2. Jackson
JACKSON
Over the past month, I've turned Lou's Diner into my personal war zone.
Three weapons deals, two weeks, one infuriating waitress who refuses to back down.
Tonight marks deal number five of the month, and I catch myself adjusting my cuffs, having shucked my jacket and tie in favor of a more casual look in my dress shirt and pants, before walking in.
Aliyah's at the counter, dark hair swept up in an intricate style that shouldn't work with a cheap polyester uniform. Her head snaps up at the bell, those gold-flecked eyes narrowing when she spots me.
"Your table's ready, Jackson." Her voice drips honey-coated venom. I flash her a smirk, loving the way that she says my name - one I never gave her. I blame Blade. "Though I must say, your sudden loyalty to our establishment is... touching."
I slide into my usual booth, noting how she follows with the coffee pot like it's a weapon. "What can I say? The service is memorable."
"Funny." She fills my cup with precise movements. "I'd have thought you'd run out of 'business associates' to meet by now. Or are you just cycling through them again?"
"Careful, sweetheart." I lean back, watching her jaw clench at the endearment. "Someone might think you're keeping tabs on me."
"Please." She sets the pot down with controlled force. "I just happen to notice when dangerous men darken my doorway. Professional hazard."
Each visit, she's found new ways to push back. Last week, she "accidentally" spilled water in my lap. The week before, she served my coffee cold enough to qualify as iced. Small rebellions, perfectly calculated to stay just this side of firing offense. Not that I'd push it that far.
"Your doorway?" My eyebrow raises. "Didn't realize you owned the place."
"My section, my rules." She taps her pen against her order pad. "Speaking of which, cook's out tonight so you have a sandwich or salad. No burger. No fries."
It's a lie - I can see the cook through the window. She just wants to piss me off. I think she likes seeing me get riled.
"That won't work for me."
"Neither does your continued presence here, yet somehow we're both managing." Her smile could cut glass. "Sandwich or salad, Jackson. Your choice."
I stand, using my height to loom over her. Most people step back. Aliyah just tilts her chin up, defiance written in every line of her body.
"You really want to play this game?" I growl.
"Game?" She steps closer, close enough I catch that maddening jasmine scent. I finally figured out what it was and it's only made me crazier. "I'm just doing my job. You're the one who keeps coming back for more."
The worst part is, she's right. I tell myself it's about maintaining control, about not letting some waitress dictate where I conduct business. But the truth burns in my gut - I come back to see that fire in her eyes, to feel the sharp edge of her words against my skin.
The door chimes and my contact walks in - some low-level grunt who thinks wearing sunglasses at night makes him look important. I gesture him over, keeping my attention split between him and Aliyah, who's been circling our table like a shark.
"Water?" She appears before the guy can even sit, pitcher balanced in those delicate hands.
"Just coffee." I cut in, but she's already pouring, the water arcing suspiciously close to my sleeve.
"My mistake." Her eyes meet mine, a challenge burning in those gold flecks. "Let me get that coffee for you."
The grunt starts talking numbers, but I'm tracking Aliyah's movements, the way she weaves between tables with calculated grace. When she returns, there's a dangerous tilt to her smile.
"Here's your-" The pitcher in her hand tips as she sets the cup down, ice-cold water cascading down my chest and into my lap. My suit pants soaks through instantly. "Oh no, how clumsy of me."
I'm on my feet before the last drop falls. The grunt scrambles back, but Aliyah doesn't move an inch.
"That was no accident." I grip her wrist, yanking her closer. "You really want to test me?"
"Remove your hand," she hisses, "or the next thing I spill will be scalding."
"You think these little games scare me?" My fingers tighten, feeling her pulse race beneath my grip. "I've killed men for less."
"Then why am I still breathing?" She twists in my hold, bringing us chest to chest. "Go ahead, Jackson. Show everyone what kind of monster you really are."
My jaw works as my brain short circuits being this close. The diner's gone silent, watching us, but all I can focus on is the way her chest heaves against mine, the electricity crackling between us.
"You have no idea what kind of monster I am." I release her wrist, but she doesn't step back. "Keep pushing, and you'll find out."
"Promise?" The word drips from her lips like poison honey, and for a moment I imagine tasting it straight from her mouth.
We stand there, breathing hard, the air thick with something that feels dangerously close to desire. Her eyes drop to my mouth before snapping back up, that familiar fire blazing even brighter.
"Promise." The word comes out as a growl.
"Can't wait." She steps back, smoothing her uniform with deliberate precision. "I'll get you some towels for that... mess." The words drip with satisfaction before she spins away, hips swaying like she hasn't just declared war.
I drop back into my seat, ignoring the wet fabric clinging to my skin. The grunt across from me shifts uncomfortably, but I silence him with a look. My attention's locked on Aliyah as she works the room.
She doesn't even get me any fucking towels. Instead, she floats around the room, acting like a damn angel when she's the fucking devil in disguise.
Table six - she laughs at some old man's joke, the sound genuine and warm.
Nothing like the razor-edged comments she saves for me.
The businessman at the counter gets a bright smile as she tops off his coffee, her movements fluid and graceful.
Even the rowdy group of college kids settle under her charm, their orders delivered with playful banter.
But when she passes my table? Those honey-brown eyes turn to steel, that easy smile sharpening into something dangerous. She's playing a game with two faces - sweet, attentive waitress for them, venomous adversary for me.
My jaw clenches as she delivers pie to a young couple, her face lighting up at their shared excitement. The contrast burns in my chest. That softness, that warmth - she deliberately withholds it, wielding her hostility like a weapon meant just for me.
"Your towels." She drops what I think she fished out of the fucking dirty laundry on the table without looking at me, already turning to beam at a family entering the diner. "Welcome to Lou's!" Her voice carries that genuine warmth that never touches her words to me.
The grunt's talking numbers again, but I barely hear him. I'm too focused on the way she moves through the diner like she owns it, dealing out smiles and kindness to everyone but me. Each genuine laugh, each gentle touch she gives others feeds something dark and possessive in my chest.
It shouldn't matter. Her hostility should be amusing at best, irrelevant at worst. Instead, watching her light up for others while reserving her venom for me stokes a fire I can't explain.
Makes me want to grab her, shake her, demand she show me the same face she shows them - or better yet, make her mask crack completely.
I shouldn't want a damn thing from her. Instead, I want her words, her venom, and her smile. I want to break that careful facade she's got and make her show me who she really is.
The grunt shifts in his seat, eyes following Aliyah as she glides past our table. "That waitress is something else. Think she'd be interested in-"
My hand slams down, rattling the coffee cups. "You're here to talk business. Focus on that or leave."
"Just saying." He holds up his hands, but his gaze drifts back to her. "A girl like that-"
I lean forward, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Look at her again and I'll carve your eyes out."
The color drains from his face. Smart man. He mumbles something about checking numbers and scrambles out of the booth, nearly tripping over his own feet.
I watch him flee, my knuckles white around my coffee cup. The violence of my reaction surprises even me. The urge to break his jaw for merely looking at her burns through my veins.
The rest of the day, I can't shake it. I pace my office, replaying the scene. The way his eyes traced her curves. The possessive rage that exploded in my chest.
This isn't me. I don't lose control. I don't let emotions cloud judgment. Yet here I am, ready to murder over a waitress who's made it her mission to antagonize me.
I loosen my tie, still damp from her little water show.
The memory of her pressed against me, all fire and defiance, sends heat coursing through my body.
No woman's ever dared challenge me like she does.
They see the darkness and run. But Aliyah?
She stares straight into the abyss and spits in its face.
My phone buzzes - another business associate wanting to meet at Lou's. I should find a new location. Should stop putting myself in her crosshairs. Instead, I confirm the meeting, already anticipating tomorrow's battle.
I tell myself it's about control. About not letting her win. But the truth claws at my chest - I'm addicted to her fury. To the way she saves her sharpest edges just for me. To knowing I'm the only one who gets to see the real her, even if it's wrapped in hostility. And I want more.
That's how I find myself taking the wrong route that night as I grip the steering wheel. Pure habit - that's what I tell myself as I cruise past Lou's Diner at 10 PM. The neon sign flickers against rain-slicked streets, casting intermittent shadows across the nearly empty parking lot.
Movement catches my eye. Aliyah emerges from the side door, and I ease off the gas. Gone is the stiff-backed warrior who faced me down hours ago. Her shoulders relax, head tilted back as she breathes in the night air. She's traded that polyester uniform for dark jeans and a fitted leather jacket.
I kill my headlights, sliding deeper into shadow.
She walks with fluid grace toward her car, hips swaying to some rhythm only she can hear.
Her fingers trail through her now-loose hair, dark strands falling past her shoulders.
Without the elaborate updo, without the sharp smile and sharper tongue, she looks... softer. Younger.
But not vulnerable. Never that. Even alone, she moves with predatory awareness. Keys held between her knuckles. No headphones or on her phone. She walks the fine line between confidence and caution, like a dancer on a knife's edge.
She reaches her car - a sleek black Lexus that raises questions about a waitress's salary. Her fingers brush the door handle, then pause. For a moment, she stands completely still, head cocked like she's listening. My muscles tense, wondering if she's sensed me.
Then she laughs - a real laugh, nothing like the calculated sounds she uses in the diner. It's low and rich and does something dangerous to my chest. She shakes her head at some private joke, slides into her car, and disappears into the night.
I sit there longer than I should, replaying that laugh. Wondering what made her smile when she thought no one was watching. Wondering what other secrets she keeps behind that warrior's mask.
The truth hits like a bullet to the chest - I want to know them all. Every layer, every facade, every real laugh she's never let me hear. The realization burns worse than any wound.