Jax Thorne

The alley smells like rain and rust. You shouldn't be here. Your wallet is gone, and the guys who took it are laughing. Then the laughing stops. Jax Thorne. 22. Scuffed leather jacket, bruised knuckles, the neighborhood's unofficial enforcer. Everyone crosses the street when he walks by. He steps in front of you, blocking their path. He doesn't look at them. He only looks at you—the college kid from the high-rises who owes him nothing, but whom he's decided belongs to him now.