“Right. How’ve you been, Crissy?” he asked politely.
“Can’t complain. Bobby and I tied the knot—you remember Bobby, don’t cha? He played for the Steers, same as you. Anyway, we tied the knot, happily married for four years now.”
“I’m glad to hear it, darlin’.”
“You look good, Jackson. Real good. I’m feeling a lil’ tongue-tied lookin’ at you.”
Crissy’s big smirk annoyed the shit out of him. So did the way she’d used the word “tied” three times in less than a minute.
Not as subtle as you think, Miss Crissy.
Jackson smothered his irritation as he responded with, “You’re lookin’ good too. Bobby’s a lucky man.”
“Damn right.” The brunette glanced around the booth. “What can I get you folks? A cold Bud for Shane, Long Island iced tea for Tiffy—I already know that. What else?”
Jackson and Mia both ordered Bud Lights, and then Crissy flounced off, leaving the foursome to their nervous small talk.
He ought to put an end to this nonsense, Jackson knew that. He needed to look Shane in the eye and demand that his brother apologize for what he’d done, but before he could, another unwanted visitor dropped by their booth.
“Jackson Ramsey!” The bulky man who’d approached was a former classmate of Jackson’s, who’d gone by the nickname Rocky back in the day.
“Rocky, good to see you,” he said guardedly.
“Don’t go by Rocky anymore, man—it’s just Stuart now. But then you’d know that if you came home more often.” Stuart’s dark eyes gleamed. “But I s’pose you’re too busy havin’ a ton of kinky sex over in Cali.”
Jackson set his jaw and refused to take the bait. “Naah, I’m busy savin’ the world.”
“Yeah, I heard you were some kind of SEAL,” Stuart retorted, sounding unimpressed. “Bet that really gets the chickies goin’. Prolly makes it easier to get ’em to agree to all that bondage shit you’re into.”
“Stuart,” Shane said with a note of warning.
“What? I’m just messin’ around. He knows that, right, Jackson?”
He grunted in response, his hands tingling with the urge to clock the son of a bitch.
Fortunately, Rocky AKA Stuart didn’t stick around. The beefy man stumbled away when somebody called out his name, much to Jackson’s relief.
When Crissy returned with their drinks a moment later, Jackson immediately reached for his beer and chugged half of it straight away.
“Shit, I’m sorry about that.”
Shane’s gruff words surprised the heck out of him. “No biggie,” Jackson mumbled.
“Maybe we should just go,” Tiffany said timidly, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “Everyone keeps starin’ at us.”
Mia, who hadn’t said a thing during the last five minutes, suddenly let out a snort. “And why do you think that is, Tiff?”
The blonde shifted on the hard wooden bench, visibly ill at ease. “I don’t like bein’ the center of attention, is all.”
Jackson felt Mia’s body stiffen with disbelief, and he quickly rested his hand on her thigh and gave it a reassuring stroke.
Unfortunately, his attempt at calming her down didn’t work.
“And you think Jackson likes it?” Mia shot back. “Do you realize how humiliating this is for him? Everywhere he goes people look at him like he’s either a sexual deviant or a rapist—you think that’s fun for him?”
“Mia,” he said quietly.
“No,” she burst out. “I can’t stand the way they’re just sitting here, acting like all this shit isn’t their fault.” She glared at the other couple. “Well, guess what, dum-dums, it’s directly your fault.”
Shane and Tiffany recoiled.
“Mia,” Jackson started again.
Her hands trembled as she wrapped them around her beer bottle. “Don’t worry, I’m done,” she muttered.
“Listen, I get what you’re sayin’,” Tiffany told Mia in a wobbly voice. “I messed up, okay? I shouldn’t have lied eight years ago, and Shane shouldn’t have done what he did. But we’ve moved past it. We—”
“Okay, I’m not done,” Mia interrupted in another explosion of incredulity. “You’ve moved past it? Well, golly gee, how wonderful for you, Tiffany. You accused your boyfriend of rape, a lie that led to him getting beaten senseless by his own brother, but life goes on, huh? You just married the other brother and now you’re living happily ever after. Doesn’t matter that Jackson is treated like a pariah by everyone in town, or that he and your husband haven’t spoken in years—as long as you’ve moved past it…well, congratu-fucking-lations, Tiffany.”
Deafening silence crashed over them. Jackson noticed in dismay that half the bar patrons were looking their way, and even though the jukebox belted out an up-tempo Garth Brooks song, a flurry of whispers could be heard over the music.
“I want to go home now.”
Tiffany’s meek voice brought a sigh to Jackson’s lips.