Chapter Fifteen
Kira
Bullshit.
Absolute bullshit.
I said it would take ten-thousand sips to get in the car with him—which meant I would not be getting in the car with him—but they allotted me three before shoving me into his passenger seat.
As if him being in our house all day wasn’t bad enough, now I’m strapped into his car, surrounded by leather and heat and that smug, infuriating grin of his.
“Just let me out, and I can walk,” I say, sure that he doesn’t want to be doing this any more than I want to let him do this.
“Stop,” he chuckles, easing the car into motion. The sound wraps around me like a warm blanket, and I hate that my shoulders relax before I can stop them. “We both know damn well if you didn’t want the ride, you wouldn’t have gotten in.”
“You three forced me.” I swivel in my seat to look at him, disbelief on my face that he thinks I really want to be alone with a guy who hides bodies for a living.
“You didn’t put up much of a fight, though, did you?”
“Because I had a heart attack!”
“Tear,” he corrects me, raising a finger. “You had a tear.”
I open my mouth with a retort, but the words die on my tongue… because he’s right.
And I hate it.
Peeling off the imaginary warm blanket, I face forward, shaking my head.
This is unbelievable. I don’t know why Nix would think that being stuck in a car with Jax would be easier on my heart than walking.
It’s currently pounding with so much fury that I wouldn’t be surprised if this interaction alone is what puts me back in the hospital—never mind the mounting worry that what we did is going to come back to bite us in the ass.
I think the shock, or adrenaline, or whatever, has worn off, leaving me with a sickness in the pit of my stomach.
People don’t just get away with murder. There’s always something that gives them away.
Jax can tear up every floorboard in our house, and it still wouldn’t make me feel safe—just floorless.
I nibble on the edge of my nail as we pull into the drugstore drive-through. Nix made sure to tell him to stop here, even though I told him it wasn’t necessary. But at least it’s near closing, and luckily, there’s no wait as we approach the window.
“Name?” a tired, older man asks through the microphone.
“Uh,” Jax hesitates and turns to me. “What was your name again?”
Narrowing my eyes, he slowly smirks.
“Kira Noland,” he says while keeping his eyes on me, and then lower, “How’s it feel?”
“Shut up,” I grumble as the microphone screeches.
“I have six ready for pickup,” the man says and then disappears.
Six? Jesus. I hang my head. Thank God for Medicaid, but how long am I going to have to take so many pills for? Maybe I should have been paying more attention to the doctor as I got dressed at the hospital. And what did I do with the discharge papers they gave me?
Ugh. I’m a mess.
I go back to nibbling my nail, avoiding Jax and the silent car until the pharmacist returns and shoves a bag through the opening.
“Have a good night,” he says.
“We don’t have to pay?” Jax asks, grabbing the bag.
“No,” I huff and snatch it from him. “Thank you,” I holler, leaning over him.
Somehow, Jax still smells fresh after being a carpenter for the day.
His cologne is something like black velvet, tinged with the salt of his tan skin.
It’s fucking amazing. And equally irritating.
I quickly recoil back into my seat and avoid his eyes on my cheek as the pharmacist clicks the microphone off without saying anything.
“Why didn’t we have to pay?” Jax puts the car in drive with a genuine look of confusion and… disappointment?
“What is this we?” I tear into the bag to distract myself while hoping that whatever’s in it can save me.
I have to be on my feet for the next eight hours, and I think the only real sleep I got in the past forty-eight hours was while I was in the hospital.
I am sore. If I didn’t know any better, I would think I had the hangover of a lifetime—or was run over by a truck.
Every muscle I try to stretch aches, and I’ve had a headache behind my eyes ever since I took a shower.
This medication better do something. Maybe it can make it so I don’t like how Jax smells as well.
“We as in we disposed of a body,” he says sharply.
“Actually,” I pop the cap on one of the orange bottles, “you’re the one that carried it into the woods and set it on fire. So, if anything—” I dry swallow a tiny oval pill—“it’s just you that will get charged with disposal.”
“Accessory after the fact,” he growls.
“What?” I open another bottle to find huge ovals and frown. How the fuck am I supposed to swallow this?
“Accessory after the fact,” he repeats, “is what I would be charged with. And tampering with evidence. And failure to report a death. Oh, and abuse of a corpse.”
I still, flicking my eyes in his direction.
His jaw is taut, gaze trained on the road. “If you’re trying to make me the fall guy here, you might want to understand what the hell you’re pinning on me.”
“I was kidding—”
“I’m not,” he interrupts, his voice turning dangerous. “That’s ten to thirty-five years in prison if convicted. And if you try to put me in a cell, you better be prepared to spend it with me, because I’m not going down alone.” He cuts me a sharp glance. “Are you getting the we part now?”