Page 62 of Saving the Last Heir
Turning, I spotted Juan’s niece. She ran the palace when he was out of town. Where Juan was an easygoing guy who let stuff play out, she was more of a hard-ass who’d call the cops at the drop of a hat.
“Stop your shit,” she said, but neither Jackson nor Dusty paid her any attention, their eyes locked on each other.
Dusty popped his knuckles and made a show of shaking his arms out, like some kind of professional fighter.
He raised a hand and pointed at Jackson. “I’m a black belt in jujitsu. County champion last year. Last chance. You sure you want this smoke?”
Jackson stared back, arms relaxed at his sides, face placid, almost bored. “If this is how you act, then you get what you deserve,” he said, and something about the confident and calm way he said that filled me with a weird sense of pride.Thiswas whoIwas with, and it was exciting in a way I couldn’t reallydescribe. The power and self-assured way with which he gazed back at Dusty told me all I needed to know. Jackson was not worried.
I saw drunken brawls over women as something silly and pointless boys did when they weren’t mature enough to talk things out. For some reason, though, this was different. Maybe because I was the one being defended, or maybe it had unlocked some weird primal part of my mind that actuallyenjoyedthis. The feminist inside me raged against that idea, but the rest of me? I hated to admit it, but it was kind of hot.
Dusty’s face went red with rage. “I’m gonna enjoy breaking your ass,” he said as he rushed Jackson.
Jackson looked bored in the seconds it took Dusty to run toward him. I almost shouted at him to watch out, but at the last moment, Jackson moved aside, and as Dusty went past, his fist connected with Dusty’s jaw. Blood flew from Dusty’s mouth, and his run turned into a shambling stumble. He fell forward on a table, sending beer mugs and plates flying into the air, crashing down to shatter on the floor in a shower of glass, beer, tortillas, and meat. All of it rained down upon Dusty in a splash.
For a few seconds, Dusty lay there, immobile as if he’d been knocked out, but before I had the chance to move forward and see if he was awake, a slow stream of curse words came from his lips.
“Cock-sucking piece of shit. Motherfucker thinks he’s smart for sucker-punching me?”
Dusty rolled over, his shirt and pants soaked with beer, and a huge green glob of guacamole smeared the left side of his face.
“Dusty, it’s over,” I said. “Let’s be done, okay?”
“Shut the fuck up,” he snarled, levelling a finger at me.
With slow deliberate ease, Jackson moved to the side, positioning himself between Dusty and me.
“I gave you a chance,” Jackson said. “If you leave now, this doesn’t have to get any worse for you. Understand?”
It had to be the nonchalant way he said the words, the almost lackluster tone to his voice, that sent a wave of fear cascading across Dusty’s face. Even the cockiest men still got anxious during a fight. Jackson, though, looked as if he was waiting in line at the grocery store.
The unease on Dusty’s face looked even more ridiculous with the nasty green blob on his cheek.
“All right then.” Dusty gritted his teeth and steeled himself by clenching his fists and holding them up. “If you want to go home in an ambulance, that’s on you. No more playing nice.”
“Dusty,” I said, “Stop. Please.”
“It’s okay, Shyanne,” Jackson said. “He’s had plenty of chances. Let’s end this.”
“That’s right, motherfucker,” Dusty said.
He moved toward Jackson, much more carefully than the last time. I backed away, joining the circle the crowd had already made.
Dusty kept his fists up, guarding his face like a boxer. Jackson remained rooted in spot, watching his approach. When Dusty was a few feet away, he twisted his hips and jabbed with his right hand. Quick as a snake, Jackson slapped the fist away. Dusty’seyes widened slightly, and he grunted in anger. He swiped his wrist across his face to wipe away the guacamole.
Half a second later, Dusty’s right foot slammed up, trying to kick Jackson in the balls, but Jackson pivoted and lifted his knee, blocking the kick. Dusty’s foot banged into his shin. Jackson didn’t flinch, but Dusty let out a short sharp cry of pain before pulling his foot back. He winced, favoring the foot as he readjusted his stance.
Fear and anger must have driven Dusty to try what he did next. First, he feinted another punch, and when Jackson went to block that, he swung his leg up to try and kick Jackson in the side of the head. That surreal shifter reaction time revealed itself again, and he swung an elbow up to catch Dusty’s leg. He struck at the calf, sending Dusty stumbling off balance. While he tried to regain his footing, Dusty never saw Jackson move forward, smooth and flowing like water. He landed an uppercut into Dusty’s jaw.
Teeth clacking together, Dusty’s head snapped back, and he spun in place, eyes already glazed and unseeing. He was knocked out before he even began to fall. His heavy body crashed intoanothertable, more food and beer splattering his body as he came to rest on the ground.
Jackson shook his head at the prone form face-down in a puddle of salsa. He glanced at me. “I’m sorry about this.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said, and before I could think or stop myself, I rushed forward and kissed him.
He froze for a moment, then wrapped his arms around me, a hungry grip as he opened his lips, and slid his tongue into mymouth. I let out a sigh of contentment and pressed myself into him, ignoring the laughter and hoots of the crowd around us.
“I hope you know I called the cops!” the bar manager shouted.
