( –– * 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒸

A glance in his direction made it pretty obvious what had happened, and even more obvious why he had been waiting. She felt her internal monologue start, about how the priority was actually sick people, not for assholes who got into scrapes. Sadly the latter often filled the hospitals at night, and they were just as ungrateful and snappy as this guy. “Well,” Danica said, tossing the clipboard onto the desk as she made her way over. Fortunately and unfortunately, even though she was a nurse, Danica had seen this wound hundreds of times, and had gotten to perform the necessary procedure to fix it. This town was falling apart at the seams. 

“Good news is, you’re not the first d-guy tonight to get his nose broken, which I was late. So – you want the nasal spray or an injection, and I’ll get you fixed up and back on your feet in no time.”

So she knew he was a Dixie. Couldn't say he was surprised - Jac wasn't exactly one to keep that shit on the DL. There was a reason his life was a constant fucking revolving door of jail cells and hospital beds: he took staying on brand very seriously. Fear and violence - that was how you made a name for yourself and your crew; hell, Richie Rich was living proof of that.

Jac held out his bruised forearms, lined with Dixie-themed tattoos. 'Course that might have also tipped her off. He smirked. "Appreciate it, doc," he said, giving her a mock, two-finger salute. "Guess you're probably used to seein' my kind in here, huh?" He raised his eyebrows at her. "That how you know who I was?"

His face soured upon hearing his options. Jac ran a hand through his messy hair, shaking his head. He supposed needles were the lesser of two fucking evils, but even so, that shit was still for the birds. “I’ll take the injection, darlin’. And a couple Vicodin if it ain’t too much trouble.” He gave her a wink before lying back on the bed. Goddamn that bitch knew how to fucking swing - his head felt like it was about to pop.

For a brief second, Chloe allowed her gaze to linger along the scattered patrons around the bar. This was hardly what she’d call her type of crowd. For a place as supposedly cultured as Atlanta, Chloe was having a hard time believing it. “Tell me ‘bout it.” She muttered with a faint chuckle but Chloe knew what she signed up for when she took the gig. “I’m just happy to be singin’ again, don’t really care who’s listening…or not listenin’.” Shrugging her shoulders, she doesn’t seem phased by the current situation she’s in. Was it a waste of her talent? Possibly…maybe, depended on who you asked but, for now at least, it was enough. “Plus, your overpraise and hefty tips more than make up for it.”

The smile on her face grows wider before she bursts into laughter. Hand moving to cover her mouth, trying not to draw too much attention to herself. From across the street, the tacky neon lights of the club shine through one of the windows – a reminder or, maybe, a temptation of the so-called fantasy and debauchery that takes place mere feet away. “Thank you? I think?” Dark hues shift downward, her usual uniform – a tank top and a pair of ripped jeans – was far more clothing than what her neighbors next door are wearing but Chloe wasn’t modest enough to not know she didn’t have something to work with. “But you wantin’ to spend time in this shit hole instead of over there has me wonderin’ how much you’ve had to drink.” 

The repetition of a single word from her previous statement has Chloe biting down on her lower lip to stifle her laughter, nodding her head in response. No matter how this night went, she planned on singing the song but she was more than happy to make him think otherwise. It was more fun this way. “Somethin’ tells me you’re a…creative man…” She trailed off, releasing her lower lip in order for a smirk to slowly form as she teasingly leaned in a bit closer. “My next break is in twenty, I’m sure you’ll think of something that could persuade me to do so.” 

The warm hum of intoxication began to flutter in his chest like a goddamn kaleidoscope of butterflies. Jac licked his lips as he finished off what was left of his Bourbon - he was already pretty damn close to being soused as a fucking sow as it stood; an extra shot of whiskey probably wouldn't do him any favors. "Get a few more drinks in me, darlin', and you might just make off with my wallet and my fuckin' heart," he joked, pushing his empty glass forward for a refill.

The rational side of his brain, or whatever the hell was left of it, knew that he needed to tread a mighty goddamn fine line in light of present (jonesing) company. Not that he usually gave much of fuck where the strives and struggles of others were concerned, but Brooks was a different fucking story. For starters, he actually liked her - which was a hell of a lot more than he could say for about ninety-nine percent of the remaining population. Jac lit himself another cigarette and reclined back in his chair, watching Chloe with a crooked grin. "Don't thank me; thank that tank top, babe. It's doin' you a helluva lot of favors right now," he teased, taking a pull from his smoke. He knew a lot of it was projection, and maybe being in her presence was just feeding into that fucking savior complex that liked to rear it's annoying head around addicts, but goddamn if she didn't remind him of his mother: singing, sassiness, substance abuse, and the like.

Though he'd never let Chloe know it, he would go to the ends of the fucking earth and then some just to ensure that she never relapsed again. He wasn’t about to let that shit go down on his watch.

Jac matched her smirk, eyes flickering down to her full (and quite-fucking-frankly, luscious) lips. "Well, I could always sing you a song of my own, darlin'," he said, raising his eyebrows at her suggestively. "Though, I ain't really one for crowds when it comes to croonin'," he told her, despite his utter lack of shame on any other given day. "more of a back alleyway kind of guy, myself - y'know, for the acoustics and shit."

( –– * 𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒶𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒸   //   spotify playlist.  ))

Black Metallic - Catherine Wheel.

Nutshell - Alice in Chains.

Motorcycle Drive By - Third Eye Blind.

Garbage Man - Hole.

American Psycho - Misfits.

Territorial Pissings - Nirvana.

The Rover - Led Zeppelin.

Mood for Trouble - Soundgarden.

Sin - Stone Temple Pilots.

I Fought the Law - The Clash.

Dissident - Pearl Jam.

While he’d never say it out loud, Calvin would give Jac more credit for not only being able to hold his own but also his unwavering loyalty to the Mafia. Over the years, he’d proven himself not only as a worthy ally but someone who’d fiercely go to battle in order to keep their position on top.

Still didn’t make Jac any less of an asshole but all of the above was (mentally) acknowledge. Jac was the second older brother Calvin didn’t ask for or need. Their rapport a combination of shit talking and doing whatever was humanly possible to get on the other’s nerves.

Luckily, they were on his turf tonight and Calvin planned to take full advantage of it. All it would take is a simple nod of his head to have Jac dragged out of the club and thrown out, sure the guards may end with a bloody nose or lack eye in the process, but the act and scene alone was well worth the effort. 

“That’s cute, considerin’ your head is shoved so far up my brother’s ass.” He remarked, holding up two fingers to tell the bartender to double Jac’s order so he can have one for himself. “Shithole, huh? If it’s such a shithole why are you sneakin’ in here after I kicked you out?” A brow raised in the other’s direction. “Just admit you wanted to see me, makes this a lot less embarassin’ for you.”

Grabbing one of the glasses placed in front of him, he takes a sip. “For someone who claims to hate Whitney so much, you sure as hell do love bringing her up any chance you get.” His lips twist into a smirk, biting back a chuckle. The state of hatred between his soon to be sister-in-law and Jac was Calvin’s main source of amusement whenever all parties were under the same roof. 

Before he could continue getting further under Jac’s skin, they’re interrupted, Jac taking over the conversation before Calvin is able to but he’s quick to recover. Downing the rest of the drink in one gulp, he motioned for a refill before his arm lamely wrapped around Jac’s shoulders. “Take good care of my friend, will ya?” He asked, clapping Jac on the shoulder proudly. “It’s been awhile – a long while – since he’s had any female company. Ever since he found out he got herpes, it’s been hard to get hi out but you seem like a nice lady. Somethin’ like that wouldn’t scare you away, will it?” A big, shit eating grin spreads across Calvin’s face, blue eyes bouncing back and forth between the woman and Jac. Trying not to burst into laughter as a look of horror flashed across her face. 

Calvin-Fucking-Johnson, Jac thought bitterly as he swiped an extra shot of vodka from Bridezilla Barbie and her less-attractive-bridesmaids two bar stools down. “Hey!” she cried in protest as he washed it back in one go. “Guess they don’t call you Little Dick for nothing,” he said through thinly-veiled agitation. Fuck if he would ever admit to it, but that little shit definitely knew how to strike a nerve like no other; similar to his demon-in-law to be, he always managed to meet him tit for fucking tat. Jac shook his head at Cal, tongue pressed against his front teeth. He was sure as hell tired of hearing about how goddamn much he supposedly worshiped the ground Rich fucking walked on. So he was loyal to the guy, what a goddamn radical-fucking-notion. “Just lookin’ for any opportunity you can get to talk about your brother’s ass, huh?” Jac turned back to his own drink with a smirk, ignoring the glares that were being doled out to his right. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d ruined a bachelorette party, he mused fondly - at least he hadn’t slept with the bride this time.

He rolled his eyes to compensate for the truth. Prick might have been right, but Jac would be the absolute last person in the world to admit that (obviously). “I came back to get the overpriced drink that I fuckin’ paid for, prick,” he lied, motioning to the drink in his hand. Jac side-eyed Cal briefly before copping to his other schemes. “And to set off a few of these babies on the dance floor,” he admitted with an amused snort, slapping the empty package of stink bombs in front of Cal. “Least I could do after you had your boys toss me out to the fuckin’ garbage.” He still had the stench of week-old trash on his clothes.

Jac huffed out an irritated sigh. It never failed. “Yeah, well, that’s the thing about the devil—-“ he paused, shaking his head. He did not bring that bitch up every chance he could get; and so fucking what if he did? “You meet her once and all you wanna do is complain about how much of a fuckin’ bitch she is. It’s the reason the goddamn bible was written in the first place,” he said all matter-of-fact like, earning a disapproving look from the bartender who was sporting a cross necklace and a John 3:16 tattoo on her wrist. “God shares my sentiment, sweetheart,” he told her before turning his attention begrudgingly back to Cal who was too fucking busy ruining what chances Jac had with the busty redhead to notice his miffed off bartender. 

He might as well have told her that Jac had a vagina while he was at it. Would have yielded the same fucking results in the end. Jac watched the disgust flash across her pretty features. “You guys are freaks,” she said before heading off in the opposite direction. Jac sighed. “You don’t know the half of it, babe,” he muttered, meeting Cal’s smug expression. “Nice fuckin’ going, dipshit. She was about five seconds from blowin’ me, and now she’s off with fucking Gilligan,” he said, gesturing at the short, middle-aged prick in the Hawaiian shirt. The bucket hat was just the icing on the goddamn dill weed cake.

“Christ,” he laughed as the guy started breaking out into some dorky kind of dance ritual. Jac shook his head, glancing at Cal. “So you let that asshole in, but not me? Prick.” He lit himself another cigarette and inhaled deeply. “And for the record, she would’ve gone home with me,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke in Cal’s face with a confident grin. That much he did know.

Harley could only see one colour right now and it was red. Nothing else existed in this moment other than the rage she had unleashed within the pit of her stomach. Her target — the blond haired male who continued to grin through it all. It was a problem that had gotten her into trouble and been her reason for why she was now in bed with a known gang she had once been trying to dismantle. Her anger always got the best of her and she allowed herself to drown into those dark moments. The truth was, maybe she loved the bite of bone against bone a little too much. 

Punches and kicks were sent into the male as hard as she could until her chest heaved and her heart threatened to jump out of her chest. He’d mentioned how he had crept his way beneath her skin and how right it had been. Their places had changed that now she was the one who could not get a reaction from him. In that moment, she swore she wouldn’t blink if she lifted that gun to his head and pulled the trigger. 

“You think you’re a bad fucking boy because you’re running with those people?” The woman hissed as she walked into him, her form pressing into him to ensure he wouldn’t move. Frankly, with their difference in size, she knew he could throw her over his shoulder and be done with this in seconds. “You’re not half as scary as you think you are.” For emphasis, she ensured to fully fall into him to show that there was no fear in doing so. 

When she finally stepped back, she could only smirk at the masterpiece she’d done with his seemingly broken nose. Crimson ran down his face and she closed her fist to test whether she’d broken it or not. “Red looks good on you, babe.” Though, with another bust of anger, she found herself in his face once more. Hopefully, he’d learn his lesson and allow her to leave without having to return to teach him another lesson.

However, he spoke and the woman almost screamed in disbelief. A hand slid beneath her clothing as she pulled out her on-duty gun and raised it towards the male. “Put your hands behind your back.”

Because you're running with those people. Jac scoffed - he'd be goddamned if he was going to let anyone take credit for his degeneracy, least of all the damn Dixies; that shit was one-hundred-fucking-percent homespun, organic, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. The goddamn gist of the matter was: it was all him, and him alone. "I don't think anything, honey, I know exactly who the fuck I am," he said, clenching his jaw as she took it upon herself to get real fucking nice and acquainted with the front side of his body. "And I sure as fuck don't need anybody else to prove it for me - believe me, sweetheart, I've been five by fuckin’ five on that front since I was fourteen." He'd done just fine and fucking dandy on his own for the past thirty something odd years; he sure as hell didn’t need anyone to start helping him with that shit now.

Jac tilted his head to the side to look at her, a lopsided grin tugging at the left corner of his mouth. If turning him on was meant to be her primary intimidation tactic, then she was doing a pretty damn good job. "Keep pressin' up on me like that, darlin', and my hands might not be the only parts of me that push back," he teased, glancing down as though to prove his point. He could play the scumbag to her little virtuous-gal-in-blue act any day of the goddamn week.

"That's because I'm not tryin' to scare you," he stated plainly, shrugging his shoulders. "Not yet, anyway." He didn't make a habit out of scaring women - not unless he had something to gain from it. There was nothing to be gained from this shit except one hell of a migraine and a partial erection (he was too damn annoyed to even get it up all the way).

Jac rolled his eyes, bumping his shoulder past hers as he headed for his motorcycle. "Yeah, sure thing, officer." He'd long since accomplished what he'd set out to do, and now? Now, it was time to get the fuck out of here. Jac took a drag from his cigarette and glanced back at her, fully expecting to find a smirk on her face or at the very least, a gotcha smile. The last thing he could have predicated was a fucking gun being held to his goddamn head. "What the fuck?" He gauged her reaction with a look of disbelief. This bitch was actually being serious.

A smoky scoff escaped his lips. "I'm on probation, bitch," he informed her, the ire pumping through his veins like a shot of warm adrenaline. No goddamn way was he letting her drag him back there - not when he was skating on thin fucking ice as it was. Fuck that. Desperate times, he thought, called for desperate measures; and it just so happened that blackmail was his specialty. "You take me back to the pig pen, there's a mighty fine chance I might squeal, darlin'," he said, eyebrows raising implicitly. He flicked his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn't mind spilling her secrets to all of her little cop buddies at the precinct - what would happen to her was simply a two birds with one stone kind of deal - the sooner he could get her out of the gang, and off his fucking back, the better. "So unless you want this caged bird to sing, I suggest you let me walk."

Maybe (probably) it was the lack of drugs that brought along a sense of clarity that Chloe hadn’t felt in God knows how long. The pessimistic part of Chloe wants to dub this as the calm before the storm. Afraid to get too comfortable in the stillness and peace she finally finds herself in because, as always, someone or something disrupts the moment and all the anger, bitterness, guilt and pain come washing over her like a floodgate.

In the back of her head there’s a dull tick-tock of a countdown clock, seconds and minutes wasting away until she eventually…finally implodes but tonight…right now, the music was enough to drown it out. With her sister no longer her moral center, the place she once upon a time ago called refuge, she was attempting to find the solitude elsewhere. Specifically, back in music. Back when it was in its purest form before the expectations and lust for success sunk her further into the abyss.

Was that refuge a shitty bar in Atlanta? Maybe, the judgement was still out on that one, but she felt good and that was enough for Chloe to not ask too many questions. Crash landing in Atlanta wasn’t the plan and adapting to a new routine was more rocky than she expected but, now, whatever sense of familiarity she was forming for herself here was welcomed.

“Complainin’? No you’re my biggest…only fan. Although, I’m sure the ladies at the Landing Strip would love to have you back. Don’t think they’re too happy I’ve been stealin’ you away from them.” Chloe retorted before sliding the now filled glass over in Jac’s direction. Dark hues fall to the money and she takes one of the twenty dollar bills offered, sliding the rest back in his direction with a subtle shake of her head. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ll be sorely missed – you’re the only one with any god damn taste in this city – but I’m a lil’ too old to be fightin’ strippers. I make a good ass drink but I can’t compare to a pair of double D’s.”

Not bothering to put the bottle up because if this night was like most nights Jac popped around, then a refill would be needed sooner rather than later. “Thank you.” She smiled in appreciation, resting her elbows on the bar top directly across from him. “I don’t break my promises but you certainly kept a girl waitin’ all night long.” Her head canted to the side, a playful grin tugging up in the corner of her mouth. “I worked out the arrangement and was goin’ to sing it for you tonight.”

"You just ain't playin' for the right crowd, darlin'," he told her, disregarding the lukewarm response to her performance with a wave of his hand. Fuck that. Taste might have been subjective, but raw, unbridled talent sure as fuck wasn't (and he sure as hell didn't expect a bunch of hipsters and geezers to understand that shit). "Pretty sure Gomer and his gaggle of Geezers at table three forgot to bring their hearing aides, anyway, so I wouldn't take it personal." Jac took a swig of whiskey to wet his palette - nothing really hit the spot like a glass of JD on a Sunday; or a Thursday, Friday, or Saturday for that matter. 

"Shit," Jac chuckled roughly, shaking his head, "don't know why they call that place the Landin' Strip when every broad in that joint has a bush the size of a goddamn eagle's nest." Not that he expected, or even wanted, a woman to be as bald as the goddamn eagle itself, but Christ al-fucking-mighty, was that shit like a damn jungle to navigate through. He grinned crookedly at Chloe. "Well, it ain't like you're entirely lackin' in that department, babe," he said, eyes dipping down briefly to make his point. "Granted, they ain't a pair of double D's--- but they ain't exactly A cups either." If he had to guess, he would place them somewhere between a late B to a very modest C. Not bad if he said so himself - and he certainly fucking did.

Jac raised his eyebrows at her; that past tense shit was what perked his ears up all the way up. "Was?" She'd certainly been teasing him with the possibility all week; he only hoped that she wasn't teasing him again (though it sure as hell wouldn’t be out of character for her). Jac leaned forward on his elbows, a playful gleam shining in his baby blues. "So what's it gonna take to get you up on that stage again, Brooks?" He licked his lips, smirking. "Cause I'll damn well carry you up there if I have to." When it came to Zeppelin, he didn’t fucking mess around.

There was that silver lining, the suggestion that they made it this far had to be some fucking winning streak that none of them wanted anything to do with. Did he sacrifice others, did he father do the same prior to Richard taking over? Of course. Lives were expendable except for the fair few he considered personal, important—people who were worthy to live were rare. Jac had been exceptionally one of them. Considering killing all of Atlanta to take down those fucking useless Italians in favour of keeping a fair few he preferred alive—a sacrifice Richard would make. “Listen—I’m only fuckin’ going six feet under if I take Bianchi with me—“ His head, preferably, but still.

He understood the sheer confusion—Richard’s persona had set off that Whitney was by his side the last decade—dangerously so, as he picked apart all the things he hated about who she was and replaced it with the monstrous values he wanted. He ruined her, that poor twenty-one year old manipulated by him— even now, a rock on her finger, a prospect of a future, the one she wanted. It was still all under his guidance. “I know what you fuckin’ mean, man—“ And Richard honestly wasn’t sure still if it was love or lust, obsession or possession that kept his iron grip on the blonde so tight that if she tried running again, she would do it without kneecaps—but that was him. “But no matter how fuckin’ annoying she is—and believe me, I gag her a lot in bed unless it’s somethin’ I wanna hear—“ He snickered. “She’s mine. So if I want her primed and prepped to look like a plastic Barbie doll, she’ll fuckin’ do it, or risk her future.”

The title of Mrs. Johnson hung like a Vegas banner above her head, Richard could take it away as easily as he offered it to her.

“I’ve been with the fuckin’ girl for almost a decade—you don’t think I don’t have all that and a massive coke stash to settle with when she gets in her fuckin’ moods—“ He laughed at the suggestion of the prenup—there’d be some iron clauses—and some that withheld her from running. Something she was fond to do. Not that all her moods might’ve been developed by him over the decade he morphed her into the being he wanted, rather than the woman she was. She would’ve been fine as she was for any other man. But Richard wasn’t any other man.

That bark of a laugh fell, as the President threw his head back—well, he wasn’t wrong. The insatiable needs of the man had to be met, and since he wasn’t about to find it within the bevvy of Atlanta as he’d once done a time ago, he had to make sure she was in tip top shape. “Fuckin’ right, bud, she could pull that shit on me anyway of the week—“ The suggestion there, but the literal of it was that he knew a bullet would be popped in his skull—he turned Whitney into a life of insanity, it was bound to pick at her personality. Now a war—this was Richard’s forte. This is what he loved, what he thrived for. The money from his father’s business, the money the mafia made—nothing came into play the way the sheer thrill of killing them all off would.

The ideal alone was intoxicating. Now, as the mention, he shrugged his shoulders. “You partial to a bullet between her eyes while he watches her beg for her life?” How casual was a deranged man, as he looked over at Jac, tossing back the last of his drink, as he slid the drink to the bartender for a refill. “I mean, I’m sure I could find worse, but the idea of him being helpless—that shit’ll make me laugh.” As for the sales pitch—“ Shit, bring ‘em in by force, make ‘em see how nice we have it here if they comply—who wouldn’t wanna be one of us, right?” Like there was any merit to being within the opposition. “So—“ Refilled drink, as he doused half of it before setting the glass back down. “Anythin’ I miss tryin’ to control Whit’s crazy fuckin’ ass?” He turned to look closer at Jac. “You pickin’ fights with anyone? I approve, I’m jus’ fuckin’ bored with the business shit.”

“Yeah, that’s if the dementia don’t get him first,” Jac said, exhaling a steady stream of smoke in the direction of the perpetually annoyed bartender. He smirked. “Old-timer’s already a few sponge baths short of a goddamn nursing home as it is,” he said, chuckling lowly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already wearin’ diapers.” Either way, he'd be shitting them soon enough, Jac mused silently. Hell, two dead kids? That'd be the final nail in ol' Bianchi's coffin; no fucking trigger necessary. Jac could only hope that the prick would suffer - after all the shit that he'd put them through - Richard more than anyone - it was the least karma could do.

Jac shook his head, snapping for the bartender to hurry it the fuck up on his refill. If he was going to have to hear about Bimbo the Beauty Queen all night, Jac was going to need something stronger than whiskey. Or at the very-fucking-least, a hell of a lot more whiskey. "You ever consider a shock collar?" He proposed sarcastically; though knowing Rich, he might actually take that suggestion at face value and buy the damn thing. And Christ only knew how he'd use it, Jac thought, face mirroring his internal yuck factor. 

Wasn't like he didn't already hear enough about Dick and Jane's kinky sex life during poker nights with the boys. "Works like a charm on those little, annoying ass dogs that yap too much," Jac said with an amused look in his eye. Blondie wasn't exactly too far removed from a chihuahua, anyway. 

Jac exchanged a few Lincolns across the bar top for a fresh glass of whiskey, his interest caught like a fucking fish to a hook upon hearing Richard's plans. That's what he always liked about Rich: guy wasn't one to pussyfoot around what needed to be done; sometimes, he even took it a step further than that. "I'm more than partial to it, brother," he said, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "I wanna be there, front-and-fuckin'-center when that shit goes down," Jac told him, "just say the word and I'll have the little brats delivered to your front doorstep; hell, I'll even wrap 'em up all nice and pretty for ya, boss. Like a goddamn Christmas gift." He was no stranger to a little home invasion - it was the kidnapping part that he wasn't all that familiar with. Even so, he thought, that shit would go off without a hitch. 

"I'm pickin' fights with everyone, man," Jac said with a shrug of his shoulders. It was what he did, after all. "Ain't seen too many ginzos on the street, though. Leads me to think they're plannin' something––" Though, as soon as he'd said it, it seemed that Jac had spoke too-fucking-soon. A few screams sounded off like clockwork behind them - the shattering clash of bullets against glass shortly following. "Guess you ain't gonna be bored for long, chief," Jac said, nodding towards the five armed Italians at the entrance. He downed the rest of his whiskey and pulled out his pistol, meeting Rich with a wicked grin. “You ready for this shit?”

Harley was on the brink of exploding with each different assumption that was thrown her way by the male who based it all on no evidence. First, he believed she was a rat and now she could only imagine what assumption came to his mind when she mentioned that she could not walk away from the Dixies even if she wanted to. Dark eyes rolled and a slight tightness of her jaw indicated just how right he was. He had crawled beneath her skin and it took every ounce of control and energy she had not to cross the distance between them and swipe that smirk right off his fucking face. “You like that, don’t you? Thinking that you can get me all rilled up with these false and unfounded assumptions.” The slight tense of her words through gritted teeth may have reflected how right he already had.

Dark hues flicked towards his hand sliding up her arm, and for a moment, she felt confused. However, his next words were enough to send her into a whirlwind as she tugged on her arm violently. He’d felt something and she knew exactly what it was. “If you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about — don’t fucking say anything.” The officer growled as she shoved the male away from her with all her force. He was lucky she didn’t throw a punch, especially since her entire form hitched for some kind of physical release to unleash the ball of anger that had grown in the pit of her stomach. 

However, it was at the word crack whore that she really did lose her shit. Another shove was given to his chest, then another one until she pushed him against the nearest wall. Her arm was raised to expose a scar upon the inside of her arm, bringing it close to his face. “It’s a fucking cigarette burn, you pathetic asshole. You’re not the only one who got into bed with some bad people. I just made the mistake of letting them do this shit to me.” The brunette didn’t immediately throw her arm down, but instead brought it back to punch Jac. The thought of a nice black eye was too satisfying to allow him to leave unscathed. She awaited the crunch of bone against bone, stepping back to ensure that she was out of grasp and he couldn’t immediately retaliate. 

Still angered by the words muttered, she felt like she was a bomb on the verge of exploding once more. A ticking time bomb that only increased with each step she took away from the male, though futile given the fact that he seemed to be following her. Again, he made the mistake of speaking and self-control had long since gone out of the door. Whirling around, she walked up to him until she was close enough that he could feel the heat and anger roll off of her body, as well as the heavy rise and fall of her chest. “You want another one because I’d love to get the other eye and make it all uniform.” Dark eyes moved over his face, paused on his lips and returned to his eyes. “Just say another word.”

"Well, yeah," he said, figuring that she would have picked up on that by now. Picking fights, crossing lines, pressing buttons, "it's what I do, sweetheart." It was like his grand-maman always used to say: you, Jacques, was born with a chip on yo' shoulder and a whole lotta anger in your heart. And she wasn't wrong. He'd had a fight to pick with the world right from the damn start - and with good fucking reason, too. The way he saw it, life was goddamn painful son of a bitch; and people? People were just a byproduct of that shit - people were inherently garbage: himself and Little Miss Lilly Law being no exception. 

Jac smiled wickedly as she began to shove him around like he was a goddamn ragdoll. "What don't I know, darlin'?" He took her  by the wrists after the third shove to let her know that he was the one who was allowing her to express her rage - that at any moment he could make it stop. But he wouldn't. He wanted her to let it all out - wanted her to free herself from all that pent up frustration, pain, and anger that he'd instantly recognized from the moment he met her.

By now, she had him pinned to a fucking wall. Jac ran his tongue over his teeth, his chin jutting out briefly as a haughty expression slowly replaced his levity. So he'd been wrong - big fucking deal. Wasn't like it was out of the realm of goddamn possibility for a dirty cop to also have a dirty habit. Yet his conscience insisted on fucking rubbing it in his face - on making him feel like a complete scumbag for taking the piss out of a clearly damaged woman. "I didn't get into the sheets with anyone, babe. I made that fuckin' bed myself."

And there it was. Jac's skull practically bounced off the brick wall as she landed a punch right, square in the nose. That'a girl, he thought, snapping out of the momentary daze to smirk through the blood running down his lips. He pushed himself off of the wall as she backed off, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his sleeve. She definitely had a pretty damn good right hook.

Jac removed his pack of Camels from his back pocket and pulled a cigarette out with his blood-stained teeth, following it up with a switch of his lighter. As she once again decided to get all up close and personal, Jac raised his eyebrows, letting her words settle before he spoke. 

"Another word."

keegan wasn’t trying to follow him. she was about ready to punch him in the face. which was what sh really wanted to do. but the smart part of her resisted. punching the lieutenant of the gang wasn’t exactly the smartest idea. especially when that one was jac. even when he fully deserved it.  she grabbed her stuff and marched after him, having ever intention of going whatever other direction he was going in. 

“ew no it doesn’t. don’t take this as following. there’s one exist, egg head,” she said rolling her eyes. “i don’t want anything from you. except maybe a chance to punch you in your stupid, annoying face,” she told him angrily. she made a face at him and turned to go the opposite direction before she whipped back around. “you shut your stupid face! you couldn’t hold a candle to my driving, you giant neanderthal. i’m the best driver around you’re just too proud to admit it cause you don’t like me. but don’t say anything about my driving.” she moved forward and kicked his leg before marching off away from him.

"Still all talk and no action, Red." Jac shook his head at her, knowing good and goddamn well that she didn't have the guts to slug him. Whatever. He pulled on his shades, debating whether or not it was even worth it to continue bugging her. All she did was yap like a tiny (annoying) fucking chihuahua. Jac rolled his eyes. "Yeah, alright, kid. You're a great driver--" he scoffed, even though he knew she was. Like hell that he was going to admit that. "Didn't you just get your license last week? Gimme a fuckin' break."

Just as he was about to turn around and leave, the little brat decided to kick him in the leg. "Did you seriously just kick me in the leg?" He asked, completely at a loss. It was so ridiculous that he had to laugh. "I'll see you around, kid," he yelled as she marched away, waving her off with both his hand and a shake of his head. After she was gone, Jac turned in the opposite and left.

The brunette could only roll her eyes as the male let the residual of his anger fly in various colourful ways of detailing the bar they’d been in. Cousin-fucking had been one of those. After that one, she basically knew where he was going with his description and stopped listening. By that point, the adrenaline had begun to wear off and she could start to feel various aches and pains she hadn’t known had been hurt in their fights. She’d really have hell to pay for in the morning, but she hoped to get her hand on a nice bottle of jack tonight to soothe most of her injuries for tonight at least. 

The words flew out of her mouth easily and while she’d expected a lot from him, she had been kind of surprised by the anger in his tone. Mostly because she had been in the mood to celebrate the chaos they had left behind. However, her body tensed and eyes narrowed when he began his speech. He wasn’t wrong and she couldn’t even blame him. They were different people on the surface and she was meant to be the enemy. An enemy who had made it beneath the lines and didn’t even attempt to hide her intents. The fact was, that if he looked any deeper — he would see that she was far from the person he believed her to be. Frankly, if she hadn’t made a left turn towards the police academy, she would have been in his same shoes. Everything before the academy had been drugs, violence, and criminal activities. It just so happened that she had people looking out for her even when she didn’t do it for herself. As for her role within the gang — well it had been far from her choice. Not that she’d be so quick to divulge that to the male for something as simple as his approval.

He circled her and the officer remained calm apart from a simple tense of her jaw and square of her shoulders when his breath tickled the hair that brushed her neck. A little smirk framed her lips to hide the anger she felt, which she hoped only made him angrier at the sight of it. “You can think what you want because I don’t give two shits what you think.” The woman spoke lowly now given their proximity, eyes narrowed in on him. “Also, because while you might believe you’re all high and mighty — you have no fucking power in doing anything about what I’m doing there.” While she didn’t have much more and would have left had she been given the chance, the matter was that she was forced into the position she now held with the gang. They had held it over her head because of an act they’d witnessed that could have gotten her badge taken away from her. Now, she was forced into doing dirty deeds as they came. It hadn’t helped that she had been involved with a member in the past and they had also pushed to have the woman work for them.

Her eyes moved over him and she couldn’t help but laugh, more at this entire conversation than anything else. “You think you’re a big bad wolf in this town, but I think the reason you don’t like me is because I intimidate you. Maybe you even know that I can take you down if I choose.” The brunette mumbled softly, her turn to lean up into his ear. It was a game of cat and mouse and they both seemed to be switching off every so often. A game of wits and power, of sorts.

“You’re not the only one who’s had a gun at their head. Who’s run away from the police and thrown a gun down an alley — or been in jail countless time. I’ve done and seen all those things. You might have your own idea about why I’m doing what I am and what my intents are — but bottom line is that I like it about as much as you do.” She pulled back then, letting a cloud of smoke billow from her mouth. “ I don’t need your approval for what you do or don’t like. But baby boy, you can’t do shit. I’m sticking around whether you like it or not.” A hand lifted to pat his cheek before stepping back. “But you are welcome. I could have thrown your ass in jail for shits and giggles tonight.”  Dark hues remained on him, throwing her cigarette to the ground and grinding it into the dirt with the toe of her boot. “I’m sure i’ll be seeing you around goldilocks.”

It bugged the hell out of him to see her remain so fucking calm and collected. Of course he wanted to press her buttons, of course he wanted to get her riled up, of-fucking-course he wanted that spark to ignite a goddamn fire. At the very least, he wanted her to throw a punch - that was a sure damn way of knowing that he was in her head. Jac pressed his tongue against his cheek, shaking his head in agitation. "Sure you do," he said, bypassing her little cliche. "Everybody gives a shit about what people think of them, darlin'. That's just human-fucking-nature, one-oh-one. You can keep pretendin' that I ain't getting under your skin, but we both know I'm already there," he said, trailing a finger up her arm to prove a point. He stopped at what felt like an old track mark. 

Jac narrowed his eyes. "Never took you for a junkie, Gumshoe," he said, not feeling as pleased with himself as he thought he would be. Drug addiction was a complicated subject for Jac - real fucking complicated, actually. On the one hand, he figured they had it coming to 'em - wasn't like there was anyone else shooting them up with that poisonous shit - but then there were people like his mother to consider. He didn't blame her for what happened - he only wished that he could have somehow saved her from it; even if it would have been fucking impossible, it didn't stop him from pretending that there could have been a chance in some alternate fucking universe. 

Jac held up Harley's arm to get a better look at her past. No, he warned himself, you're not gonna feel an ounce of sympathy for this bitch. He buried that shit deep and dropped her arm. "Rats don't intimidate me, darlin'. Neither do crack whores, for that matter," he said, ignoring the pang of guilt that wanted to rear it's inconvenient fucking head. "But by all means, take your shot, honey. I'm sure the thought of me going down really gets you goin', huh," he said, switching tones as easily as he switched his emotions. 

Jac watched silently as she stubbed out her cigarette using her boot. He'd let her have her little moment, let her think that she could do what she fucking pleased; but at the end of the day, they both knew that she wasn't the one holding the cards. Of course, he had no doubt that she could turn on all of them at a dime - and he knew she had the manpower to back her up - but that shit would come at the price of her life, and even she was smart enough to know not to fuck around with something as serious as that. Jac sat back on his heels, following her form in the darkness. He smirked. "Yeah, I'm sure you'd like that wouldn't you?"

“stop calling me that,” she said through clenched teeth. “you’re not any sort of gift to this world. so get your head out of the clouds,” she snapped at him. usually keegan managed to keep her cool and sarcasm her way through any annoying conversations but jac was a whole other type. he got under her skin which only made her more mad. she hated it when people managed to get the rile out of her that they wanted. she didn’t want to let anyone control her like that. 

“i didn’t come here just to annoy you, ya know. the world doesn’t actually revolve around you,” she told him with a knowing expression as she dangled the chips and drinks she’d popped in to get in the first place. she was about to make some smart alec comment before her expression turned into a glare. “shut up jac! you wouldn’t have half  your shipments if it weren’t for me cause half the guys can’t even drink to save their life. so don’t even with that bull crap!” she called after him, wanting nothing more than to chunk something at his head as hard as she could.

“Stop callin’ you what, princess?” Jac wasn’t gonna stop until she reached her breaking point. That was when people showed you who they really were. He ignored her tantrum, but didn’t stop her from tailing him. They always wanted to follow the fucking leader - no matter how goddamn “annoyed” with him they claimed to be. 

“The world might not revolve around me, but yours sure as fuck does,” he pointed out. Even after multiple attempts of trying to shake her, here she still fucking was. “Well, congrat-u-fucking-lations, ginger. Do you want a fuckin’ pat on the back? A gold star next to your name?” He put on his shades as he stepped back outside. Goddamn, he thought as the hot city breeze whipped past him - it was hotter than a hooker’s snatch today. Jac turned back around, rolling his eyes behind his glasses. “Listen, kid, a monkey could do your fucking job. It really ain’t nothin’ to brag about.”

Taunting back and forth was soon forgotten as Harley pummelled her fist into the drunk male’s face. The crunch of bone was a welcomed sound amongst the dull ache of her knuckles as they split open after the third punch. She’d have hell to pay tomorrow when her hand would have gotten twice its size and wouldn’t bend for a few days. However, the male’s face twisted in pain with him sputtering blood was well worth it in the end. It wasn’t until she’d kicked the male one last time that she noticed the chaos on the ground beside her. Goldilocks had preoccupied himself with another male who had wanted to intervene. A slight grin plastered on her face as she wiped her hand across her mouth and walked over the mess of the drunk she’d left behind. Instead, she reached for her drink and took a swig. Nothing was better than a strong drink to finish off a successful fight. However, it seemed that perhaps her duties were far from over as a brave male attempted to restrain the blond. 

“Hey! don’t fucking touch him.” The woman barked with a narrow of her eyes. Hands rose in the air and a lithe male backed away — surely now aware that he had walked himself into trouble by attempting to interfere with the spectacle on the ground. When convinced that no one else would step in the way, she caught sight of the last remaining bouncer step out of the crowd and grab a hold of the pair. “Fuck,” she groaned as she jumped forth into the action with a last favour to the one who had kept her back safe when the individual he currently had in a choke hold had attempted to stop her. 

“Oh — thank god. Can you help me?” The woman said in a plea as she walked over to the male, surely looking like a mess given the streak of blood she’d swiped across her face when she’d ran her hand over her mouth. The officer awaited for the bouncers attention to turn to her rather than the male, and made her strike. An already sore fist landed upon his face with enough force to stun him into a few steps back. Her leg rose to kick against his torso before he could collect himself and she watched as he fell backward. It would be enough to buy them some time, but not enough to finish what they’d both started. 

The sound of a bartender’s voice cut through the crowd with a threat of calling the police if they didn’t break it up right away. A laugh exuded from the brunette’s lips as she pulled on her shirt to reveal the badge attacked to her hip. “I’m already fucking here.” The woman bit back, nudging the blond with her foot to capture his attention. By now, she assumed that the male he’d gotten ahold of was long since passed out. “I’m going to take care of him. Don’t worry.” She’d have to make a show of some kind of repercussion even though she had started this mess. 

“Come on, Goldi. It seems we’ve extended our welcome.” With a last sip of her beer, she grabbed her phone and pack of cigarettes to head out the back. The sound of an angry bartender yelling that she’d left with an unpaid bill was all to be heard when she stepped out the bar and felt cold air hit her warm form. Before she even opened her mouth to speak, she had already lit a cigarette and placed it between her lips. When the door clanked close beneath her and she’d assumed the blond male had followed suit, she turned with words already on her tongue. “I told you I’m far from being all talk, babe.  But don’t worry, I’m not going to hold my breath for a thank you. We both know you’re a little too proud for that.” By the time she’d finished her sentence, she stood mere inches from him as her head tilted up to observe his features as she wanted to see if his opponent had left any kind of mess behind.

Adrenaline and whiskey were a match made in head-busting hell. Though Jac, who was busy reintroducing Roid Rage Randy to his bloody bunch of fives, liked to think of it more as the perfect marriage between brawn and grit - and Christ help anyone who tried to get in the way of them.

Jac gritted his teeth as he was met with a splash back of blood and a strong pair of hands. He slammed prick number one's head into the floor, sending him on a one way ticket to the land of fucking nod. He took the split second he could get to admire his work before he had to deal with prick number two. He smirked proudly. The damage Jac had done to that asshole's face was a work of fucking art; a goddamn masterpiece to behold, as a matter-of-fucking-fact: it was a perfect blend of red, blue, and purple, starkly contrasted against a pale white canvas. Those fruits at the Louvre would eat their goddamn hearts out. 

He suddenly felt a sharp blow to his ribs, proceeded by a left hook to the jaw - which sent a heap of spit and blood flying out of his mouth. It was the blow to his temple, however, that had him seeing fucking stars. Jac didn't let it take him out of the fight - he simply blinked that shit away and slammed his head into the asshole who was holding him in place, causing him to let go and trip around aimlessly. He vaguely heard Kincaid shouting at the bald prick who wasn't letting his head trauma deter him from going for another round. Jac quickly dodged a punch from Arnold Jr. and followed up with a jab of his own. The guy stumbled back into the crowd, holding his head in his hands. Jac, in the meantime, spun around to pull the KO on his buddy, but was stopped short by the prick pulling him into a headlock. Shit, he thought. He struggled to break free, eyes shifting back and forth, face turning red from the lack of air. It was a real bitch boy move on baldie's part - guy easily had at least a hundred pounds on him, and was using that shit to avoid getting his fucking ass handed to him. Jac, who tried going for the ribs, caught a glance of Harley trying to assist him in the process. "Don't need your fuckin' help, darlin'," he struggled to say. Yet, she gave it to him anyway (of course she did). He stumbled forward when the man fell to the floor, hands going straight for his knees as he gasped for air. 

Jac took in a deep breath, exhaled loudly, then spit the blood out of his mouth. He looked over his shoulder. Despite the blur, he made out the figure of little miss fucking moppet, slugging yet another bouncer square in his ugly mug. Christ almighty. That was when the bartender pussied out, as-per-goddamn-usual, by threatening to call the cops.

"Yeah," Jac agreed with Harley as she suggested they hit the fucking road. "This place is a fuckin' shithole anyway," he told her, slinging his leather jacket over his shoulder. "It's a goddamn breeding ground for toothless, cousin-fucking, limp dick bush oakies," he said, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. Let them fucking stew on that shit for a while. 

Jac pushed through the doors and pulled the cigarette from behind his ear, digging through his pockets to find a damn lighter. Christ only knew he needed a drag or five after that shit. He lit up and peered at Harley through the cloud of smoke. He had to laugh. "What, you think knockin' a few guys around in a bar is enough to convince me you're fuckin' down." He shook his head - no goddamn way. "You might have the rest of those assholes fooled, but I can see right through all of your bullshit. I know exactly why you’re here," he said, exhaling the smoke through his nose. He knew all too fucking well. "You got bored of writin' parking tickets for a living so you decided to trade up." Jac took a drag, circling around slowly until he settled for a spot behind her. He leaned in next to her ear, "And I'm guessin' that meter maid salary wasn't enough to fund your little weekend splurges at the Pottery Barn." Or wherever the fuck it was that her type liked to waste their money.

Jac clenched his jaw tightly. "Here's the thing about rats - I don't fucking like 'em," he said, coming back around to face her, to read her expression. He doubted that it would be genuine - there was nothing genuine about the bitch. "And I sure as fuck don't trust 'em; because when the real shit pops off, they crawl back to their little holes, tail-fucking-tucked."

The brunette couldn’t help but smirk when the male made a jab at her ties. Of course he should have intimidated that he was rubbing elbows with a officer, and maybe a part of her wanted to taunt him more at how obvious it was. However, all she could do was smirk. “At least you’re being original, goldielocks. I’ll give you some points for that. I’m also a rat with some fun toys such as handcuffs and a pretty face. Those have to count for something.” She leaned towards him then, looking him over before leaning back. “Though I’ve always loved a man who can be intimidated by me.” Whether it was true or not, she didn’t care. As long as it got a rise out of him.

A little laugh escaped against the rim of her glass as she brought it to her lips. After she’d allowed the amber liquid to warm her form on its way down, the brunette settled the glass back on the surface of the bar. “You and I both know that a man who looks like you isn’t wasting his time studying the bible. And if it is, it’s only to keep track of all the sinful things you’ve done. Which, of course, I can respect.” However, what really got a laugh out of her was his assumption about how easy she was. “You think I like you?” She purred then, clicking her tongue against the roof of her head. “You don’t have a black eye. I play rough with those I like. You couldn’t handle it.”

She’d long since ignored the male to her other side, apart from the odd times where she’d felt him move closer to her. The visible tension of her body showcased her anger and how closed she was to making a show of breaking his nose. When a hand glided over her backside, she lifted a hand to tell Jac to wait before slowly sliding off her stool. When she moved behind the drunken male, she grasped the back of his jacket and threw him off his stool, watching the drunken mess fall to the floor. A swift kick to the gut had him sputtering as she leaned down over him and let a punch fall upon his face. “Ever touch me again and I promise you’ll wake up in a fucking hospital bed.” Her hand shook as she peered down at her swollen and crimson knuckles. “Fucking prick.”

“Don’t count for much of anythin’ if you don’t plan on using em, chere,” Jac teased, decidedly more interested, even in spite of his outward impassivity. He met her in the middle, exhaling a billow of cigarette smoke past her ear and into the face of her harasser. “And just so ya know, it’s gonna take more than just a flimsy pair ‘a handcuffs to restrain me, darlin’,” he whispered huskily, eyes locking on the crowd in front of him. An older blonde, dancing to some Journey song, gave him a “come hither” look with her eyes. Jac pulled back and turned his eyes away from the lady, smirk softening as he took back another shot. “So basically a eunuch, huh?” He chuckled at the mere thought of any guy being intimidated by some five-foot-nothin’, GAP-loving, homecoming queen who probably grew up in the fucking ‘burbs. “Well, I heard they’re holdin’ a meeting for guys with testicular cancer two blocks from here,” he told her. “Seein’ that none of ‘em have dicks, I’m sure you’ll have an easy enough time findin’ somebody to intimidate.”

She wasn’t wrong. As a boy he’d undergone two exorcisms, three baptisms in the swamp, and spent four nights locked in the “sinner’s shed” inscribed from head to toe with illegible bible verses. They said he had the devil inside of him - used to be, that made him want to shut down and pray for mercy ; now, he let that devil roam wild and free. “There ain’t a book long enough to account for my sins,” he told her proudly, tucking a cigarette behind his ear and slicking his stray hairs back. Jac held her eyes. “I don’t think it, babe,” he said, the ever-growing confidence settling comfortably in in his chest. He’d been through this song and dance about a thousand times before - women had a system when it came to these sort of things. Play easy, play hard to get, play both sides of the field - it didn’t fucking matter - the point of the game, the point of winning, was to wake up the next day, naked and hungover, in a stranger’s bed. “I know it,” he followed up, as though it were a matter of fact (and to him, it most assuredly was). Jac was just about to make another smart ass comment when Harley signaled for him to hold his thought. His eyebrows raised as she ripped the pervy prick beside her out of his seat and sent him crashing to the floor. Well, I’ll be goddamned, Jac thought, watching her proceed to break his face in without batting an eye. The crunch of his nose produced an audible cringe from onlookers, but Jac could only smirk. Wasn’t often that he was the one on the outside looking in, but it felt pretty damn satisfying all the same. Jac felt a shoulder bump roughly against him - one of the bouncers (Beefcake Billy) coming in to break up the fight, no doubt. Jac reached out to grab the prick by his collar and yanked him back with a moderate deal of effort. “The fight ain’t over yet, asshole. So take a fuckin’ seat,” he growled in his ear. The man tore himself away from Jac and immediately swung for his face. Jac turned his head at the last second, his cheekbone taking the brunt of the hit. Big fucking mistake. Jac lunged at the bouncer and sent them both crashing to the ground behind Harley and her guy. After restraining the son of a bitch in a chokehold, Jac sat up and raised his fists, striking the asshole square in the face, back to fucking back. “Should’a minded your own fuckin’ business, Arnold, should’a –– ” but he felt a pair of strong hands pulling him away before he could land another punch. 

 “––the fuck off me,” he growled, resisting the grip of whoever the fuck had thought it wise to restrain him in the middle of a fight.