Jacked Read online

  Jacked

  CHANCE CARTER

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chance Enhanced!

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Chance Enhanced!

  Lieutenant Commander Stud

  Claiming His Virgin

  Room Service

  Free Story Offer!

  JACKED

  CHANCE CARTER

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  Copyright © 2017 Chance Carter

  ISBN: 978-1-77382-005-7

  Chapter 1

  Jack

  I didn't understand why they were so excited already. My opponent hadn't even arrived yet, so there was nothing to see and nothing to cheer for, but that didn’t stop the crowd of rednecks and bikers from filling the air with their jubilation.

  From the jeers and hoots that reached me from across the parking lot, I surmised that the guy I would be laying out today was a fan favorite. That suited me just fine. Being the underdog was a hell of a lot easier than he would find out disappointing his fans was. Since I didn't have any fans, I didn't have anyone to disappoint but myself. It worked out better that way.

  The smoke curled lazily from my lips for a fraction of a second before I sucked it in, allowing it to coat my lungs with ash. The bricks of the bar's back wall were rough on my skin, even through the thin layer of my t-shirt. It was a hot night, and sweat prickled on my brow. If anybody noticed, they probably thought it was fear.

  I didn't give a fuck what they thought.

  I wasn't here to win the twisted adoration of a few small-town hicks or to fuel their blood lust either. I wasn't here because I liked the feeling of bruised knuckles and a battered skull. I wasn't even here because of the anger issues I undoubtedly carried in the black part of my soul. I was here for one reason and one reason only. The prize.

  I only ever showed up for the prize.

  The crowd behind the bar had swelled a little by the time I finished my cigarette, at least twenty guys stood around a pickup truck that had seen better days, joking with the fight’s organizer as he took bets and made predictions.

  I resisted the urge to light up another smoke. The next one was my victory cigarette, and that was as sacred a ritual as any other I knew. It could be my cigarette of defeat too, but I already knew I had nothing to worry about. These guys were all too cocky, too eager. The fighter they'd lined me up against obviously hadn't met proper competition before, and those were always the easiest to take down. I'd been doing this for years and the defeats stuck out in my memory vividly—none of them started like this. No, if I was going to get beat, it was going to come out of the blue and surprise me.

  Someone broke through the crowd and approached me, a stubby looking fucker who hadn't lost the gleam of greed in his eyes since Roddy first introduced me to him a couple weeks ago. He was both the owner of the rusted old pickup and tonight's organizer, and no doubt he soon hoped to win big on the lottery of brute strength. Roddy, who ran interference between me and all the guys who wanted to see me taken down, had warned me to be careful with this one. Clarence Stillwater was as cocky about his fighter as he was ugly, and that said something.

  He stopped in front of me, pulling the brim of his baseball cap lower over his wrinkled forehead. "What's your name again, kid?"

  I sucked my teeth and gave him a once over before answering. "Jack."

  "Just Jack? You don't got a fighter name?"

  I nodded. "Just Jack."

  "You're still game?"

  "There still a prize of two grand for the winner?"

  His thin lips split into a crooked, almost jagged smile. This guy was missing quite a few teeth, enough to make me wonder if he'd ever gotten into the ring himself.

  "Yeah, the prize is the same."

  I shrugged. "Then I'm still game."

  He paused a beat, eyes narrowed on me like I was a pest in need of squashing. "You're not a man of many words, are you?"

  "Not when there isn't anything more that needs saying. I'm sure I'll express myself well and good when your fighter shows up."

  "He's coming," Clarence assured. "I wouldn't get too eager though. There's no prize for losing."

  I cocked a wicked grin. "Then I guess I better not lose."

  An obnoxious, lifted pickup growled into the parking lot, filling up three stalls as it parked haphazardly. Clarence immediately turned from me with a wink and started walking over to it, greeting the giant of a man who stepped out with a friendly clap on the back.

  I didn't blame them for thinking this guy was gonna beat me to smithereens. He was the obvious choice—huge, corded with muscles, and he looked as mean as a pit bull. He had a few inches on me and his hands looked perfectly sized to crush my skull. Hell, I would have bet against me if I hadn't met me before. It was a mistake I doubted any of these rednecks would be making twice.

  "You ready, Just Jack?" called Clarence in a sneering tone.

  My lips curved into a smile and I nodded, stepping away from the wall and walking into the clearing the assembled crowd had formed just for me and this ogre.

  "Alright folks," Clarence said, silencing the excited chatter. "Here we got Just Jack, hailing from Bell Springs, going head to head with Angry Angus, Jackson's very own. You've got two more minutes to place your bets before the excitement begins."

  Angry Angus took his place across from me in the "ring", and was obviously trying to mean mug me into shitting my pants. I was much more interested in trying to figure out who was betting on me. Just because I was used to being underestimated didn't mean I had no ego to speak of. These days, people who knew what they were doing when it came to arranging these sorts of fights knew that I wasn't the kind of guy you should fuck with, and I was beginning to wonder if maybe Clarence did know what he was doing after all. He was about to make one hell of a killing on bets.

  Clarence ended the betting and called out the rules—which were basically just that there were no rules. And then it was time to dance.

  Angry Angus came at me fists first, brain last. They always did. People who'd heard my reputation thought I was a good fighter because I was the toughest, which made it easy for them to think I would lose against the toughest guy they knew—who undoubtedly had to be way tougher than me. What most people didn't pick up on was that I was just the smartest fighter. And I had a high pain tolerance to go with that.

  Angus got a few hits in right away, one right hook to the face that damn near shattered my cheekbone. The guy had a strong arm, I'd give him that, but while he was focusing on getting his knuckles in line with my face, I was focusing on his footwork and movement. Before he threw a cross, he always wound up clumsily and left the right side of his face unprotected. He threw his whole body weight into his jabs and often stumbled inst
ead of stepping through to distribute the force. And he wouldn't know what a guard was if it hit him in the face.

  I jumped back from the fray after the first few hits, swirling the coppery taste of my blood between my teeth before spitting it onto the ground. Angus was smirking, hamming it up for the crowd as they roared their approval. He lifted his hands to urge their applause to reach a crescendo like he thought he was some sort of fucking Roman gladiator. Idiot.

  I approached him with my hands up, peering up at him from behind my closed fists. He reeled back for a cross and I sidestepped to the left, boxing him in the side of the head before quickly moving out of the way of the defensive punch he tried to counter with. He missed. I swept low and came up with an uppercut to the gut, which in his defense barely seemed to wind the colossus. He managed to slam a hit against my shoulder as I pulled back, but it wasn't nearly as powerful as his first few had been.

  I could have danced around him for ages and tired him out easily, but in my experience the only thing that ever achieved was pissing off the crowd, so instead I struck out again and again with blows meant to stun more than harm. He reeled around in a circle trying to follow my movements, and I stopped long enough and at just the right distance to entice him into a jab. He was so frustrated by this point that he held back less than usual, lurching forward as I ducked his punch at the last second. His momentum made the fist I sent under his jaw even more powerful, and his teeth slammed together with an almighty crack.

  The giant stumbled forward. The giant stumbled back. He turned in a half circle, eyes searching and blinking. And then, with all the drama of a great iceberg crashing into the sea, Angry Angus collided with the pavement.

  The cheers stopped. Everything stopped. For a moment, the only thing I could hear was the muffled twanging country music coming from inside the bar, and it was like time had frozen solid right at the moment of my victory.

  Then, the whispers began.

  It made sense that this crowd of buffoons, who had been so vocal about seeing me smashed out against the concrete, would lose their voices the moment they realized they'd been wrong. Now they tried to make sense of what had just happened in quiet tones, like if they didn't address it out loud they wouldn't have to accept the consequences. Tonight's consequences being, of course, that they'd just lost a ton of money and worse, now had to acknowledge that the biggest guy in their town still wasn't tough enough to beat up some random stranger most of them had jeered at for being too pretty to fight. Idiots.

  The only person I felt a little bad for was Angry Angus, since he was probably real proud of that moniker and would now be facing an existential crisis. Was he just not angry enough? Was that it? Should he change his name to Slightly Irate Angus? A Little Bit Irritated Angus?

  As I mused on these thoughts, wiping the blood from the corner of my mouth, Clarence grabbed my arm and pulled me back over to the brick wall as the men started trying to rouse their Goliath.

  "Here, kid." He stuffed a handful of bills into my palm. "I'd suggest getting out of here before Angry Angus gets up again."

  I laughed and unfolded the money, counting it. "I don't think Angry Angus is going to be getting up anytime soon," I said. "Not if he knows what's good for him."

  Clarence was not amused. There was a sense of urgency in his eyes, which had gone all shifty and kept darting back to the disheartened crowd.

  "You're awfully cocky, just like Roddy said you would be."

  "It comes with the territory." I finished counting and nodded at him. "Alright, get out of here before these hillbillies realize you fleeced them."

  Clarence's eyes bulged. "I did not."

  "Sure you didn't. But I bet me being cocky isn't all Roddy told you." I grabbed a smoke from the pack in my pocket and tapped it between my fingers. "Now go on."

  Clarence didn't argue any further. He and his winnings were out of the parking lot before I'd even had a chance to light up.

  I shoved the cash in my pocket and grabbed my lighter, flicking the mechanism as I started ambling back in the direction of the main street. My plans for the night included a cold beer and a warm woman, and it didn't look like I was welcome to either of those here. Just as well. I didn't much feel like having any of these guys glare daggers at me all night.

  The road was quiet, almost desolate. Even so, I wasn't worried. I wasn't even worried when I heard the sound of footsteps fall into step somewhere behind mine.

  I should have been.

  Chapter 2

  Melissa

  It was a discomforting combination, being both gawked at by people when they thought I wasn't looking while also not being able to meet my eye. About an hour into my shift I was ready to yell at somebody, but I kept my feelings to myself for once. There was nothing to be accomplished by snapping at one of the Alibi's patrons, just in the same way there was nothing to be accomplished by trying to cover the bruise around my eye up with make-up. It wouldn't change anything, and it certainly wouldn't make people look at me less.

  I kept pouring out beers, trying not to let everyone's obvious curiosity irk me too much. Not one of them had had the balls to ask me about the black eye yet, and I doubted any of them would. Not the patrons, anyway. Not most of the staff, either. I expect they all had their own suspicions, most of which were probably right, and I would have been quite happy to keep pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary if they weren't all so fucking bad at it.

  Naomi Smith ended up being the only one who stepped up to the plate and asked, even though she was the least likely to spread the gossip out of all of them.

  "What the hell happened to your face, honey?" She stood at the stretch of bar we kept free for the servers to pick up their drinks, one hand on her hip while the painted black fingernails of her other hand drummed on the empty serving tray.

  I didn't bother lying. Naomi would see right through it, the same way she saw through every lie I told.

  "Donnie and I had a fight," I said simply. "It's fine."

  Naomi didn't flinch. She had more tattoos than most people had sense and hadn't stayed at the Alibi so long just because the tips were good.

  "Did you get him back?"

  I snorted. My boyfriend, Donnie, was about twice my size and as mean as a rattlesnake when he was drunk. Much as I would have liked to have gone after him with a rolling pin the second he hit me, I was smarter than that. I knew that as soon as he sobered up, cooler heads would prevail.

  "He was drunk," I said, skirting her question. "It's the first time he's done it and mark my words it will be the last time."

  Her chestnut eyes narrowed on me judiciously. "Baby, that's what they all say. I know that he's...well, Donnie Berland, but that doesn't mean you gotta take shit from him."

  "I don't take shit from anyone, Naomi." I slammed down the two beers I'd been pulling for her, the foam sloshing over onto the tray. I hadn't meant to put them down so forcefully.

  "There's a shiner just below your eyebrow that says otherwise," she snapped back.

  "Look, I don't want to talk about it."

  She lingered a second longer, probably debating making a scene just to prove her point. I didn't blame her. She had two girls at home and was fiercely defensive of them, and somehow since I started working here two years ago that protectiveness had transferred to me too. She was a mamma bear and I was just another one of her cubs, even though I was only six years younger than her twenty-eight and had proven on more than one occasion that I could handle myself. I wouldn't have lasted this long at the Alibi if I couldn't, despite what anybody else might think.

  "Naomi! We gettin' those drinks over here or what?" Naomi's customer hollered from the other side of the room.

  She let out an irritated sigh and picked up the tray, shooting me a look that made it clear our conversation was far from over before she turned and yelled a reply. "Keep your pants on, Duncan. It's other people who have to drink for you to become more attractive, not the other way 'round."

  The
bar burst into laughter and I let out a breath. I'd barely convinced myself that Donnie and I's scrap was water under the bridge. How the hell was I supposed to convince her?

  "Hey, bartender," a gruff voice called.

  I turned to face the grizzled man who'd just sat down, taking in his stained plaid shirt and the sheen of sweat on his bald forehead. "How about you get that tight ass over here and pour me a drink?"

  Oh, so not the right night to talk about my ass.

  I put on my sweetest smile, the one that I seemed to pull out exclusively for situations like these, and sashayed down the length of the bar. A lecherous smile crept up his fat mouth, and his bloodshot eyes shot straight to the cleavage of my white v-neck. This guy was a trucker through and through, and the locals around him quieted as I approached so they wouldn't miss a second of what was about to happen.

  "You wanted a drink, sugar?" I asked, batting my lashes.

  Neil Buckins, a regular and a sweet old man to boot, chuckled from beside the trucker, who remained unconcerned.

  "Depends on what else is on the menu," the trucker said, exposing a gap-toothed smile.

  He was reading the wrong signals from my beatific expression. Idiot.

  "Hmm..." I said, letting my fingers stroke over one of the taps as I considered his proposal. He licked his lips and watched. "We've only got simple fare here at the Alibi. Burgers, fries, that sort of thing. But I'll tell you a secret." I crooked my finger, urging him to lean in closer.

  He did, nearly panting like a dog. I imagined his dick was probably about to explode out of his pants, the creep.

  The trucker leaned in, and I scooped up a cup of half-melted ice from the sink just out of his view.

  "Here's the secret," I said, biting my lip flirtatiously. "Are you ready?"

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  "You can't order any of it unless you speak with a little respect," I snarled, upending the glass over his head. “Asshole.”

  He screeched in alarm and nearly fell backward from the stool, frantically brushing the ice off of him and trying to retrieve the cubes that had made their way down his shirt.