Ballbuster (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 1) by Lane Hart

Author:Lane Hart [Hart, Lane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Editor's Choice Publishing
Published: 2016-11-18T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Two

Jackson "Jax" Malone

What a fucking week. It's not that I never expected my ass to get thrown in jail. After my trouble-making and brawling youth, I'm sure everyone who knows me is surprised that it took me to the ripe old age of twenty-seven before I was put behind bars. It's a shame, however, that my first arrest is for complete bullshit.

I head for the lobby of the big, fancy law office to wait for my dad to finish up in his meeting. Sitting down, I pull out my phone to type a list of all the shit the uptight, elitist bitch lawyer asked me to bring her. Her disgust and instant judgment had pissed me off, but I have to admit, she does seem to be really damn smart. And she's hot as fuck.

With her long, lean legs and light blonde hair pulled back in a neat little bun, she looks like a Playboy pinup or a Victoria's Secret model dressed up to do a naughty attorney photo-shoot. In my fantasy of her as a centerfold, she'd be unbuttoning the professional suit jacket to reveal thin pieces of black lace that barely cover her perfect tits.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little horny after going four days without getting laid. That had to be a record for me. While I was locked up, it was hard to think about fucking when I feared for my life every goddamn second.

I'd thought the local jail was bad until they threw me in general population in Atlantic City. Both smelled like dirty, sweaty men, shit, and piss, but in AC the floors of the crowded cell actually contained dirt, piss, and shit. There were only two bunks for four dudes, so the unlucky two of us won the lottery to receive roll out mats. I leaned against the wall last night rather than risk floating away in the river of filth. Also, I didn't want to close my eyes and get attacked or shanked. The crackhead trapped in the cell with us couldn't stop scratching himself or fidgeting. He said all kinds of delusional shit, like the cops hid cameras in his apartment, and he knew for a fact that one of us had snitched on him. After that, he alternated staring at me and our other two cellmates with his unblinking crazy-eyes and a goofy-ass smile that had me convinced that he'd kill us in our sleep just for shits and giggles.

Thank God I was only in AC for one night. I never want to see the inside of that type of cage again in any district. I'll probably have nightmares from the trauma of the last four days.

I'm a badass motherfucker, spending the last seventeen years training to fight. It's not that I'm worried about taking on any of the punks in there, or even three or four of them at a time. But the feeling of suffocating because it was so goddamn hot, with the air rank and stale in such a small box? That's some scary shit.

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