Chapter 48 Jagger
JAGGER
Ihadn’t planned on beating the shit out of Morgan this morning.
If I was smart, I would’ve kept myself in check.
But seeing him leer at her? The way he was trying to intimidate her in the middle of an otherwise empty building?
My blood boils at the thought as I take the long road into The Drift.
Roman begged me to let him come. Seeing my busted up knuckles only fueled his adamance.
I’m still not sure if I made the right choice when I told him to wait at the house, but the decision’s made. There’s no turning back now.
Sometimes The Drift feels like the wild west. Like you’re walking in the middle of a small town lined with bars and brothels and a sheriff’s station.
One who has no issue turning a blind eye to the corruption beneath its town.
Other times it feels open and free in a way Harden Heights is unable to replicate.
And it’s the freedom, the one we’ve yet to find anywhere else, that keeps bringing us back and pushing us to shake hands with some of the lowest of the low.
Like tonight. This could play out in a million different ways, and only a few of them hold the outcome I want.
The others? All right, I really should’ve invited Roman.
As I park my truck, I swear I can feel a pair of eyes on me. The question is, does it belong to one of Gus’s lackeys? Or my father’s? Fuck, does Morgan have someone tailing me now? It wouldn’t surprise me. I lean forward, looking out my windshield.
Where are you?
I examine the treeline, gravel road, the windows on Violet’s home. Not a soul in sight.
Probably not one of Morgan’s lackeys, then. The guy doesn’t know how to be discreet, even if his life depends on it. Ignoring the feeling, I grab the key Morgan dropped off at The Bean Scene this morning from the cup holder and climb outside.
Time to get this over with.
This might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done. Gravel crunches beneath my shoes as I stride toward the house. It could ruin me. I take the short set of stairs leading to the porch. I don’t have another choice. Not really.
Raising my hand, I tap my knuckles against the flimsy door. Last time, Roman shouldered his way in without hesitation. Last time, it belonged to Violet.
The rusty hinges scream in protest, revealing a cocky Ethan Morgan, despite his busted up face. The sight is almost enough to make this interaction worth it. Taking his time, Morgan looks me up and down. “If it isn’t the crowned prince of Harden Heights. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“You and I need to have a chat,” I announce.
“You sure we didn't chat enough earlier today?”
I take in the bruising on his cheekbone and the dried blood at the edge of his nostril.
Must’ve been a bleeder. The thought makes me want to smile, but I keep my expression locked down.
No use pissing him off again. Not when I’m here to make a deal.
My gaze flicks back to his. “Maybe I have more to say.”
“More to say, huh?” With a slow nod, Morgan opens the door the rest of the way.
Well, would you look at that? Seems he has something more to say, too.
The question is, what? What could this asshole possibly think he has to win by us talking?
He already knows he has what I want. The question is, what does he want?
A niggling hits the back of my neck, and I look over my shoulder again, searching the premises. There still isn’t a soul in sight.
Oblivious, Morgan walks toward the worn couch where Violet’s dad was passed out the last time I was here. He collapses onto it. “Make yourself at home. I know I have.”
Casually, I glance left and right, searching for anyone who might jump me if Morgan gives the order, which, considering this morning, is a very real possibility.
A guy is in the shoebox-sized kitchen. His ass is plastered to a folding chair, and his eyes are glued to his phone.
Otherwise, the place looks empty, but I can’t exactly see through walls.
There could easily be someone hiding in Violet’s room or the bathroom, but I’m hoping it isn’t the case.
If push comes to shove, I can handle these two. More, though? Well, I’ll be screwed.
I’m not stupid. I shouldn’t have come alone, but my brothers don’t need to be here to have my back, and if anything happens to me in Drift territory, they’ll burn the entire town to the ground.
With a bored expression, Morgan watches me from his perch. “So, are you gonna start talking or…?”
I step inside and tug at the sleeves of my shirt. “You and I have a problem.”
Morgan’s mouth lifts as he makes himself comfortable on the couch. After crossing his ankles on the coffee table in front of him, he threads his fingers behind his head. “Do we?”
“Yeah, I think we do.”
“Strange, ‘cause from here, things look exactly how I want them to.”
His muddy boots on the coffee table mess with my head. It takes me a second to realize why. Somehow, it feels even more disrespectful than when it was littered with Violet’s dad’s beer bottles. Not sure how it’s possible, but…
My attention flicks from the brown sludge to Morgan’s smug expression. The sooner we finish this conversation, the sooner I can throw the bastard out of Violet’s house. “Why’d you go to the coffee shop this morning?” I ask.
“Maybe I was craving some coffee.”
“And maybe you were trying to stir up shit.” Holding my stare, he lifts one shoulder but doesn’t bother denying it.
My respect for the bastard rises a fraction.
A small fraction, but a fraction, nonetheless.
At least he owns up to it. Being an asshole.
Running my tongue along my upper teeth and under my top lip, I decide it’s best to cut to the chase. “What do you want for it?”
He tilts his head. “You mean for the house?”
I nod.
Clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth, he spreads his arms out wide along the back of the worn flannel couch as if weighing his options.
“Let’s see. What do I want? I dunno, Jag Off.
” He looks around the weathered house. “I kind of like this place. Slap a bit of paint on it, and it could be a real looker. Kind of like your girlfriend.”
I hold on to my indifference, determined to keep a smokescreen over my emotions. Yeah, motherfucker. I know what you’re trying to do, and I’m not taking the bait.
“Speaking of your girlfriend,” he continues, “If you’re worried about her not having a home to go to, I already gave her a key. I’d be more than happy to—”
“We’re discussing the house.”
“Right.” He snaps his fingers and yells, “Pete! Get me and my guest a drink.”
“Not thirsty,” I tell him, but Pete—or at least, I assume this asshole is Pete—rushes in from the kitchen with two beers in hand.
Ethan takes one and twists off the cap, tossing it on to the ground like it’s his own personal garbage can.
After taking a long pull of the alcohol, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
“All right, then. So, the house. Like I said, I’m a fan of the place.
And I earned it fair and square. And, since you aren’t interested in discussing it’s connection with the girl you’re fucking, I don’t see what else there is to talk about. ”
The girl I’m fucking? My molars grind, but I force my jaw to relax. “What do you want for it?” I demand. “Money?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “Call me a sentimental prick, but seeing the look on your face when I opened the door is even better than money.”
“Surprised you can see at all with your swollen eye.”
His mouth lifts. “It’ll be fine by morning.”
Morning, my ass.
“I’ll give you a hundred grand,” I offer. “That’s five times what it’s worth and almost ten times what Virgil owed you.”
“You talked to Virgil, huh?” Morgan’s attention slides to my busted up knuckles. “He look worse than me?”
“Depends on the lighting,” I volley. And it’s the truth.
I don’t often lose control, and even last night, it only lasted a few hits before I came back and got a grip on myself, but still.
By the time Roman scraped him up off my floor and drove him to the bus station, he was nothing but a worthless sack of flesh with a price on his head if he’s ever stupid enough to come back to town.
“So, what do you say?” I shove aside the memory of Virgil’s mangled face.
“Hundred grand, and you pack up your shit and go.”
Take it. Take the offer.
Morgan takes another sip of his drink, eyeing me over the bottle.
Again, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his stare never wavering.
I’m not stupid. It’s a bartering tactic.
He wants to make me wait for it. To make me sweat.
To see if I’ll up my offer. Being on this side of shit?
He’s lucky I came here at all. “It’s a good deal, Jag Off,” he finally concedes.
“It really is. But the thing is, the location’s right next to my baby sister’s place, and I’m an overprotective sonofabitch, you know what I mean?
” He chuckles. “I like keeping an eye on her. Making sure she’s safe and looked after. I’m sure you understand.”
I know what he’s doing. The way he’s dangling this shithole like it’s a carrot in front of a horse.
He knows he has all the cards, and I’m being forced to play his game despite my hands being tied.
If it were any other situation, I’d walk away with a middle finger pointed in Ethan’s direction, and maybe some bloodied knuckles to go with it after teaching the bastard another lesson.
But it isn’t an option right now. Not if I want to get Violet’s childhood home back.
So, how the hell should I play this?
“Cut the bullshit, Morgan,” I tell him. My expression and tone are as cool as a fucking cucumber. “Tell me what you want for it, or tell me you aren’t interested and I walk out the door.”
“Fine.” Shifting forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. “I want a rematch.”