The Marked Men Series Books 1–6: Rule, Jet, Rome, Nash, Rowdy, Asa. Jay Crownover
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heart stopped beating, my lungs felt like they were going to collapse, my skin was suddenly too tight all over my body, and I couldn’t form a rational thought or a coherent sentence. Back then I chalked it up to a silly teenage crush; all the Archer boys were good-looking and had qualities that made them larger than life. Every girl I knew had had the prerequisite infatuation with a bad boy at one time or another. Of course, they normally grew out of it when they realized the bad boy was just an ass and they deserved to be treated better. But as time went on and things changed, my feelings never did even though it was clear they were never going to be returned. Rule only saw me as Remy’s little tagalong; a spoiled little rich girl, and then as we got older, as Remy’s girlfriend. That sucked because I had never been any of those things and as a result I sabotaged relationships, turned down guy after guy simply because I didn’t want a good guy—I wanted the one who was damaged and blind to the way I felt.
I was a good girl. I was loyal and honest and I worked hard and invested a lot of time and energy in building a secure future for myself. I stayed out of trouble and went out of my way to try to be the polished and perfect daughter my parents wanted me to be, and the successful, driven woman the Archers had given me the confidence to be. What I never spent any time being was the person that I actually felt like I was. She was locked somewhere deep inside me, suffocating and still holding on to the hope that Rule would notice she was alive. It was exhausting, and in the vulnerable moments when I was brutally honest with myself, I had to admit I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it up.
CHAPTER 3
Rule
It was a crazy busy week at the shop. I think mostly because we were right in the thick of tax refund time and people had extra money to spend. I was booked with back-to-back appointments all the way through Saturday and even went in on my day off to work on a guy’s sleeve I had started a few months ago. Nash was just as booked as I was. When Saturday night rolled around we were both ready to let loose and tie one on. Sunday morning went about the same as last week, only this time when I walked the girl to her car I didn’t have to worry about Shaw bursting in on a scene I didn’t want her to see. I called Rome to see when he was going to come to town, but apparently things at home weren’t any better after last week so he wasn’t ready to leave Mom on her own yet. I wanted to care, wanted to feel bad for her, but I just couldn’t muster it up.
I was getting ready to crack open a beer and plop in front of the flat-screen to relax and watch the game, when Nash came out of his room pulling on a hoodie and a black ball cap over his shaved head. He was a few inches shorter than me, built a lot stockier, but in all actuality was a hell of a lot better looking. He kept his black hair shaved close to the scalp because he had twin tattoos on the sides of his head. His bright, bright eyes looked more purple than blue and always stood out starkly against his much darker complexion. He didn’t have as much metal in his face as I did, just a hoop through the center of his nose and both ears sporting obsidian gauges. For whatever reason, he kept his hands and neck free of ink, which always made me laugh because of the stuff permanently marked on his head. We were a matched set, so when we went out together it was usually a given we wouldn’t have to come home alone. Nash was a much nicer guy than I was; he just looked several degrees more badass.
“Jet and Rowdy are at the Goal Line watching the game. They wanna hang out if you’re down.”
Rowdy worked at the shop with us and Jet was the lead singer of a local metal band we liked—they rounded out the group that Nash and I traveled in. Going to the bar to watch the game sounded a lot more fun than brooding on the couch by myself, so I put my beer back in the fridge and shoved my feet into my black boots.
Nash drove a fully restored ’73 Dodge Charger. It was a monster of black, chrome, and motor. I was pretty sure everyone in the apartment complex knew whenever we were coming or going because it was just that loud and thunderous, but it was a cool ride. I knew it meant a lot to him because he had done the rebuild mostly by himself. Nash’s background was a little sketchy, but since my own was less than stellar I never really pushed him to talk about it. I knew his dad had died when he was really young and that his mom had remarried some rich asshole who, to this day, Nash refused to have anything to do with. Phil, the same Phil who let us make his shop our own, had been integral in getting Nash to adulthood without a criminal record and a whole pack of illegitimate kids.
The bar was in lower downtown, or LoDo as most people actually from Denver called it. It was a popular hangout for mostly locals and industry people, and since I hadn’t been around on a Sunday in years I forgot how packed it could be when the Broncos played. The guys had a table in the back right under a massive flat-screen and already had a pitcher of beer waiting. Fist bumps and head nods for greeting went around the table and a raucous cheer went up in the packed bar as the Broncos scored.
“What up, fellas?” Nash poured us a round as we settled in. Rowdy wiggled his eyebrows up and down and motioned to a spot over his shoulder toward the bar.
“Isn’t this better than family time? Nobody wants to see Mom dressed like that.”
The girls who worked in the bar were all dressed in sexy sports-themed uniforms; some were supersexy cheerleaders, and some were in really small jerseys and hot pants that laced up like football pants. My favorites were the tiny referee outfits that barely covered their bottoms.
“No, they sure don’t.” It was nice to just chill and spend time with the guys on a Sunday when normally Sundays were the worst part of the week. It was way better than getting torn to pieces by my parents just for breathing. I felt a twinge of guilt at my selfishness, but I knew enough beer would squash it.
Jet looked up from the plate of nachos he was steadily demolishing and pointed a finger over his shoulder toward the bar. “Wait until you see the chick waiting on us. Dude, just dude, there aren’t even words.”
Jet’s band, Enmity, was pretty big in the local scene and I knew from firsthand experience he had his pick of groupies and rock chicks to choose from. If he was impressed by a chick, then she was probably a dead ten and I couldn’t wait to check her out. We chatted and pounded the pitcher away in under thirty minutes and the guys were getting louder and rowdier, but we were having a good time. We needed another round sooner than later, but I had yet to see the elusive Waitress of Hotness. Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck went up and I snapped to attention. There was a blonde making her way toward the table. Her hair was so blond it was almost white and it was in twin pigtails on either side of her head. Her startled green eyes were looking at me from under razor-straight bangs. Her mouth was a bright slash of red against a pale face I was as familiar with as my own. She had on the requisite referee outfit, complete with ruffly little black shorts and fishnet stockings. She also was wearing a pair of black boots that looked a hell of a lot like my own, only girly, and they went up seriously awesome legs to rest below her knees. While I struggled with recognition and my idiot friends leered at her, Nash climbed to his feet to enfold her in a bear hug.
“Hey, girl, what are you doing here?” Shaw gave a little squeal as she returned my roommate’s hug, but her eyes never left mine.
“Uh … I work here. I have for a while. I normally have Sundays off, but since my schedule changed and it’s busy I picked them up. What are you guys doing here?”
I knew the question was directed at me, but I was still too stunned at how different she looked to respond. Nash left an arm around her shoulder and pointed at our friends. “The guy with the chops is Rowdy—he works at the shop with me and Rule. The guy shoving his face full of nachos is Jet—he sings for Enmity and we grew up together. Guys, this is Shaw—she grew up with Rule and his brothers.”
I watched with a mixture of awe and repulsion as my friends practically fell over themselves to shake the hand she extended. I still hadn’t said anything and it was starting to get awkward, but she just smiled and picked up the empty pitcher and told us she would be back with another in a few minutes. All four sets of eyes followed the swish of her hair and the ruffles on her ass as she walked away. I wanted to punch everyone, including myself, in the face.