Page 14 of Leather & Lies

He doesn’t respond, just tightens his grip on my hip and hands over his black card.

When we leave, I catch our reflection in the store window—Jackson’s hand on my back, my new boots in multiple bags, his expression both satisfied and watchful. Like a man who’d just marked his territory.

Emma’s Dinerstands frozen in time—same cracked vinyl booths cradling generations of gossip, same coffee-stained menus, same constellation of townspeople who’ve watched me grow from pigtails to spurs. But walking in with Jackson’s hand at my lower back transforms the familiar landscape. Conversations fracture mid-sentence. Gazes dart away like startled prey recognizing an apex predator in their midst.

No one wants to catch the attention of the monster who’s accompanying me.

“Corner booth.” Jackson guides me with that subtle pressure I am learning to read. Not quite pushing but brooking no argument. The same way he controls his horses, his empire, his world.

Me.

The vinyl protests as he slides beside me rather than across—a deliberate choice that keeps our bodies connected from shoulder to ankle. His thigh presses against mine, his arm drapes across the booth behind me in a gesture calculated to appear casual but lands like a branded claim. A visible warning to everyone watching—approach at your own peril.

Emma herself brings coffee without being asked. Her hands shake slightly as she pours, but her smile for me is genuine.She’d slip me free pie every time Daddy was too drunk to cook dinner.

“The usual, honey?” she asks me, carefully not looking at Jackson.

His hand settles on my thigh under the table. Not squeezing. Just reminding me of his earlier instructions about who does the talking. I opened my mouth to order, when he spoke.

“She’ll have the country fried steak.” His voice carries that quiet authority that parts crowds and topples empires. “Extra gravy on the side. Mashed potatoes. And a Coke.” His fingers reward my silence with a gentle squeeze. “I’ll have the same. We share more than you might think.”

My favorite dish. The same way I’ve been ordering it my whole adult life because it reminds me of meals around the heavy wooden table in the ranch kitchen with Mrs. Harrison and my mother.

How does he know? How does he know everything? He knows what I eat, what size my clothes are, how I take my coffee. And he makes sure I have it. Suddenly, I can’t breathe, suffocating with the weight of his control.

“Let me out,” I gasp, needing space.

Jackson’s hand tightens fractionally on my thigh before he stands, allowing me to slide out of the booth.

“Restroom,” I say without even looking at him, fighting to keep my breath steady. I just need some fucking air!

The corners of Jackson’s eyes soften. No, he can’t be worried about me. This monstrous man who takes and takes and takes doesn’t have the emotional depth for worry. His eyes track my movement across the diner, a predatory focus that makes my skin prickle, that makes me desperate to escape his grasp for even a moment.

I shove into the restroom, my chest heaving like I’ve run a fucking marathon.

Yet the stranger in the restroom mirror looks radiant. Confident. Glowing with a vitality I barely recognize. I splash cool water on feverish skin, transfixed by how the broke girl who once shared secret pie with Emma has transformed into a woman capable of capturing not just Jackson Hawkins’ attention—but his obsession.

He’s made no secret of his madness, that he wants to own every single part of me. And I hate that every single day I’m under his control, it bothers me a little bit less. I guess the most dangerous thing about gilded cages is how quickly you can forget they’re still prisons.

When I open the door, ready to face the world again, one of my dad’s old poker buddies stands waiting—Matthew Walsh.

“Well, if it isn’t Little Foster.” His smile hasn’t changed—sharp and hungry in a way that has nothing to do with cards. “All grown up and playing with the big boys now.”

“Excuse me.” I keep my voice steady, channeling the calm I use with nervous horses.

“You know, I was just thinking about your daddy the other day.” He doesn’t move. “About old promises. Old debts.” His smile widens slightly. “Collecting on those debts.”

Goddamn, a woman couldn’t catch a break. I didn’t stop to analyze why I was willing to let Jackson collect on the debt but not Walsh. “You’ll have to take that up with Daddy,” I murmured.

Walsh snapped out a hand and grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging into the flesh so hard, I knew I’d bruise.

“Daddy’s dead, but you’re not.”

The temperature in the hallway drops ten degrees. I don’t have to turn to know Jackson stands in the doorway leading back to the diner, his presence a tangible force.

Walsh’s smile never wavers, but he removes his hand from my arm, deliberately, as if to show he’s not afraid.

“Hawkins,” Walsh says, tipping his head. “Just saying hello to Rick’s girl.” He steps aside warily. “No harm intended.”

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