All Jacked Up (Mississippi Smoke #6)

Prologue

Noa

The Past-Age Sixteen

The smell of wood, combined with a slight mustiness and a twinge of smoke, enveloped me.

It was my absolute favorite scent in the world.

I inhaled deeply, letting it seep in and remind me that this was all I needed to be complete.

Friends were drama—or at least, it appeared that way.

I didn’t have much experience, unless you counted Becca Walters in the sixth grade, who had shown up midyear.

She’d been quirky, talked nonstop, and liked to ask me about whatever book I was reading at the time.

Her father was in the military, and she’d moved that summer, leaving me once again the loner.

Except for Becca, my friends had always been found in the pages of the stories I read.

I picked up the next returned book in the pile that I had been tasked with placing back on the shelves of the library at the high school I attended; it gave me a sense of purpose.

I might not cheer on the sidelines for the football team or march across the field at halftime with an instrument, and I might not perform onstage with the theater department, but I had this.

I volunteered every day in the library during my study hall and after school.

Except on Thursdays, when I tutored whatever student Ms. Richie—the head of the Literature department—had assigned to me.

“I believe you’re who I’m looking for.”

A deep voice jerked me from my thoughts.

I spun around, confused by the close proximity. It was as if he’d been speaking to me. Which was unlikely since no guys ever spoke to me—at least on purpose.

Jeremy Tucker had bumped into me yesterday and said, “Excuse you.”

The air in my lungs felt as if it had seized when my eyes collided with a pair as golden as he was. I’d heard him speak before, but never up close. The warm tingle that raced through me from the sound still radiated as I stood there silent. Frozen. And awkward. Always awkward.

“Noa Raines?” He said my name like a question, his brows drawing together.

I nodded. I couldn’t do more. Nothing seemed to be working correctly. My ability to speak had vanished with my ability to inhale much-needed oxygen.

A crooked grin curled his lips, as if he knew the effect he had on me and it amused him.

My face heated from the embarrassment. This might be the one time in my life that Ransom Carver spoke to me, and I was managing to humiliate myself.

It was quite possibly going to go down as my biggest regret.

The one that kept me up at night as I relived it in horror.

“You are Noa Raines?” he asked.

I nodded again. Still no words.

Speak, Noa. Stop acting like an idiot.

“Well, Noa, seems I’m in need of your help if I’m going to pass British Literature. I’ve been informed that you’re the translator I require to understand what the fuck Shakespeare is saying.”

He needed a tutor. Of course. Life made sense again. Air filled my lungs, the world stopped spinning on its axis, and I was back on solid ground. I should have guessed that this was the reason he had been looking for me the moment I realized the husky timbre belonged to him.

“Is it Hamlet or Macbeth that is giving you difficulty?” I asked, relieved that my voice hadn’t cracked or hitched. My heart was still racing even if my head had caught up with what was happening here.

He smirked. “ Romeo and Juliet .”

My eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t get to choose which of his works that you wanted to analyze and review? I mean, I’m assuming you’re taking British Literature with Ms. Richie. She always lets you choose.”

I knew that seniors were tasked with choosing one of Shakespeare’s works every October and doing a complete literary analysis and review.

I was only a junior, but I’d been helping seniors delve into Shakespeare and understand his writing since my freshman year.

Because of this, I also knew that the student got to choose their own Shakespeare piece—or they had in the past.

Ransom Carver picking Romeo and Juliet was the equivalent of the entire football team showing up in pink leotards and tutus tomorrow and performing Swan Lake on the stage in the theater.

And I wasn’t exaggerating. I was serious.

The swagger with the edge of danger that came off Ransom was in the form of massive, powerful waves.

“I’m feeling a bit judged,” he drawled.

I opened my mouth, closed it, and opened it again before blurting out, “You just don’t seem like the Romeo and Juliet type.

I mean, it’s a tragic romance, and normally, it’s girls who choose that one.

It’s only ever been females that I helped with it, but I’m, uh—I was, uh—what I mean is that maybe you didn’t know what it was about.

” I decided to stop with my rambling as I stared at him.

Not zoning in on the slight cleft in his chin or that ridiculously chiseled jaw of his was hard, but I managed. For the most part.

“I know who Romeo and Juliet are,” he said with a quirk to his mouth.

“It’s just that I found out too late that watching one of the many movies made about it wasn’t going to give me the information I needed to do the assignment, unfortunately.

And I’d rather not admit that to Richie. So, Shakespeare, can you help me?”

Shakespeare? Was he mocking me? Probably.

When any guy remotely close to his level of hotness and popularity spoke to me or about me, it was never in a positive way.

Most of the time, mocking was a go-to for them.

But this was Ransom, and not one time in three years since I’d walked the same halls as him had he done so.

He’d never even noticed me. There was a touch of disappointment that came with the thought.

Why I’d assumed he wasn’t the type to get his kicks out of belittling others, I didn’t know.

It wasn’t as if I knew anything about him, other than he was wealthy, his family owned a whiskey distillery, and he was treated with respect by not only students, but the faculty.

I’d watched that with interest many times.

Everyone accepted the way he and a few others seemed to get a pass for things they shouldn’t.

The elite group consisted of his younger brother, who was a freshman, and Bane Cash, who was a senior, like Ransom.

Bane seemed to part the waters when he walked down the hallway.

I suspected it was out of fear because, honestly, he was terrifying without saying anything.

He just had an air about him that was intense.

His younger brother was also a freshman, and although he wasn’t as feared as his brother, he got a respect that normal freshmen did not.

In my grade, there was Forge Savelle. His brother, Oz, had graduated last year, and surprisingly, he hadn’t gone straight to Hollywood, which was a shame. Oz Savelle’s face could have launched his superstar career without any ability to act.

Lastly, there was Gathe Bowen, also in my grade. He had an older brother, too, but he’d been a senior my freshman year, and I didn’t remember much about him. I assumed he’d also been golden within these halls.

The Carvers, Cashes, Savelles, and Bowens seemed to own this town, and their sons ran the school.

Ransom cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow at me. When I realized how long I’d been standing there, staring at him mutely, my red cheeks only heated more.

“I, uh—yes. I tutor in here on Thursday afternoons.” I rushed out my words. “But right now, the only time I have available would be six in the evening, and I don’t think that Mr. Lemond is here that late,” I added.

“Mr. Lemond?” he asked with confusion.

“Mr. Lemond,” I repeated. “Salt-and-pepper hair, tall, limps slightly, often seen with the mop and bucket, cleaning up the messes around here.”

There was annoyance in my tone, but Ransom had been at this school for almost four years.

Could he not have taken the time to know the head janitor’s name or even speak to him?

I hated the way students ignored him, took him for granted.

He was a person. He had grandkids. He should be respected. Appreciated.

“Bill,” he replied.

Bill? Was that Mr. Lemond’s first name?

I blinked, not sure if I should feel bad about almost scolding him or if he was making up the name Bill.

“I have football practice until five thirty. That would be perfect. I’ll speak to Bill about giving us, what, an hour? I can even lock up for him if he needs me to.”

He would speak to Bill ? Was that truly Mr. Lemond’s name?

“Bill, as in Mr. Lemond?” I needed clarification here.

He nodded his head. “Yes. Bill Lemond. The head custodian for the past sixteen years. He’s retiring next year though. He wants more time with his grandkids.”

Oh. Wow. Okay. I’d misjudged him, it seemed. That was more than I knew about Mr. Lemond. I, of all people, should know how judging a book by its cover was a terrible practice.

“All right,” I replied. “I, uh, can give you my number, and you can text me after you’ve spoken to him,” I said, not about to ask for his number. He was probably asked for it regularly—and not for tutoring help.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, opened it, then lifted his eyes back to mine. “I’m ready.”

I spouted out the numbers, and he tapped them into his phone, then saved it under the name Shakespeare. With a roll of my eyes he didn’t see, I tensed up, but said nothing.

“Got it,” he said, then slipped his phone back into his pocket.

“What in the world are you doing in the library?” a female asked in a flirty tone.

I shifted my gaze to the left to see Lilliana Sherbet strutting toward us—or rather, to Ransom—with a sway to her hips. When I glanced back at Ransom, his focus was on her legs, which were fully displayed in her short cheerleading uniform.