Jackson by Ember Casey

behind her. And as she looked around, unsure of where to go, two more men emerged from the cabin below the deck.
    “My man!” said the first, bounding right past her and giving Jackson a playful punch in the side. While Leo had appeared to be roughly the same age as Jackson—early thirties or so—this new arrival looked a little younger. He was also the stockiest of the three, and like Leo, he wore only a pair of shorts, showing off the muscles he’d clearly worked quite hard for—and an entire body full of tattoos. He had a pair of designer sunglasses pushed up against his jet black hair and a beer in his hand.
    “A little early to be drinking, isn’t it, Toshi?” said Jackson, grinning.
    The younger man returned his smile. “You have to try this stuff Leo found. This is much better than the cheap shit we have back in the States.”
    The second man was older and a little more reserved—and he seemed less than amused by the others’ conversation. He was tall with ash-colored hair that had started to go gray at the temples, and there was something in his eyes—a worldliness, perhaps—that automatically gave him an air of authority.
    “Do we have it?” the older man said, and he didn’t need to specify what he meant. His steel-colored eyes locked right on her, and she fought the urge to wither beneath that sharp, direct gaze.
    The other two had fallen silent. She felt Jackson step up beside her, felt a reassuring touch of his hand against her back.
    “She’s got it,” Jackson told the older man. “This is Charlotte Carver.” He gave her side a soft squeeze. “Charlie, this is Roth.”
    “Lucas Roth,” the older man said, proffering his hand.
    Warily, she accepted his greeting, clasping his fingers. His grip was firm, his eyes assessing as they roamed over her and finally came to settle on the purse she clutched closely to her side.
    “It’s in there,” he said. It wasn’t a question, but she felt the need to say something in response.
    “Yes.”
    Jackson still had his arm around her, a silent gesture of support for which she was extremely grateful. She knew she should move away, but as she glanced around at the boat full of men—all of whom appeared to be much larger and stronger than her—she was fully aware of how out of her element she was.
    Or how lucky I am , she thought, giving this team of Jackson’s another look. Maybe she was just delusional from exhaustion, but most of these men were incredibly attractive. Even Roth, for all of his sternness, had something about him that made her curious about the man beneath the frown.
    Though it was easy to forget that with the way he was looking at her.
    “It’s probably safer if I hold onto the atlas,” he said, holding out his hand.
    Her stomach tightened, but she silently cursed at herself for being an idiot. She’d known she’d have to give up the atlas eventually. There was no point in delaying it. Still, she felt a twinge of sadness as she handed it over, as if she were losing a little bit of herself. Which is dumb, because it wasn’t even yours in the first place. It was Vincent Rinaldi’s.
    Roth’s weathered fingers skimmed over the gold embossing on the atlas’s cover, but his eyes were still on her.
    “Thank you for bringing this to us,” he said, without even the barest hint of a smile—or any gratitude—in his face. “I hope your travels have been pleasant so far.” His eyes shifted to Jackson, then back to her. “As I can see you’ve had the chance to learn, this is shaping up to be a rather dangerous expedition. Perhaps you’d be more comfortable staying here in Split for the time being? I can make arrangements for you in a nice apartment building right by one of the beaches.”
    But Jackson’s arm tightened around her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
    “Of course it’s a good idea,” Roth countered, as if lecturing a child. “This isn’t a game. It’s not safe for her here.” His gaze was back on