Jagged Edge

By Jo Raven

I don't want Jason Vega.

Not at all. It's the worst idea ever.

Ah hell…

 

Jason is handsome. Clever. Dangerous. Hot.

He's goddamn gorgeous – but he's also living on the street, hanging out with the local MC gang and selling his body for a living.

Our paths, our lives couldn't be further apart. I'm crawling toward the light, while he sinks into the dark.

But it doesn't matter how different we are, or what logic dictates.

I just can't get Jason out of my mind. Can't stop myself from seeking him out, even as ghosts from my past come back to haunt me.

Yeah, I really shouldn't want Jason Vega – but I just can't stop.

He's under my skin, and sinking deeper…

* Standalone M/M contemporary romance with lots of angst *

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Raven
• Release date: Aug 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386988106

Jo Raven

Jo Raven is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, best known for her series Inked Brotherhood and Damage Control. She writes edgy, contemporary New Adult romance with sexy bad boys and strong-willed heroines. She writes about MMA fighters and tattoo artists, dark pasts that bleed into the present, loyalty and raw emotion. Add to that breathtaking suspense, super-hot sex scenes and a happy ending, and you have a Jo Raven original story. Meet Jo Raven online – on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJoRaven), chat with her on Twitter (@AuthorJoRaven) and join her readers group for sneak previews of her covers and stories (http://on.fb.me/1K2LvzO). Be the first to get your hands on Jo Raven’s new releases & offers, giveaways, previews, and more by signing up here ▶ http://bit.ly/1CTNTHM

Book preview

Chapter One

Raine

It’s not every day you celebrate your twenty-first birthday. Your first time getting wasted—like, legally and officially wasted, with your brother, and buddies, in your favorite joint in town. Boys’ night out.

See, all the other times I got drunk don’t matter. Tonight, I’m seeing double with the blessings of the law.

A law that hasn’t been on my side, ever—not when my parents didn’t give a damn, and when they vanished one day with my brother’s hard-earned savings never to be seen again. It almost broke Ocean.

Doesn’t fucking matter. Life’s pretty good right now, this night, with a bottle of Jack on the table and the golden heat of it sliding down my throat, warming my chest.

Everything’s glittery bright and awesome, even if a chick keeps trying to sit in my lap and won’t take a hint when I keep pushing her off.

Come on, Ryan, she whines.

Raine, I correct her yet again, and chuckle, because everything’s outrageously funny when you’re three sheets to the wind. Get off me.

She pouts. You’re cute. Take me home, Raine.

I roll my eyes, and the ceiling fractures into prismatic rainbows. I grin as the bar slowly spins. Not today, sugar.

"Not ever. Right, junior?" Micah winks at me over the rim of his glass, blond hair cut so short it’s like gold dust on his head. Or, I am that drunk… But wait. Maybe now you’re officially an adult, you’d like to give pussy a try, too?

Nah. I flip him off and push the girl more firmly off me. Thanks anyway.

She shoots me a murderous look, then flounces off, a bit unsteadily, on her stilettos, looking for a new target.

You sure?

Fuck you, Micah.

Heh. Nah. He grins drunkenly at me and leans over to pat my arm. Then he stage-whispers, I don’t swing that way.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m the only one with zero interest in tits and pussies in this little group. The only one who likes dick. Also, being the youngest sucks. Getting called junior and kiddo gets old fast.

But I can’t really complain. The Inked Brotherhood and the Damage Boyz, they’re a damn fine crew. Good people. A family. I can see why my brother likes it here in Madison, working at Damage Control.

They’ve also sort of became my people over the three years I’ve spent here. I mean, sure, I don’t have the same connection to them as Ocean, but still. I’m always invited to all their get-togethers, and I seem to have suddenly found myself a bunch of older brothers.

Yay.

Stop thinking so hard, another voice says from my right, and I huff. "I can hear the booze sloshing between your ears.

Said brother shoots me a sharp grin and takes the glass from my hand. Didn’t notice picking it up again.

S’up, Shun? Shun as in Ocean, a nickname my brother only allows me to use.

Ocean sighs. You’re drunk off your ass.

"I thought it was called adulting. You guys do it all the fucking time."

Very funny.

But it is, and I’ll never admit it, not even under threat of torture, but Ocean being protective and shit… I like it. Despite my bitching, I like him acting like the big brother that he is, my big brother—because for a long time he didn’t. He just wasn’t there. He sent me away to an aunt who hated my guts, and I didn’t get to see him for fucking years.

Which led to me missing him like hell, and simultaneously hating his guts for a long time.

Of course, now I know why he had to do it, but it doesn’t stop me from relishing these moments when it’s like a throwback to the time we were kids at the trailer park, and he was my brother, and my parent, and my everything.

We should head home, Ocean says.

Although seriously, right now he’s being an ass, so I grab my goddamn glass back from him. Chill, Shun. I’m not driving. And it’s still early.

Early morning, you mean.

Christ, forget about liking this shit. Changed my mind. You go, man. Go home to your girl and calm your tits. I’ll grab a cab.

R. Come on. You work tomorrow.

Or one of the guys will drive me. I nod at Zane who’s returning from the bar, carrying two beers. Zane’s cool. He’s already said he’d take me, since he doesn’t drink.

Ocean shakes his head, stares at something behind me, and sighs. Why can’t you listen to me for once, kid?

What the hell, right? I glance around at the others. They look as confused by all this as I feel.

What the fuck, man? Shane mutters, tucking long dark hair behind his ear where a silver dreamcatcher is dangling. It’s our night out, and it’s his goddamn birthday. What just crawled up your ass and died?

There. Couldn’t have phrased it better.

I lean back in my chair and level a glare at my brother. His blue hair is ruffled as if he’s been tugging on it. He’s been kinda stressed lately, with the wedding coming up and the new baby, but he’s happy. I know it. I see it on his face every single day.

He’s amazed and thrilled and grateful for his girl and his baby and his friends, and maybe, I hope, even a tiny fucking bit for me—so why does he look like someone pissed in his drink?

He sighs again, puts his glass down on the table and glances again behind me. Okay, what is back there that has him hooked like that?

I turn to look over my shoulder, and I see him. Jason. The sight is a punch to my solar plexus, and I let out an involuntary gasp.

Okay, it’s also not every day you see the man you can’t stop thinking about in front of you, the man you can’t stop dreaming about.

With another man.

That why my brother wanted me gone?

I won’t pick a fight with Jason, I say quietly, if that’s what’s worrying you.

I’m not worried, Ocean lies.

At least, I think he does. There’s a faraway look in his eyes I don’t recognize.

Jason Vega and me, we’ve crossed paths a few times. He’s friends with my brother and with Jesse Lee, one of the inkers of the shop where I work.

But the last time I actually talked to Jason was years ago, three years in fact, and I insulted him. Pretty damn badly. I hadn’t realized at the time, but I was pissed at my brother, pissed at the world, and Jason had happened to be there. An easy target, someone I could shout at instead of my brother, my only real family.

I’ve thought about this a lot since then. Why I called him out on being a hooker. Making it sound like he chose this life. Like he had a choice.

As if I don’t know. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, and that’s the understatement of the year.

I watch him now, deaf to the music and the voices of my friends, as he leads this unknown guy by the hand toward the back, weaving through the people standing by the bar.

I’ve seen him on occasion on the street or in bars over the past three years. He hasn’t changed much since I first met him. My height, but slimmer. Wiry. Strong, with dark lines of ink winding down his forearms and snaking under his too short shirt.

He’s let his bleached hair grow out, and it’s now as dark as mine, dark like his eyes, and the shadows crawling in their depths. In his revealing clothes and gayliner, his nails painted black to match his too-tight top and pants, a touch of silver around his neck, he looks… exotic. Striking.

Hot.

Ocean refills my glass and passes it to me without a word. I take it and sip, choking on the Jack.

I can’t look away. Why the fuck can’t I look away from Jason leading this unremarkable stranger away? Toward the toilets, to suck him off, or to fuck, and the thought shouldn’t get me hard and riled up at the same time. Angry.

Angry at Jason, who’s after all only doing his job.

At myself, for giving a damn.

You were right, I tell my brother, slamming the rest of my drink down and getting up from the uncomfortable chair. It’s getting late. Time to go.

I toss and turn and can’t sleep all night. My dick’s been hard ever since I saw him at the bar, and my brain’s stuck on him.

Like every night, I try my best to empty my mind, think of other things, the good things in my life—my job, my apartment, my brother, my independence.

But my thoughts keep circling back to him.

Jason.

Not that it’s any surprise. This is a fucking constant these days.

Can’t get him out of my mind. Can’t stop thinking of his eyes, his body, his mouth curling in a smirk. Can’t stop thinking about that mouth on my dick. How it would feel. Seeing him on his knees in front of me, pushing my fingers into his tangled hair. Seeing those dark eyes turned up, toward me.

I roll on my back. The ceiling spins lazily as the alcohol works its slow way through my system.

He seems so much older than me. Not in appearance, no. If anything, he looks younger than me, way too young to be doing what he’s doing for a living.

Christ, as if there’s an age when it becomes okay to prostitute yourself…

Anyway, that’s not what I meant. It’s his behavior, his toughness, that darkness in his gaze that speaks of experience. Knowledge.

Shivering, I turn on my side and pull the covers up over my head. I just… I feel like a kid near him, like I know nothing, like… Like he can see right through me, and laugh. Laugh at my lack of experience, my naivety when it comes to sex and men.

Goddammit, why can’t I get this out of my head?

One night with Jason. One fucking night—or even just one evening, one hour… Jesus.

Ever since I met him that fateful day I ran away from Aunt Martha, when I turned eighteen and found him talking with my brother, the thought has been lodged inside my brain like a splinter.

Not that I’ve been celibate. I’m not a monk, I meet guys. I’ve been told that I’m not bad looking, and I keep in shape, training with my brother and his buddies. I’ve been with a couple of men over the years. Some even seemed interested in more than just sex.

But I wasn’t.

Why am I set on a hooker? A guy who fucks other guys for money? Except, he’s handsome, and sexy, and has the experience I lack, so maybe this shit’s normal.

What would it hurt? a little voice whispers seductively in the back of my mind. How expensive could he be? I’ve got money now. I can afford him. I only have to go and ask him, no, tell him I want him to suck me off, or bend over for me.

Other guys do it. All the fucking time.

With Jason.

Again, I’m both painfully hard at the image, and pissed as hell. How’s this possible? How’s this normal, huh?

It can’t be. I have to let go of this obsession. Three years, man. That’s way too fucking long. Ocean thinks it’s what’s keeping me back from dating, and lately even from fucking.

He’s got a point. He may be right, about all of it. He never said I should go pay Jason, though, for a night. And not only because he doesn’t think I need to pay someone to sleep with me, but also because he’s friends with Jason. He looks after him. He seems as protective of him as he is of me—and maybe this is what’s pissing me off.

This is what pissed me off three years ago, when I came back to town to beg my brother to take me in, ready to take off for good if he didn’t, only to find he’d taken Jason in instead. A substitute for me.

Or so it felt then. I’d been bitter for so long, hurt that he’d passed me on like a broken toy, although he’d promised, dammit. He’d promised we’d stick together through it all.

I remember seeing Jason for the first time. Bleached, white-blond hair, ripped jeans and a sparkly top that barely covered his chest. He was thinner than he is now, and his arms had been bare despite the cold, ropey muscle over strong bones, skin covered in dark ink.

Feral. Sexy.

My cock is so hard it aches. I wrap my hand around it before I realize, groaning in relief as I squeeze the hard length. I won’t get any fucking sleep tonight unless I take care of this.

Jason’s image winks at me in my mind. He turns to face me, those dark eyes lined with black, lashes long and mouth soft. His mouth always looks soft, even when his eyes are angry.

Angry at me.

His anger sparks something in me, gets me harder. In my mind, he grabs the hem of his ridiculously short top, then smirks as he slowly drags it over his muscular chest and over his head.

Oh hell…

His dark hair is mussed, and he drags his tongue over his lower lip, tipping his head back. Hooking his thumbs in his pockets, he drags his pants lower over his hips.

Sinner, a familiar voice whispers in my ear. Sinner…

Hissing, I stroke harder, tugging painfully on my hard-on. Chasing the voice away. Fuck you, memory. I close my eyes, trying to focus on my image of Jason, but it’s slipping away, my aunt’s voice throwing me back to the past.

Back when I didn’t think I deserved any happiness, when I thought I was going to hell for wanting boys, caught between a constant blinding rage and the mortifying feeling I was the biggest freak in the carnival.

I still and blink at the far wall, my hard-on sagging.

Well, fuck.

I should stop thinking about Jason anyway. And it’s not the first time I tell myself that. I think of him often. Way too fucking often, and I need to get myself under control. I have too much resting on my shoulders right now, too much on my mind to obsess over that damn hooker.

That damn annoying, sexy hooker, because I should be more worried about work. Setting money aside. College, maybe, like Ocean keeps nagging me about. Stop working two jobs, find time for classes. Deal with my parents—the very same who strung my brother along with lies, sucking in his hard-earned money like parasites, until they up and left.

And now they’re back.

Rage warms me up from the inside, a burning blade that takes my attention off my desire for Jason. My parents deserve all my focus. I need to make sure they’re out of our lives for good.

Revenge, you might think? Getting back at them for the pain they inflicted on their children over the years? Nah, not worth the trouble.

But they are back and want more, and I won’t let them sink their claws into Ocean again. He’s too trusting. Too good.

Unlike me. I never trusted them, never expected them to pretend they cared. And I’ll take care of this, without involving my brother. My turn to look after him, have his back.

Which is another reason I wanna go to school, or at least manage to get a better-paying job to take the load of responsibility off his shoulders. He has a kid now. He should stop worrying about me.

And shouldn’t have to worry about our freaking parents at all.

I’ll make damn sure of that.

Chapter Two

Jason

I wake up cold, dark nightmare cobwebs clinging to my sweat-drenched skin.

It’s always like that, always damn cold, especially when I wake up in an unknown bed, an unfamiliar room, in the half-dark. My skin crawls. My head is pounding, and my mouth tastes like fear.

The other side of the bed is empty. Just me, then. The relief is undeniable, although seeing who brought me here would settle the mystery of where I am faster, and calm the frantic beat of my heart.

Pressing a hand to my naked chest, trying to contain the goddamn hammering, I push the covers off and take stock of my surroundings, trying desperately to remember what happened last night and where I washed up this time.

Just not the Club. God, please tell me it’s not the Club.

A bruise in my side makes me hiss as I swing my bare legs off the bed and stand unsteadily, the pounding in my head deafening. I can feel more bruises on my hips, on my legs.

The walls are a nondescript gray with humidity stains, the carpet on the floor thin and worn, rolling up at the corners. The bed, when I turn around to look at it, is old, the mattress sagging.

Shit, it could well be a room in the Club I’ve never seen before.

This means Simon could be around, and the cold creeps deeper, seeping into my bones, making them ache.

It’s not Simon I followed here last night, though, I’m pretty damn sure of that, and as I lean against the wall, wrapping my arms around myself and shutting my eyes for a few precious seconds, I remember the guy. Short, with a beer gut, almost bald, in a dark suit and smelling of stale sweat. He picked me up in a bar downtown and practically dragged me to his car, and then…

I frown, and I rub at the ache between my brows with my thumb. Yeah, then it all went to shit. Then again what’s new, huh? He slapped me around, got off on the fear I did my best to hide, forced me down, and fuck…

Goddamn fucker.

Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow it back down. I brace a hand on the wall, taking deep breaths. Being ass-naked in this drafty room ain’t helping with the shivers. I should get dressed.

Better not to remember, not to think. At least I’ve recalled enough to know this ain’t Simon’s Club, thank God for small fucking mercies.

Time to blow this pop stand. I’m surprised the guy didn’t kick me out the moment he was done. Wouldn’t be the first time. Where are my clothes? I squint in the gloom as I push off the wall, and I stumble.

Oh man, I feel groggy. Did I hit my head at some point last night? Or… he poured me a drink, didn’t he? Fuck knows what was in it. Christ.

Anger sparks in my chest, chasing away the chill of fear and self-pity. I’m grabbing my stuff and getting outta here now. I spot my fake leather pants under the bed, and my black top bunched up in a corner of the room.

Scowling, I scoop it up and drag it over my chest, ignoring the dizziness and flaring aches. Irrationally, I’m spitting mad that this john thought he could throw my clothes around like that—and the fury covers up the fear of not remembering most of it.

I live on anger. It’s what keeps me going every day.

Shit, I can’t find my jacket. I have a light jacket I carry with me to throw on after I’m done with a john, but it’s nowhere to be found. And… fuck, my money. Normally I demand payment up front, but johns don’t always comply. Not like I can force them, or afford to piss them off and drive them away.

I check again the pockets of my pants in the slim hope I put it there. Not that I remember him handing me any cash, but we’ve established that my memories of last night are scattered and have gaping holes.

Ah fuck. Nothing. I need to find the guy, demand my payment, so I shove my feet into my boots and step out of the room, searching. I don’t do this for fun, dammit. There is no fucking fun in it.

Another memory from last night slithers through me—a hand grabbing my face, a sweaty body covering me, shoving me into the mattress, smothering me—and I choke on bile.

I slam a hand into the wall, waiting for the nausea to pass. I’m okay. I’m fine. Probably just need to put some food in me. That’s all. I should get going.

There’s a staircase, so I start down the steps. The place looks like a cheap hotel, and as this sinks in, I realize it’s no coincidence the guy skipped before I woke up.

Probably didn’t pay for the room, either.

I stop on the dim stairwell, looking down at the dingy reception desk, and curse my luck. This sort of place has hourly rates, I’ll bet, and there’s no way in hell I can pay for the night I just spent here.

But this ain’t my first rodeo, ladies and gentlemen.

Taking a bracing breath, willing the acid in my stomach to stay down, I slink down the steps until I can get a better look of the reception desk.

A guy is sitting there, looking bored or half-asleep. It’s hard to make out his face from this angle, but his head is lolling sideways. A radio is playing faintly in the background. Sounds like a football match, or a talk show. Sounds all like the same shit to me, especially with the blood still rushing in my ears.

No time like now. Asleep or not, I keep my eyes on the guy as I climb down the rest of the stairs, doing my damnedest to keep my steps quiet. Holding my breath, I cross the lobby, or whatever this filthy, dark space before the door is, and reach for the door.

You! Hold up. You have to pay!

Holy fucking shit. Dignity be damned, I grab the handle, throw the door wide open and scramble outside, into the rain.

I run.

I run down narrow streets and across an avenue I can’t recognize with adrenaline pounding through my veins and making my breath catch. I keep thinking I hear heavy steps behind me, and resist the urge to glance back.

Keep running, boy. Keep running. Think we won’t catch you? Think you can get away?

Fuck. Now where did this memory come from? Figures it wouldn’t be a good one.

Where do I go? Where can I hole up, out of the rain? It’s early morning, the shops still closed, the drizzle ice-cold, drenching my clothes and running into my boots.

I’m stumbling, exhaustion catching up with me, compounding the lingering effects of whatever it was I drank last night, not enough sleep, and then sex, and pain, and fuck that shit.

Better not to remember, dammit.

Running is leeching away the last drops of energy and warmth in my system, and I know from experience this ain’t a good thing. With a chest cough that won’t quit and darkness seeping into my vision, I urgently need to get somewhere dry and rest. My lungs hurt, laboring and not getting me enough air.

Getting more light-headed by the minute, the stitch in my side turning into a vicious blade, I scan the street ahead. A dark shop entrance catches my eye—thank you bunches, Giovanni’s Deli, Wine and Spirits—and I step under the awning to catch my breath, only to double over coughing and retching.

This damned cough. I thought I’d gotten rid of it for a while, but nope.

When I’m done, I step as far inside as possible, then slide down with my back to the door of the shop until my ass hits the concrete. A shiver goes through me, and I rub my hands up and down my arms.

What I wouldn’t give for my jacket right now… But when you’re out at night, desperate for a customer to pay your dinner, comfort is the last thing on your mind. Guys want to see flesh, want to check out your body. The merchandise. The goods.

So I’m kinda used to the cold. Except I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so damn much from one day to the next.

Cursing, I drop my head forward, rainwater dripping down my face, splattering the floor between my legs. This fucking life. My throat burns with acid, my hands are numb with cold, my bruises hurt with every breath I take.

Fuck this. These bruises, the vomit, the sourness of fear. God, I’m tired. Hungry, too, but I’m used to that. My eyes sting, and that pisses me the fuck off all over again. What is it all worth? What am I worth?

Why try anymore? Why care?

I lean back against the glass door, staring blindly at the street and the few people hurrying along with their umbrellas. If only my teeth would stop chattering, I might catch a wink here. I don’t have a room, and after last night’s fiasco, it looks like I’ll be sleeping on the street tonight again.

Sucks ass.

Despite the cold, I’m drifting off when a shadow falls over me, blocking the gray light and the spatter of rain. A whiff of a woodsy aftershave and leather follows.

Well, I’ll be damned, a vaguely familiar male voice says. Jason?

No fucking way. I lift my head, the voice and the broad-shouldered frame clicking into place. Raine Storm.

He glances up at the sky, then arches a dark brow. More like a drizzle.

Goes to show how tired I am when it takes me a moment to get his lame joke.

You’re so funny, I grouse, and my voice sounds like a cheese grater, broken and rough. I start lifting my hand to give him the finger.

But his blue eyes widen. Christ, what the hell happened to you?

What didn’t happen to me? All these years, all my life, I just… Nothing new, I wanna say, nothing happened to me, but there’s a lump in my throat that won’t let me speak.

Not that Raine Storm would care anyway.

Nobody ever has.

Chapter Three

Raine

Last person I expected to see on my way to work was Jason. The very same guy who’s been haunting my mind, the one I’ve been trying to erase from my thoughts, with no luck.

And he looks… wet. Very wet, and cold, and miserable, huddled against the door of a deli, dressed only in pants and one of those damned barely-there tops he insists on wearing. Did he miss the change of season? We’re in September, dammit.

He’s staring at me, and his dark eyes seem a bit unfocused. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.

I frown. Is he on drugs? I may not have spoken to him in a while, but I’ve heard him talk to Ocean on occasion. Guy’s quick with his tongue—and I don’t mean in that way.

Fuck, now I can’t stop thinking about his tongue and what it can do.

Jesus.

Jason. I crouch down in front of him and realize he’s shivering. What’s the matter, forgot your jacket?

He swallows hard, and my gaze follows the movement in his throat. Something like that, he drawls finally. Whatcha doing down here in the gutter with me, pretty boy?

Okay, this is more like the Jason I remember. I pass by here every morning on my way to work.

Work? He makes it sound like an unknown concept, and fuck, I really should stop staring at his bright eyes, the way his teeth are sinking into his lower lip, the muscles flexing in his inked arms as he loops them around his bent knees. His knuckles are red and scuffed, and there’s a fine tremor to his long fingers.

Collateral.

Damage? he mumbles.

Ah-huh. The tattoo shop? Damage Control’s sister shop?

He sighs, closes his eyes. Fuck, right. I didn’t know it was around here.

"Right around the corner. Never seen you around here, though."

Not my usual haunt, he admits softly, a rough edge to his voice that stirs something in me. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t like it. You tattoo people, like your brother?

Nah. I just hold the fort in the mornings. At his clouded look, I shrug and straighten, my knees creaking. I man the front desk. Megan is there in the afternoons. Well, I need to get going, or I’ll be late.

And hell must have frozen over if I’m making polite conversation with Jason.

Yeah, off you go, baby, he says softly. Then he sneers. Wouldn’t want you getting scolded, would we now? Run along to your cozy, boring little job.

I knew it was too good to last. I snort and shake my head, shoving my hands into the pockets of my rain jacket. Forget I even asked.

Asked what?

Christ. "Just don’t stay out here, or you’ll