffs anymore.

  As I sit back, I see my old man and Lola walking out of the alley with garbage bags. I give him the old one-finger salute, and he gives it back.

  Good riddance, fucker.

  “You gonna leave it alone?” I hear Johnny ask.

  “What?”

  “The kid, the old man, your old man. You gonna start trying to think of yourself someday, Jag? Your future?”

  “Not sure,” I answer honestly.

  “You’re not Batman or some sort of vigilante. You are a mere mortal like the rest of us,” he says as he pulls out into the street. When I don’t answer, he sighs loudly. “You gotta leave it alone.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Chapter 1

  Jagger

  In the darkness of night, I watch her from the alley beside my old building like a predator watches its prey. The girl who wouldn’t press charges or leave her abusive father’s shit hole. The girl who doesn’t leave that roach-infested scum hole or the man I witnessed giving out his savage, drunken abuse. The man might not have stopped hitting her. He might have even killed her that day if I hadn’t busted through the door.

  It makes my blood boil. She deserves better. All human beings deserve better. Some just don’t know it, and Tatiana is one of those people.

  I can hear the drunken, vulgar way he speaks to her. I also hear the way she apologizes over and over. What I don’t hear is the crack of his fist, the slap of a belt, or the cries of pain that sometimes wake me in the dead of night after I’ve worked at Caldwell’s bar or drunk enough to pass the fuck out so I won’t be as tempted to swoop up the girl and carry her away, take her somewhere safe.

  Coming here at nighttime was a bad idea. I am usually pumped up from an underground fight or from a day of pounding the bags at Chaps. Many times I have to hit something to stop myself from busting into that hellhole.

  It started immediately—my obsession with the tiny, pale dark-haired girl. She is my morning coffee at Sips, my morning run, my morning trip to the nutrition store.

  I watch her hang laundry on the dilapidated balcony of her second-floor apartment. Every day like clockwork at seven in the morning, she hangs out stark-white men’s briefs, T-shirts, Dickies pants—the green ones the school janitor used to wear—and her tiny, thin, faded clothes.

  I wait while she goes back inside, knowing she will bring out the first of four rugs and beat them on the cracked back stairs with a broom. They are bigger than her. Hell, everything is. Regardless, every day, she lugs them out and in.

  I have tried to gauge when her father leaves, to guesstimate his schedule. However, the fucking piece of shit she calls otetz—“father” in Russian—doesn’t have a schedule.

  He isn’t hard to figure out, though. I can tell by the way she cowers when he speaks to her what kind of night she had. When she cringes or jumps at his voice, my blood boils. It’s late morning on those days. I can only imagine how he hit her, beat her, hurt her.

  I went to Johnny, demanding he do something. He told me to leave it alone. He said he’d done what he could, but she refused to cooperate. He also said she doesn’t speak or understand much English. Social Services will follow up, but we have to be realistic with their caseload. She might be legal before they get to her.

  During the afternoons, I watch from the diner across the road, and, well, that’s when I knew she was lying to Johnny. How did I know? She spoke perfectly good English to me that night. Also, she read books, old books, the same ones over and over. I tried to figure out why she wouldn’t just get new ones from the library, why she rea
ds them over and over, but I quickly realized that she doesn’t attend school.

  I want to know what books they are, yet I’m pressing my luck simply by being around this part of town every day, and binoculars or walking close enough to see would be a bad call.

  I went to Johnny about that, too. He told me she was homeschooled. She took tests and shit through the mail and always aced them.

  I pissed him off when I questioned his cop skills. How the fuck is he unaware she can speak English if she is acing tests? He merely told me if the old man sees me, if I get caught, I will be violating the restraining order, and he will have no choice except to haul me in—again.

  Once, I watched her while she sat and read on the stoop, my plan in place. An older woman who lives in one of the downstairs apartments walked up the steps and handed her a bag. Tatiana held her hand up and shook her head, giving her a sweet smile. The woman took her hand and clasped it around the bag, then walked through the door.

  I watched as Tatiana opened the bag cautiously. Then her face nearly spilt in two when she saw the contents.

  Pastries. It was pastries.

  She looked around as if she would be in trouble if someone saw her. When she felt secure, she took them out and devoured them, one after another. Once she was finished, she stood, crumpled the bag, and put it in the garbage can in the alley.

  After that, I brought back more. When the old lady isn’t around, I sneak them to the balcony myself and wait, hoping her old man won’t find the secret stash. It took me a couple times seeing it to realize she doesn’t want her father to know. It also made me realize she must be half-starved.

  Five months, five fucking months I have been dropping off a bag every week—sometimes two. A box of donuts, some fresh fruit, books, a bottle of vitamins, a first-aid kit, and even some cash once in a while.