Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy. Lisa Jackson
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“We didn’t finish our discussion the other day,” Jackson said, and his lips curled into a sardonic smile as he rubbed the bruise beneath his eye.
“We’ve got nothing to talk about,” Roy replied testily. “Get out,” he muttered to Scott McDonald, reaching over his friend and flinging the passenger door open. An old Doors song blared into the night.
Jackson didn’t let up. Over the rumble of engines and Jim Morrison’s deep-throated lyrics he yelled, “You and that old man of yours keep insulting my family.”
Roy pretended not to hear. As Scott climbed out of his car, Roy crooked a long finger at Laura. “Let’s go,” he said. He took up the conversation where it had been dropped. “You said you’re lookin’ for a private party, well you found one. Hop in.” His gaze moved quickly up and down Laura’s curves as she climbed into the convertible. Roy’s mouth twitched. “Now that’s what I like—a girl who knows her own mind.”
“We’re not through, Fitzpatrick,” Jackson reminded him.
“That does it. I’m sick of you, Moore. Just butt the hell out of my life!”
“As soon as you stay away from my family.”
“Your family? God, that’s rich. You’re a stinkin’ bastard, Moore. Or didn’t you know? Everyone in Gold Creek but you knows that your mother’s the town slut and that she probably can’t even name the man who’s supposed to be your father!”
Jackson’s expression turned to fury. “You lying—”
Roy tromped on the accelerator. The Corvette lurched forward with a spray of gravel. Tires squealed and Roy wrenched hard on the steering wheel, heading the car straight at Jackson and his bike.
Rachelle screamed.
Laura, in the seat beside Roy, turned to stone.
Jackson gunned the engine of his Harley, but not before the fender of the Corvette caught the back wheel of the bike. The motorcycle shimmied, tires sliding on the loose gravel. Jackson flew off. With a loud thud he landed on the ground and his bike skidded, riderless, across the lot.
Roy laughed, shifted into a higher gear and tore out of the lot. Rachelle started running to Jackson’s inert form. He can’t be hurt, he can’t be, she thought as panic gripped her heart. He lay flat and still on the gravel while the sound of a disappearing engine and the lyrics of “Light My Fire” faded on the wind.
Erik tried to grab her. “Leave him alone,” he said, though his voice lacked conviction and his face was sheet-white. “He’s okay. Only scared a little. That’s all.”
“I hope to God you’re right.” Heart in her throat, Rachelle jerked her arm away and ran to Jackson’s inert form.
With a groan, he rolled over. His jacket was ripped down one arm and his pants, too, were torn. “Bastard!” Jackson groaned. “Damn bloody bastard.” He slowly pulled himself to his feet and though he limped slightly, he headed straight for his bike.
Relief flooded through Rachelle’s veins and she managed a thin smile. “Then you’re okay?”
“Compared to what?” he muttered, righting his bike and frowning as he noticed broken spokes. Lips flattening angrily against his teeth, he winced painfully as he swung one leg over the motorcycle and switched on the ignition.
“But at least you’re all right,” Rachelle said, nearly sagging with relief.
“No thanks to your friend.”
“He’s not my—”
“Sure.” Jackson sucked in his breath, as if pain had drawn the air from his lungs, then shoved hard on the kick start with his boot heel. With a roar and a plume of blue exhaust, the Harley revved.
“You…you might want to see a doctor—”
“A doctor?” he mocked. “Yeah, sure. I’ll go check into Memorial. Have them patch me up.”
“It was only…a…suggestion.”
“Well, I don’t remember asking for your advice.”
Stung, she stepped back a pace. “I was just concerned,” Rachelle said lamely, flustered at his anger. “Look, I’m on your side.”
Dark, impenetrable eyes swung in her direction. His lips curled sardonically, as if he and she shared a private joke. “Let’s get something straight. No one in Gold Creek is on my side. And that includes you.”
“But—”
“You know Fitzpatrick, right?”
“Not really. He’s not my friend and—”
“In case I don’t catch up to him tonight, you can give him a message for me. Tell Roy-boy that if he knows what’s good for him, he’ll leave my family alone. And that goes for his old man. Tell the old coot to quit sniffin’ around Sandra Moore. Got it?”
“But I don’t know—”
“Just do it,” Jackson ordered, his square chin thrust in harsh rebellion as he flicked his wrist and took off in a spray of anger and gravel. She watched him streak out of the lot and onto the street and listened as the bike wound through several gears. Her heart was racing as fast as the motorcycle’s engine, but she attributed the acceleration to the near collision of sports car and cycle and the fact that she’d been talking to the bad boy of Gold Creek. His reputation was as black as the night and anyone in town would tell you that Sandra Moore’s son was just plain bad news.
“Rachelle, come on!” Carlie called. She seemed to have shaken off her own fears that Jackson was injured and was deep in conversation with Scott and Erik.
With realistic fatalism, Rachelle glanced around the deserted parking lot. Aside from Laura’s car, the acre of asphalt was empty. Rachelle sighed and shoved her hair out of her face. She knew she was stuck with Roy’s two best friends. Not a pleasant thought. The wild side suddenly seemed like something she should avoid—unless she was with Jackson. Oh, but that was crazy. Jackson was no better than Roy and he carried a chip on his shoulder the size of Mount Whitney. Uncouth, rebellious and just plain nasty—that’s what he was.
Still, she listened to the sound of the cycle, the engine whining in the distance. There was something about that boy that was just plain fascinating. Probably because he was so bad.
Despite the mugginess of the night, she stuffed her hands deep into the pockets of her jean jacket and retraced her steps.
“Was he okay?” Carlie asked, looking worriedly past Rachelle’s shoulder to the spot where Jackson had been thrown.
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“He’ll get even with Roy somehow,” Erik predicted, and Rachelle thought about Jackson’s cryptic warning. Erik looked nervous. He searched his pockets for his keys.
“Let’s get out of here.” Scott was already opening the door of the pickup and glancing anxiously around the empty lot, as if he expected Jackson Moore to come back and wreak his vengeance on Roy’s friends. “We’d better find Roy.”
“Roy? You want to find Roy after what he did? He nearly killed Jackson! On purpose.” Rachelle wrapped her arms around her torso and felt herself shaking from the inside out.
“He didn’t, did he?”
“No, thank God!”
“You don’t understand,” Scott said a little impatiently. “Moore’s been asking for trouble—begging for it—for weeks. There’s always been bad blood between Jackson and Roy. It goes way back. But it’s over tonight.”
Rachelle wasn’t sure. “Maybe not. Jackson could press charges.”
“His story against Roy’s.”