Chapter 14 Definitely Not Jealous
Jax
Betty Bop sings like a damn angel when she connects with a kneecap.
Not that I broke anything. I’m not stupid. Bruises are temporary, criminal charges are not, and Elias has this very disappointed dad look he saves for me when bail gets involved.
Last night, I made sure not to cross that line.
A couple of loud idiots, one good swing at Theo’s jaw, and Raine bleeding, made for a perfect excuse to step out from behind the bar and finally give Betty the activity she’s been begging for.
I gave them two warnings.
Not my fault they didn't listen.
I tapped, not a full swing. Just enough to smack the guy’s thigh and make his eyes bug out when he realized I hadn’t been bluffing.
God, it was fun.
Theo settled in like he was back in class, hands up, calm as a saint. I’ll never get over how the professor turns into a fighter the second someone touches what’s his. Or what he wants to be his.
We handled it. No cops. No serious injuries. Just bruised egos, some ice packs, and some free drinks to the bystanders who got too close of a view.
The only part of last night I didn't like was Elias scooping up Raine like she weighed nothing and taking her out the back door. She fought him, of course, but he didn’t budge.
And then they were gone.
I know it needed to happen, but I still hated it.
This morning, Theo swung by before his shift with a faint bruise on his jaw and a look on his face I'll never let him forget. He wouldn’t meet my eyes whenever I said Raine’s name.
Elias? Texted once.
Elias:
She’s fine. I’ve got her.
That’s it.
No details. No play-by-play. No Hey Jax, I made sure she was safe, we talked, I put her on the couch and went home.
Just I’ve got her, and then radio silence.
So now I’m sitting on my bike outside Iron Wheel, staring at the closed roll-up door and the familiar front door with the peeling paint, feeling something gross twisting under my ribs.
Jealousy. That’s the word. I hate it.
It doesn’t look good on me, and it doesn’t match my eyes.
I kick the stand up, swing off the bike, and head to the entrance.
There are no cars in the lot except her bike. No Elias.
Good.
The bell over the door gives its pathetic little jingle when I walk in.
She doesn’t look up right away. She’s crouched by the same half-built frame, bandage stark white against the grease and metal. Music plays low from the old stereo in the corner. Not MCR this time—something heavy, guitar and drums. Fits her mood.
“Sorry, we’re closed.” She says it on autopilot, already turning back toward whatever she was doing. “Try—” Her gaze lifts, and she stops so fast it’s almost funny. "Oh. It’s just you.”
Just me.
Ouch.
“Wow,” I clutch my chest and make a whole production out of it, because if I’m going to get stabbed, I might as well bleed dramatically. “Straight to the heart, Sunshine. I stagger in here out of breath, wounded, desperate for your affection, and you hit me with "just you'?”
“You’re not wounded.” She pushes up from her seat, unimpressed, but her eyes still drop down my body anyway, quick and careful, checking before she can stop herself. “You’re annoyingly fine.”
“That’s true,” I flash her a grin, pleased she looked at all. “I contain multitudes.”
I let the door swing shut behind me, and when her back turns for half a second, my hand flicks out and hits the lock. The soft click is swallowed by the music.
The roll-up is down, and the front door is locked. It's just us.
Perfect.
“How’s the hand?” I ask, nodding toward her bandage.
She lifts it, flexes her fingers once. “Fine.”
"Anything interesting happen last night?" I arch a brow, seeing how much she'll give away.
"Not really," she answers, trying to seem uninterested, but there's a faint tint to her cheeks that has me thinking otherwise.
“That’s not what Elias said,” I sing-song.
Her eyes sharpen. “He told you?”
Fuck. So something did happen.
“Relax.” I lift a hand, all easy reassurance, even while my brain starts doing backflips. “He didn't give me a medical report. Just told me he got you home.”
She rolls her eyes and turns back to the bike.
I shove my hands in my pockets, wander around like I’m browsing. It’s all familiar—the smell of oil and rubber and faint citrus cleaner.
“Did you sleep?” I ask, aiming for casual and probably missing by a mile.
She snorts, not even looking up. “Depends on your definition of sleep.”
“Did you close your eyes and stop being conscious for more than ten minutes?” I tilt my head, going clinical since it’s safer than going soft.
“Then no.”
My jaw tightens. “And Elias?”
That gets her attention. Not much, just enough. “What about him?”
“Did he sleep?” I keep it too light on purpose, because the alternative is me sounding insane. “On your couch? On your floor? In your bed like a gentleman?”
She stiffens like I touched a live wire. “That’s none of your business.”
“So he did.” The words come out before I can stop them, and my stomach drops with them. “Good for him.”
Her eyes flick to mine, narrow. “Nothing happened.”
“Well, that’s a crime.” I spread my hands, going for humor, it being the only thing I’ve got left. “Should I have the city issue a citation?”
“Jax.”
“Okay, okay.” I lift both hands in surrender, the grin turning softer around the edges. “I’m kidding. I’m glad he took care of you. I just—”
I break off before I say something stupid like wish it was me.
I’m not the quiet comfort type. I’m not the couch guy, the steady hands, the calm logic.
I’m the bat and the grin and the bad ideas you regret at sunrise.
But I know how to read a room, and my room right now is standing in front of me with stubborn shoulders, messy hair, and a bandaged hand, pretending she’s not thinking about last night at all.
“You mad at me?” I ask, stepping closer but leaving some room between us, for now.
“For what?”
“Existing.” I let it land with a sigh of exaggerated suffering. “Breathing. Being unreasonably hot while wielding a bat in your honor.”
Her mouth twitches, skepticism thick in her eyes even as she humors me. “You’re not unreasonably hot.”
“Ouch.” I clutch my chest again, pretending it hurt more than it did. “And yet you drank my shots.”
“I drank the bar’s shots.” She doesn’t look up from the bike, but her tone stays pointed. “You just happened to be pouring them.”
My grin stretches, shameless. “Is that how you’re going to tell the story to your grandkids? ‘Once upon a time, the bar gave me tequila.’”
“Honestly?” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “Yeah.”
I drift a step closer, slow enough to give her a chance to tell me to stop.
She clocks it anyway. Her eyes dip to my boots, measure the distance between us, then slide back up to my face, guarded in that way that always makes me want to push and apologize at the same time.
“You locking up?” I nod toward the closed doors, keeping my voice casual even as I watch her. “Sign says closed, roll-up’s down. Planning to actually rest for once, or are you hiding from the world?”
“Bit of both.” The answer comes with a tired edge, and Bash’s name drags it down further. “He doesn’t need to know my hours.”
“He won’t.” I let the promise settle in the space between us. “At least not from us.”
She goes right back to adjusting something on the frame, pretending she doesn’t hear the way my voice drops. I don’t know why, but with me, she’s extra guarded. It’s almost like she has to take ten steps back to the one step forward she took last night.
“You’re not my knights in shining armor.” Her voice drops into a mutter, sharp around the edges. “This isn’t a fairytale.”
“I don’t do armor.” I tip my head, letting the smirk show even as my chest tightens. “Bad for my aesthetic.” The humor fades just enough to make the point. “But I’m not standing behind the bar polishing glasses while someone takes a swing at you.”
“They took a swing at Theo.” She snaps it back fast, protective in a way she tries to pretend she isn’t. “Not me.”
“Yeah,” I let out slowly, keeping my eyes on her. “Because he stepped in front of you.”
Her face twists, and I can see exactly where it hurts. Not that Theo did it, but that he paid for it. That she let him. That she’s already deciding the debt belongs to her.
“He shouldn’t have.” Her words scrape out, stubborn and miserable at the same time. “None of you should have.”
“And we should’ve what?” I take a step closer, not crowding her, just refusing to let her dodge. “Watched?” My voice stays light, but the question doesn’t. “Let you get grabbed?” I shake my head once. “Is that what you want us to do with Bash too, Raine? Stand there and watch?”
She flinches.
There it is.
That little crack.
“This is my mess,” she mutters, looking away for the briefest of seconds, as if the guilt is too much. “I drag you three into it, you’re gonna end up hurt, or worse. That’s not happening.”
“And if we drag ourselves in?” I counter, knowing all too well that none of us are going to back away even an inch. “What then?”
She doesn’t answer, stretching the silence between us. The music is the only sound, humming in the background, with some low guitar stirring something inside her that I’m hungry for.
I close the last bit of distance and she feels me this time before she looks, her shoulders tensing and holding tight. When she finally glances up, I’m already right there, in her space, heat rolling off both of us.
“Jax,” she warns, her tone almost too serious.
“Raine,” I echo, same tone, same warning, different meaning.
Her bandaged hand hangs at her side and I make sure not to touch it, instead taking her other wrist, gentle but firm, and lay her palm flat on my chest. Her fingers twitch against my shirt instantly.
“You keep talking like we’re on opposite sides of the street,” I tell her, keeping my voice low. “Like you’re over there alone and we’re over here watching. That’s not what’s happening.”
“It should be,” she argues, always so goddamn stubborn.
“It’s not.” I keep my voice leveled so she knows I mean it. “And we both know it.”